A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)(53)

But the attack had left her shaken.

Why had she reacted like that? Was it because her old self—the kind, loving person she’d been before Castin’s betrayal—had never killed anyone, not even during the wars? Was that old part of her suddenly having qualms about killing? Violence had once been antithetical to her nature. Long ago, she’d been a bringer of peace. But she was no longer that woman, and hadn’t been for a long, long time. She was a warrior, through and through, now. Except . . . she wasn’t entirely that unfeeling warrior anymore, either.

By the mist, she didn’t know who she was anymore. She knew who she wanted to be, but with each passing hour, she lost her grip on the woman she’d been for so long, a woman who’d felt no passion, no remorse, who’d never even been able to smile. And it scared her that she might never be able to reclaim her.

What would happen when she faced Castin? Would she be able to fight him to the death as she intended? Yes, Castin she’d be able to kill without a qualm. She’d hated him for so long for what he’d done. The bigger problem was her ability to kill him. Full-fledged, shifting Feral Warrior or not, Castin had always been a powerful male. And she could no longer mist.

Determination set her jaw. It didn’t matter. One way or another, she’d take the bastard down and make him pay for what he’d done to her and her sisters.

Fox slid his palm across the back of her neck, the slide of flesh on flesh triggering that deep, aching need for him all over again. With the battle, the hunger had slid away, pushed aside by more pressing concerns. But he’d renewed it with a single touch.

How was she supposed to function when all she could think about was having sex, and the very thought of it sent chills crawling over her flesh?

By unspoken consent, they walked in silence for a while, then began to speak of innocuous things—more speculation of what the ocean would look like if it were truly empty of life. All the while, they kept their senses tuned, but saw no more sign of attackers.

They’d traveled the beach for more than an hour when Fox suddenly stumbled to a stop beside her, then sank slowly to his knees, a look of pain creasing his strong, handsome features.

“Feral, what’s the matter?” Her heart plummeted, and she grabbed his shoulder. “Were you hit?” She saw no arrow, no bloom of blood that might indicate he’d been head- or heart-shot. Again she looked around, searching for Mage, or Castin, or some other assailant, but she saw nothing. “Fox?”

But he didn’t answer. With one hand she gripped his thick shoulder, with her other, the hilt of her sword, as she prepared to defend him while he was down. No one was going to hurt him. No one. Her head pounded as her gaze swung from one part of the island to the other, ready for an enemy that had yet to show.

If only she knew what was happening! Fox swayed, reaching for her blindly, his fingers grasping her hips as he steadied himself. He groaned, dipping his head.

Instinctively, Melisande reached for him, feeling the need to ease his torment. Her fingers slid into his soft locks, caressing his skull as she called on her old gift. Warmth suffused her hands as she sought to ease his torment.

He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his forehead against her chest. Slowly, the terrible tension in his shoulders and neck began to ease, and his breathing started to come more easily. “You have a magic touch,” he murmured at last, without moving.

She stroked his golden head, loving the feel of his silken hair between her fingers, adoring the scent of him. “What happened?”

For long moments, he didn’t reply, just knelt before her, holding on to her as she became more and more aware of the hands at her back, of the face pressed between her br**sts.

“I had another flashback. A tunnel beneath a wall. Maybe Inir’s stronghold. I don’t know.”

Though she heard his words, it was the location of his face that had her full attention. Desire, already ripe and lush within her, erupted in a torrent of damp need. Between her legs, she throbbed and ached, hot . . . needy. She began to tremble, her mating scent erupting all over again.

His head came up, golden lashes rising over eyes as hot as molten lava. Slowly, his breathing grew more shallow until it tore in and out of his nose. His hands began to shake as badly as her own, gripping her hips. Keeping her close? Or holding her at bay?

Her breath hitched, the need to taste him again almost a physical pain. She trailed her fingers down his sculpted cheek, then traced the fullness of his lower lip with her thumb.

“Mel . . .”

“I can’t help it,” she gasped. “I can’t stop it. I haven’t had a male since the attacks, haven’t wanted one. In all this time, I’ve felt no desire, Fox. Not until you. And now I’m crazed with it.”

He stared at her with those hot eyes. “It’s not going away.” His grasp on her hips tightened, his own trembling need telegraphing to her plainly.

“No. It’s getting worse. Why do you have to be so damned beautiful?”

His mouth tilted into a semblance of a smile, but sympathy shimmered within the fire in his eyes.

“Can you . . . pleasure yourself? Will that help?”

“It will only make it worse.” In the old days, the only thing that had brought her true pleasure was the touch and possession of a male. Touching herself, bringing herself to release, only drove the hunger higher.