Ecstasy Untamed (Feral Warriors #6)(60)

Eventually, she'd have to, of course. And when she did, she feared Hawke would never look at her the same way again.

Hawke tried to sleep, but it was impossible, not because he was on the floor - in the right frame of mind he could sleep anywhere - but because his body still burned despite the cold shower. And because Faith lay in the bed a few feet away, tossing and turning, not sleeping any better than he was. But mostly because his instincts kept yelling at him that something was still wrong. That he'd rescued her from Maxim, but she wasn't safe.

He'd given her one of his T-shirts to wear, and he watched as one bare leg slid out from beneath the sheet, curling back over it. Moments later it disappeared beneath the sheet again as Faith rolled over, bunching up the pillow, then flattening it again.

Finally, she sat up, pulling her knees tight against her chest and dropping her forehead in a pose that rang of such misery it made his heart ache. She was like a kid with a secret, he realized. An awful, guilty secret. Barely able to contain it, yet terrified of letting it out. He'd spent two decades tutoring Therian kids before he was marked. He trusted his own instincts. Especially where Faith was concerned.

"You'll sleep better if you get it off your chest," he said quietly.

Her head jerked up, the gaze she turned on him wide-eyed, but she quickly masked her surprise. "What do you mean?"

"You're holding something inside that's become so big it's about to swallow you. You can't even lie still long enough to fall asleep."

Dismay and something else crossed her features. "I'm keeping you awake." She swung her feet over the side. "I'll go somewhere else."

As she stood on the floor, he sat up. "I'd rather you confide in me. You can trust me, you know."

She met his gaze with a pain in her eyes that tore at him, her body coiled tight as a spring. He'd hoped he'd been wrong about the secret, but it was all too clear he'd been right. And he suddenly didn't want to know.

For long moments, she sat there as if frozen with indecision. Then she took the few steps to where he sat on the rug. Never had he seen such a forlorn look in anyone's eyes. Without saying a word, she sat cross-legged in front of him, giving him a heart-stopping glimpse of creamy thigh and pink panty. As he watched, pulse tripping, she lifted one leg, pulling her knee to her shoulder, swinging her foot to the side, giving him a perfect view of the pink silk that covered her enticements. His hand shook to reach for her, to reach beneath that silk and slide his fingers into her waiting heat.

But a quick glance upward revealed a face on the edge of tears, and he knew there was nothing sexual about what she was offering.

"Faith?" He shook his head, not understanding.

"Look, Hawke. Look."

He glanced back down, finally noticing the way her fingers kept stroking the same spot on the thigh just beyond the elastic. Marks. Four . . .

His heart stopped beating. A faint roar started deep in his brain and escalated until his head felt as if it would explode from the noise.

"Feral marks." Though the words came from his mouth, he barely heard them through the pounding in his head. "You've been marked."

She pulled her knees together, gathering herself close in a protective move. "Yes. I'm one of them. I think it's why I was drawn to Maxim."

He read her lips, but only one word leaped out. Yes.

Marked to be a Feral Warrior. Marked wrong. Kougar's words rang in his head. If we want to maximize our chances of defeating Inir and his army, we need the strongest Ferals. Period. The ones marked are the wrong men.

Wrong people.

They were going to want to destroy her. To make way . . .

The fury leaped inside him, the red haze rising.

How do you unmark a Feral Warrior? Death. Only by death.

Barely aware of his movements, he leaped to his feet as the fury battled to rise, needing to fight. To destroy. He could barely see, barely breathe.

A small sound, a sound that cut through him like a well-honed blade, had him turning back. Through the red haze he saw her. Faith. Sitting where he'd left her, tears running unchecked down her cheeks.

In those eyes he saw no fear, only a misery as deep as the sea. Even as he watched, she rose, pressing her fist against her mouth, and walked toward the door as if she'd leave him. As if she thought his anger was directed at her.

The fury roaring in his ears quieted, the tide of it rolling out as his hawk cried in anguish.

As she reached for the door, he took a step toward her. "Smiley."

She hesitated, looking back at him over her shoulder even as she leaned into the door, tipping her head against it. A sob caught in her throat, then another, and before he could reach her, she was doubled over and sliding to the floor.

He strode to her and swept her up, cradling her against his chest as he moved to the reading chair by the window and settled her on his lap. "Faith," he said softly, brushing her hair off her damp cheek, stroking her head. "Don't cry, sweetheart. Don't cry."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, burying her face against the curve of his throat, and his heart began to beat again. He pulled her tight against him, stroking her back, her hair, bleeding with her pain, and his own, as she sobbed.

"It shouldn't have been me," she whispered on a hiccup when the worst of the storm was spent. "I'm the last one who should have ever been marked."