Obsession Untamed (Feral Warriors #2)(53)

She glanced at his slacks. “Are those thousand-year-old Haggars?”

A grin lit his face for one brilliant moment, flashing his dimples and filling her chest with a terrible and wonderful pressure.

“They’re not Haggars. And what I’m wearing doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“This is the channel for my power.” He tapped the golden armband with the tiger’s head.

Oh.

Tighe held out his hand to her. “Come on, D. Let’s get this ritual over with.”

She took his hand, and he pulled her lightly into his arms and kissed her hair. “Trust me, brown eyes. It’s all going to be okay.”

To her dismay, tears threatened in her eyes, and she buried her face in the hollow of his throat, craving his touch, needing his strength.

His arms closed around her, and she clung to him, the pressure in her chest growing, expanding, cutting off her air even as it filled her with a terrible, anguished joy.

He said it was all going to be okay. But she wasn’t sure of that. She wasn’t sure at all.

Because, heaven help her, she was falling in love with him.

Chapter Twenty

Tighe led Delaney through what she could only describe as a gaudily decorated mansion and down a long, long stair into a basement that had to be a good twelve feet below the ground. No regular lightbulbs lit their way, only a couple of pairs of electric sconces made to look like candlelight.

With each step down, Delaney’s uneasiness mounted, her hands fisting and clenching around air. If she’d ever needed to be armed, it was now.

The scent of fire teased her nostrils as curls of smoke lifted on the air. A bead of sweat rolled between her br**sts. When she thought of weddings, her mind burst forth with pictures of sunshine and flowers, and yards and yards of white. Not dark stairs and smoke.

Wedding, my ass. Some kind of gang ritual, more like it. Or human sacrifice.

A shiver of fear snaked its way down her spine.

Of course, Tighe hadn’t called it a wedding, had he? He’d called it a mating ceremony.

Mating ceremony? Like some ancient fertility rite? That included sex? He’d better not even think about it.

What did she really know about this man? Nothing. She knew nothing about him except that he seemed to be trying to keep her alive. Which was all well and fine as long as his friends agreed. But she’d heard them on the phone when she was trying to bleed out. They’d all been in favor of letting her die.

What if they overpowered him? Or what if he lost it and turned into Wolfman Tiger again? She couldn’t protect them both. She was weaponless. Shoeless. Pantyless.

Tighe reached back and took her hand, his warm fingers closing around her ice-cold ones. “Control your fear, Agent Randall. No one’s going to hurt you unless I lose it again. And it’s your fear that makes me lose control.”

His use of her title had the desired effect, calling on years of training and control. Even as it reminded her that her career, everything she’d worked so hard for, might well be gone.

She knew Phil must be frantically searching for her whether or not they’d seen her captured. An FBI agent on the trail of a serial killer suddenly disappears. What was the Bureau going to think? That she’d gotten too close to him again. Phil wouldn’t be looking for her, she realized. He’d be looking for her remains. And when he didn’t find them? It wouldn’t much matter. He’d still think she was dead.

And in a way, maybe she was. Dead to her old life at least.

Goose bumps rose on her skin as she followed Tighe down the long stairs. She wasn’t entirely convinced she wasn’t about to die in truth.

When they reached the base of the stairs, Tighe led her through a dark, dimly lit hallway toward a wide archway flickering with firelight and curls of smoke. Low voices met her ears, too low to make out the words.

As Tighe led her through the doorway and into the room, Delaney stared around her warily, in no small amount of awe.

The room wasn’t overly large, but the ceiling was higher than most and arched, giving the space the feel of a cave. A feeling heightened by the six small fires burning around the edges of the room, casting flickering shadows on the dark-paneled ceiling and walls. There was something intensely primitive about the atmosphere, a feeling only strengthened by the half-naked men.

Five men other than Tighe stood scattered around the room, each wearing nothing more than a pair of pants or jeans and an armband similar to Tighe’s, though each armband seemed to have the head of a different animal on it. Maybe they weren’t all tigers after all.

Never had she seen such a worrisome display of pure, undiluted male power. Not a one of them was under six-six, with a couple well over. Each possessed powerful shoulders and thick, dangerous muscles.

If they turned against her, she was dog meat.

A shudder tore through her as she remembered where she was. What these men were. And just how true that could turn out to be. Dog meat. Tiger meat.

Forget sacrifice. For all she knew, she was dinner.

Tighe squeezed her hand. “You’re safe, brown eyes. Happy thoughts, hmm?”

“Happy thoughts?” she muttered. Right. Her thoughts were on the fact there were no windows. No possible chance of escape.

One of the men came toward them, a man with a mustache and goatee and cold, pale eyes. The eyes of a psychopath.

“Lyon says you don’t want the altar?”