Passion Untamed (Feral Warriors #3)(12)

And she had.

Skye curled her fingers around his leg, caressing his inner thigh as she stood beside the stone where he was pinned, letting her fingers slide almost to his groin. "Let me touch you, warrior."

"No."

Stubborn man. He needed more time. If she forced him now, so violently against his will, his hatred would only grow stronger and more impossible to breach. She'd never calm him, never get him to accept his place here. And he must accept it.

She couldn't give up.

The alternative meant his destruction.

Fury clouded Paenther's mind, rage blurred his vision. His body burned to slake its need on the witch whose soft hands stroked his thigh, whose softer lips laid kisses on his hip, seducing. Tormenting.

He fought the attraction, struggled to feel nothing as he had so many times in the past. But, as in the past, his body had a will of its own.

How many times had Ancreta come to him as he'd lain chained in that cellar? How many times had she taken him into her mouth and sucked him hard? He could still feel the torment of those golden curls tumbling over his hips as he fought the arousal and lost. Every time, he'd lost.

She'd lift those miles of skirts to her waist and straddle him, cruel laughter in her eyes that he'd fought her, and she'd won yet again. He'd buck and try to throw her off, but she'd clamp that surprisingly strong hand around his shaft and squeeze him until he quit bucking, then guide him into her hole, taking him inside.

Hatred ran like blood through his memory. Gregor would invariably join them. As Ancreta rode him, as he fought to withhold his seed, Gregor would grab his head and begin chanting, digging his fingernails into the flesh of his skull until blood ran down his temples and through his hair. And as Paenther lost the battle, coming in a hot rush of pleasure and fury, his mind wrenched open, Gregor would delve into his mind and rip at the animal spirit that had only recently joined him, trying to remove him, to steal him, the pain beyond anything Paenther had ever endured before, or since.

And he hated.

Lost in the memory, he barely distinguished between the blond Ancreta of his nightmares and the dark-haired witch with the blue eyes whose hands even now slid over his body, one over his arm, the other trailing up his hip, the fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his shaft.

A growl rumbled in his throat, his mind a haze of fury and memory. As her soft hand closed around his shaft, he turned feral, his fangs and claws unsheathing. He attacked her in the only way left to him, striking at the arm that had ventured too close to his mouth.

His animal's fangs sank into her forearm, ripping off a thick hunk of her flesh. Warm blood drenched his mouth. Raw satisfaction burned through the haze of his anger as he watched her jerk away, her face ashen. He spit the flesh onto the floor. Witch. If he were loose, he'd kill her. He'd shift into his panther form and rip open her throat, then eat out her heart.

He snarled, waiting for her retribution, tensing for the pain she'd deal, and not caring. But the witch only stumbled backward, holding the wounded arm in front of her, the blood flowing steadily down the front of her dress. She backed up until she reached the far wall, then sank to the floor beside the doe, cradling her injury.

Paenther watched her, searching for pleasure in her pain, and found it frustratingly absent. His fangs and claws retracted. She wasn't Ancreta. This witch was too damned fragile-looking. And she wasn't acting like he'd expected her to. No scream. No tears.

Ancreta would have been beating him by now, with the closest weapon. Stabbing him. Cutting chunks out of his own flesh, her eyes brilliant with vengeance.

Was this witch more controlled than Ancreta? More clever, perhaps, planning her retribution more thoroughly?

As he watched her, the blood stopped running. The flesh grew and knit until, at last, other than the stain on her gown, she was back to normal.

Still, she sat there as the doe nuzzled her cheek, leaning into the animal's touch, her eyes closed, a deep unhappiness in the lines of her body. Finally, she looked up and met his gaze, nothing but sad emotions in her eyes.

With a sigh, she looked up at the ceiling. "They're not full," she said wearily. She met his gaze again with those deep, fathomless eyes. "We have to fill them. I know you hate it, but neither of us has a choice."

She rose and came over to him, climbing onto the stone and settling back on her heels between his parted legs as she had before. He waited for the cruelty of her touch, expecting it. Wanting it. Needing to know he'd broken through that calm facade of hers. But the hands that brushed his thighs were as soft and gentle as before.

She puzzled him. Was there no cruelty in her? A gentle witch? Now, there was an oxymoron if he'd ever heard one.

"How can you touch me softly after I attacked you?" he heard himself ask.

She didn't meet his gaze. "You've done nothing more than any wild creature would do when trapped."

He scowled at her and at the twinge of guilt he felt for hurting her, the evidence of which darkened her dress.

Dammit, I won't feel guilty. Her gentleness, her vulnerability, were just an act. A lie. Maybe even flat-out enchantment. He'd be a fool to trust her in any way. And he'd already been fool enough to last an immortal lifetime.

His successful strike and her silent acceptance of the pain had taken the edge off his fury but done nothing to dampen his desire. As she knelt between his legs, caressing his hips, thighs, and abdomen, touching his shaft with only her heated gaze, he felt the sexual energy roll over his flesh and pound in his blood.