Passion Untamed (Feral Warriors #3)(13)

His breathing turned labored as he struggled not to rock his hips, as he fought against the need to demand she take him into her body and bring him to release.

Finally, she lifted her hands and moved to his side, to sit with her back against the curve of the rock shelf. Her face was flushed, her own breathing labored, her chest rising with each harsh breath.

Slowly his body cooled, slowly she quieted, not quite touching him until she laid her palm against his rib cage.

"The animal inside you calms to my touch. I wish you could, too, warrior."

"Never." But the word was without heat.

A gentle witch. Was it possible?

She climbed down off the rock and went to her animals, freeing them. For long minutes, she stroked them, one after the other, whispering to them as they clamored for her attention. Finally, she walked toward the door with a tense unhappiness that pulled at him, her animals pressing around her as they had when she'd first walked in.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

She looked back at him, over her shoulder. "It's almost midnight," she said quietly.

He saw the glisten of tears in her eyes.

Chapter Four

Skye danced, as she did every midnight, her hands high above her head, her body swaying and twisting to the music of the Earth, clad only in the blood of the sacrifices.

The power of her gift rode her flesh as she danced, a harsh tingling that sank into her muscles and bones and tore at her heart. High above her, the orbs tucked in between the stalactites and flickering lightwicks sparkled and spit with energy.

In a loose circle around her, the sorcerers chanted.

"Faster," Birik snapped from the corner of the whitewashed room. His pale hair glowed silver in the cool light, his cold gaze pinned to the power orbs as one of his snakes, a rattler, curled across his shoulder. Beside him stood the doe tied fast to the rock.

Skye's gaze fell to the desperate animal, to her large, frightened eyes. And to the bloody dagger in Birik's hand. Grief threatened to swallow her, and she tore her gaze away and spun faster, her feet sure on the blood-slick stones. She felt as if it were her soul that was being slaughtered.

If only it were Birik's blood drenching her body! But the small flare of dark emotion died as quickly as it rose, snuffed out by the crushing weight of desolation.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. For years and years, the creatures of her heart had died at midnight, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Nothing she could do to change her fate or theirs. The Mother, the goddess, had long ago forsaken them all.

Now she'd been forced to drag a man, a Feral, into this hell. Fear for him cut like broken glass.

She danced, struggling to forget, to block out the raw smell of the blood coating her hair and skin, fighting to crawl into her mind, away from the savagery, away from the cries of the doe struggling to reach her, begging her to save her.

Inside, she cried out her own frustration at the wrongness, at the horror of what she was forced to do. Because she couldn't save her. She couldn't save any of them. The only thing she might possibly be able to do was keep the man, the Feral, from ending like all her other creatures. She must. Her soul would die if she were forced to dance in his blood as well.

As the doe's cries ended abruptly, Skye threw back her head, her chest pierced with a pain she couldn't show, her mind echoing with an anguished, silent scream.

Moments later, she heard Birik approach from behind and closed her eyes as warm blood slid over her scalp and cascaded down her body, spreading fingers of warmth against the chill of the cavern air, carving holes in her heart.

Skye flung her hands into the air above her, pulling the power Birik demanded, desecrating her precious tie to the creatures of the Earth.

The blood ran down her cheeks like tears.

Paenther scented violets even before the witch stepped into the room. She returned without her animals, her hair wet as if she'd just showered, her eyes hollow. Without a word, without meeting his gaze, she crawled up beside him, between his body and the wall, and lay down, curling against his hip. He could feel her trembling.

As much as he hated her, he'd always had finely honed protective instincts toward women and children, and they rose now. Something had hurt her. He reminded himself he didn't care. But as he felt her slowly calm, her breathing evening out in sleep, the tension eased from his own body.

He wasn't sure when he'd drifted off, but he woke to the sound of water dripping from the stalactites into the puddles scattered across the room and the feel of the witch's silken head on his chest. She had one arm wrapped around his waist, the other hand tucked against her neck. That second arm was nearly within reach of his mouth. But he'd lost the desire to hurt her. Her gentle touch and her acceptance of his fury had taken the edge off his need for revenge.

He blinked, feeling...strange. Almost...relaxed.

With disbelief he realized what was wrong. Or what was right. The rage, the ever-present rage he struggled to contain day and night, the rage burned into his soul by Ancreta nearly three hundred years ago, had inexplicably left him.

How? Was this simply more magic?

Did he care?

Chained atop this cold stone, deep in the bowels of a second Mage captivity, he felt more at peace than he had in years. Eased. Whole in a way he hadn't felt in centuries.

Had she somehow, miraculously healed him? Or was her nearness affecting him in a way he'd never imagined anyone could?