Passion Untamed (Feral Warriors #3)(19)

That chill in his spine leached into his blood.

Except perhaps a witch.

With a bit of magic, she could make him believe he was seeing whatever she wanted him to see, couldn't she?

Hell. Denial roared through his head. Had he really been taken in all over again?

Or was Vhyper the one lying? How in the hell was he supposed to know? The only thing he knew for certain was, he couldn't trust either of them.

And if this night ended as he feared it might, it wouldn't matter. Nothing would matter once he was dead.

The smoke of the banked fires teased his nose. He stared up into his old friend's eyes, a growl grumbling deep in his throat as he saw no glimmer of the Vhyper he knew.

"Am I staked out for slaughter?"

A cruel smile slashed across Vhyper's face. "What fun would it be if you knew what to expect?"

"You've turned into a bastard, Vhyper."

"Oh, I've turned into a lot more than a bastard, B.P." Vhyper rose. "Looks like it's time to begin."

As the Mage circled the perimeter of the room, Skye stood. With quick, nimble hands, she pulled off her dress and tossed it aside as if perfectly at ease with her nudity among so many men.

He stared at her and knew he was watching a stranger.

Birik came up behind her and pulled her back against him, one hand covering her breast, the other diving between her legs.

Paenther's gut clenched with shock. His breaths became labored as he watched with disbelief as the bastard fingered her, working that supple body he'd lost himself in twice now, until she rocked against his hand, trembling. Enjoying it. She was enjoying it.

His mind exploded. She'd tried to mount him last night, cold and dry. It doesn't matter. Because she hadn't wanted him. Not him.

And he knew, he knew, what was going to happen. Birik wanted her to ride him again, but he had to prepare her himself since, clearly, clearly, she couldn't get there on her own. Not with a shape-shifter. Not with him.

Damn her.

But it was him she needed, him with his animal. So she'd played him with her sad eyes and pretense at vulnerability until he'd helped her f**k him.

Anger blazed through him, a fury as raw as it was ancient. A fury turned on himself as much as her. How could he have fallen for a witch's pretense of woe twice?

Birik finally released her. Without once meeting his gaze, she crossed to where he lay staked and stood over him, one foot planted on either side of his waist. In the shadows between her legs, her flower had opened, and the scent of her arousal blasted his senses, sending the blood flowing into his shaft in a throbbing rush.

Her eyes and expression were closed as she stood there, trembling, her heart racing. But no longer did her delicate beauty pull at him. It was all a lie. She was a lie. His chest ached, the flicker of warmth she'd sparked inside him sputtering beneath the mounting evidence of her deceit.

He struggled against his chains, determined to fight her every step of the way, though he knew with a despair born of bitter experience, his body would betray him. No matter how much his mind hated, his body would always struggle for release when buried inside a woman's sheath. He'd never been able to keep from coming when Ancreta had him trapped inside her.

And he stood even less of a chance with the witch standing over him now, whose scent drove him to distraction even when she wasn't aroused.

The witch began to chant, her melodious voice rising in volume until it echoed off the rock. Slowly, her lithe, graceful body began to move, gyrating to the rhythms of the chant, her small br**sts softly swaying, raising the temperature of his blood.

In the corner, the deer cried out, then went suddenly silent. He looked at the witch's face, feeling a twist of empathy for the grief he expected her to feel, but her expression had turned as cold and lifeless as stone. Something shriveled inside him at this proof she was nothing more than a cold, calculating bitch, like all Mage witches.

Birik strode to her, a bucket in his hand. She didn't startle, didn't even flinch when Birik tipped it over her head, letting the blood run into her hair and over her bare shoulders.

She'd expected this. With a kick to his gut, he knew this was the reason she'd brought the animals into the cavern in the first place. To dance in their blood.

Hatred seared his mind. She'd had him so completely fooled.

With sick fascination, Paenther watched Skye slide her hands over her br**sts and abdomen, slicking her palms. Then she squatted over him and took his swollen shaft in her hand, coating him with the sticky warmth.

He went feral, his fangs elongating, his claws unsheathing as he snarled, fighting his body's traitorous response to her as much as he fought the woman herself.

But she barely looked at him as she guided him between her legs.

As he had so many times with Ancreta, he tried to buck her off him, but the witch was too well coordinated, moving with him, refusing to be denied. She forced him inside her. Despite Birik's ministrations, her body was still too tight, but nothing on her face reflected the discomfort.

There was nothing he could do to help her. Nothing he would do even if he could. He wanted her to hurt. Damn her.

Slowly, she began to ride him, resuming her chant as around the room, the sorcerers joined their voices to hers until the sound pounded a thunderous beat echoed in Skye's movements.

A beat echoed by his own heart.

The chant pounded in his blood and in his shaft, the power rising until the hair on his head felt like it was trying to stand on end. Above him, Skye's short hair was lifting, as if she'd stepped into an electrical storm. Above her, the orbs he hadn't noticed before pulsed with dark light, growing.