Passion Untamed (Feral Warriors #3)(32)

Paenther rose and led the smaller man into the foyer, where he found Lyon waiting, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression grim as he eyed the manacles still on Paenther's wrists.

"No luck." Paenther's tone was clipped.

"Bring the witch to the war room as soon as the Shaman's bound her."

Paenther nodded. "Then, Roar? She needs to be someone else's concern. She's still got her claws in me."

Lyon looked at him sharply. "I thought you got yourself cleared."

"I did. That's why I know someone else has to see to her after this."

Lyon eyed him thoughtfully, then nodded.

Paenther led the Shaman down the long flight of stairs and through the underground chambers. When they reached the prison cell, Skye rose with that fluid grace of hers and faced him, her back straight, her chin raised. In her eyes he saw a mix of courage and hopelessness, as if she expected the worst but was prepared to face it all the same.

That errant tug she had on him had him wanting to reach out to her, to reassure her nothing bad was going to happen to her. But he couldn't reassure her even if he wanted to. Mage witches didn't live long in Feral House. For good reason.

"She's not tied." The Shaman stepped back. "I'm not going near her unless she's tied."

Skye pressed her lips together and turned her head. Paenther opened the cell and grabbed one of the lengths of rope he'd originally intended to stake her out with. Skye put her hands behind her back, allowing him to tie her without effort.

As he looped the rope around her wrists, his body began to react to her nearness as it always did, rising, hardening as if he hadn't just jerked himself off. The cat in him wanted to rub its cheek against her soft hair, to rub his body against her softer curves. His hands itched to slide over the parts of her only his eyes had ever touched.

He gripped her wrists harder than necessary. Just the touch of his flesh on hers had desire flowing through him, raw and hot. Goddess, what she did to him. She turned her head, and it was all he could do not to press his mouth against the long, silken length of her neck. To lick, to nibble.

With a growl of deep frustration, he finished tying her and stepped out of the cell, allowing the Shaman to take his place. The Shaman watched her with all the warmth one might reserve for a hissing cobra. Repugnance darkened his eyes as he circled the witch, chanting the binding spell.

Skye looked down at her bare feet.

Sympathy rose from some misbegotten place inside him. So what if everyone loathed her? She was Mage. He would not feel sorry for a witch.

The Shaman stopped abruptly. "You haven't removed her cantric."

"I couldn't find it. She says it's buried in her heart."

"That's impossible." He motioned Paenther to him with a quick tilt of his head. "Hold her for me while I check."

Skye's gaze snapped up to his, her eyes sharp and wary.

He knew what she was thinking. "The Shaman doesn't have to use a knife to find your cantric, witch. Calm down." Moving behind her, he took hold of those slender shoulders, feeling a strength in her bones that he wouldn't have expected. Maybe she wasn't quite as delicate as she looked.

His mind played with him, reminding him of the inviting appeal of those shoulders when they'd been bare a short while ago. Would the skin taste as sweet as her kisses? He imagined pulling her dress aside, baring one shoulder for his mouth.

With a growl, he fought back his body's obsession with this woman.

The Shaman, only as tall as Skye, stood in front of her and ran his hands in front of her chest, an inch from her dress. Slowly, his hands stilled, the one coming to rest directly over her heart. The Shaman closed his eyes as if hearing a tune that played only in his head.

"It's in her heart, as she says. You'll not remove the cantric without taking the heart."

Killing her. "How did she ever survive its placement in the first place?"

"I imagine she was a child."

Paenther nodded, remembering what Skye had told him. "She was eight." Eight. That bastard Mage had cut open an eight-year-old little girl to insert a copper ring in her heart. He could have killed her.

The Shaman nodded. "That would explain it. Magic has unpredictable consequences in children. In this case, she apparently survived what an adult would not. The heart grew around the cantric." He resumed his chanting. Two more circles around her and he moved out of the cell. "She's bound, but..." He shook his head. "I can't guarantee she's no longer dangerous. Be careful, warrior."

Oh, she was dangerous, all right. All he had to do was get near her, and he wanted her. Hell, all he had to do was think of her.

He took hold of her upper arm and steered her out of the cell.

As he did, she looked up at him. "I can't hurt you. I don't have that kind of power. And I wouldn't hurt you if I could." Her words were as intense as her eyes, spinning a dangerous web around his mind, trying to soften his resolve against her.

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

"Because it's the truth."

And what was the truth? Who was she? A dangerous enemy? A victimized innocent? Or perhaps just enough of both to throw him off his guard and doom the Feral Warriors and their mission once and for all.

With deep trepidation, Skye followed Paenther through the foyer from the basement, trying to take her mind off the impending interrogation.