Passion Untamed (Feral Warriors #3)(37)

Paenther nodded. "Hence the punishments loaded into her cantric." It was suddenly so clear. And yet not clear at all. Just because she hadn't wanted to kill the animals she took from the forest didn't mean she held any love for the Ferals and Therians, the natural enemies of her people.

"Why are our animals reacting to her like they are if she supposedly attracts creatures?" Tighe asked.

The Shaman turned to him thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. They may simply be reacting to your own rampant distrust of what she is. Or they may sense something in her they don't like. Be very careful. There's no telling what else has been loaded into that cantric. She could be a danger to you without ever meaning to be."

Lyon grunted. "You think he could try to use her as a weapon."

"I'm saying anything is possible. Just be very careful."

Paenther looked up at the smaller man. "Is there a way to clear the cantric of its magic?"

"Not as long as the one who wove the spells still lives."

"He lives. For now."

When he was sure the cutting was done, Paenther pulled out a knife and cut the ropes off her wrists. Then he scooped her into his arms and stood.

"Putting her in a different cell?" Lyon asked.

"No. She's staying with me."

Lyon's mouth tightened. "You heard what the Shaman said. Just because she's fought Birik in the past doesn't mean she's not dangerous now."

"I heard. But I owe her this."

"How can you owe her anything? She's a witch, B.P."

He met his chief's gaze. "I haven't forgotten. But she's earned an open mind, and I intend to give it to her."

"You can do it down here."

Paenther shook his head, turned and walked away. Logically, he knew Lyon was right. She was still potentially dangerous, whether or not she meant to be.

But the protectiveness he'd been struggling with since the first time he saw her had gone into hyperdrive.

"B.P...."

"See you in the morning, Roar."

As Paenther carried her into the showers off the gym, he accepted the probability of what his gut had been telling him for some time, now. That she wasn't his enemy. That she had never been his enemy. That she had, in fact, been every bit as much a captive of Birik as he'd been. For so much longer.

Stepping into the open showers, he turned on one of the faucets. When the water ran warm, he tucked Skye's head against his shoulder and stepped under it, fully clothed. For a long time, he stood beneath the warm spray and held her, thinking of all the things she'd told him, all the evidence of abuse he'd seen. And the deep sadness that seemed to be etched into her eyes.

Yet not once had he seen her cower. And while she must have known Birik's fury would be terrible if she freed her Feral captive, she'd done it anyway. He might have saved her from Birik's immediate retribution, but he'd forced her to suffer another.

Her strength in the face of such violent mistreatment had made it possible for him to believe Vhyper's assertion that she'd been a willing and cunning participant in her own beating. Yet deep down, even then, his instincts had balked at the claim. There had always been something innocent about her. Something achingly vulnerable.

Now he thought he understood.

He laid her on the bench across from the shower and peeled her soaked dress off her body. His shocked gaze took in the sight of hundreds of fading cuts. Across her br**sts and ni**les, through her pubic hair and tracing like latticework across her stomach and thighs. How she'd taken such pain without screaming, he didn't know. Had that been another of Birik's many lessons?

She'd been eight when that bastard implanted the cantric in her heart. Eight.

He stripped off his own torn clothes and scooped her back into his arms. Grabbing a bar of soap, he sat on the tile beneath the spray, his legs crossed in the style of his tribal ancestors, and gathered Skye onto his lap. Carefully and thoroughly, he washed the last traces of blood from her skin as the cuts slowly disappeared.

Once she was clean, he wrapped her in a thick, fluffy towel and wrapped a second around his waist, then carried her up to his bedroom.

He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and dressed her in one of his silk shirts, then tucked her into bed. As he climbed in the other side, she stirred, her dark lashes fluttering up weakly.

As he met that copper-ringed gaze, a sharp memory of other, malicious copper-ringed eyes rose in his mind, and the old hatred flared.

Her lashes swept down.

"Skye..." He reached for her hand, curling his fingers gently around it. "Don't fear me, little one. You're safe tonight."

In answer, she rolled onto her side toward him and reached for him, her palm resting on his chest. The simple expression of need, of comfort, even from the man who'd treated her as his enemy, moved him greatly.

As sleep reclaimed her, her hand slipped away, so he gathered her up and pulled her into his arms. Just as she'd done in the cavern, she curled around his body, her head on his chest. Paenther held her against him, his arm tight around her, as pressure welled in his chest, a terrible tenderness that eased the rage that lived in his soul.

What exactly was he going to do with her? Even if she was, as he was beginning to suspect, nothing like Ancreta, she was still a powerful Mage. A witch controlled by a man without a soul.