Passion Untamed (Feral Warriors #3)(38)

If the Shaman was right about her cantric, she could turn on them without meaning to. Could he really risk the Ferals and their mission for her?

No. And yet...

He knew deep down he would never allow anyone to hurt her again.

Chapter Eleven

For a few delicious moments, Skye thought she was dreaming, her body warm and comfortable, a hand rubbing her back with long, gentle strokes. A dream from another time. Another place. But the hand at her back wasn't her mother's. The sound beneath her ear was that of a strong, masculine heartbeat. And the scent that filled her nostrils was lush and male.

Paenther's.

She tensed, her mind scrambling to make sense of her situation. Beneath her cheek, she felt warm flesh, damp from long contact with her own. Clearly, she'd been sleeping on his chest just as she'd done in the caverns, except this time he was holding her.

How could this not be a dream? How was it possible that the dangerous Feral who'd come close to raping her was now rubbing her back with a gentle touch? Even as the notion seemed ridiculous, the feeling of being cared for, even for a moment, was so sweet that it welled up until tears burned in her eyes.

She didn't want it to end. Trying not to move, she fought back the tears, not wanting to weep on his chest and give herself away. The memory of how she got there came back to her slowly. How she'd sat in that prison cell knowing midnight would come, then felt the first invisible blade tear across her cheek. She shivered at the memory of what had come next.

The hand left her back to cup her head gently.

"I know you're awake."

With a sigh, she lifted onto her elbow, swiping away the errant tears, feeling both awkward and wary. Why was he being nice to her now when he'd come so close to hurting her before?

Pushing herself up until she was sitting beside him, she avoided his gaze, instead taking in his long legs encased in soft gray pants, and the hard, muscular planes of his bare chest. She studied the golden armband curling around his arm before finally lifting her gaze to his face.

The moment she did, their gazes locked. Paenther's body tensed, something harsh and ugly flaring in his eyes.

Skye flinched and turned her head against the blow, an instinctive move. Her heart began to thud.

"Skye." His voice was low and pained. "I'm not going to hurt you." But when she felt him move, her heart raced faster. She squeezed her eyes closed, fighting against the instinct Birik had beaten into her, and forced herself to turn back to him.

He was sitting up, now. Too close. But there was no violence in his expression. Of course, there was rarely any in Birik's, either, before he struck her.

With a low sound of self-disgust, Paenther turned away and climbed from the bed, padding to the window with the quick, sinuous grace of a jungle cat. He stared out the glass, his hands fisted on the window frame.

"I saw the copper in your eyes, and for one moment, it took me by surprise, Skye. I've had some bad experiences with Mage eyes. But I'm not going to hurt you."

"Unless you decide I'm your enemy."

Paenther didn't reply to that. He didn't have to. They both knew it was true.

Paenther turned and met Skye's gaze, but remained by the window, giving her space. Inside him, the old rage started to rush back in, a rage he'd thought had been permanently carved into his soul until a delicate Mage witch made it disappear every time she slept curled around his body. It had happened in the cavern and again last night. He'd woken a short while ago feeling almost at peace.

But the respite hadn't lasted last time, and it wasn't lasting this time either. Almost as soon as she sat up, the peace had started to fade. As always, he gathered the fury in an iron grip and bound it within his icy control. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her more.

Even from here, he could hear her heart pounding like it was trying to escape her chest. He'd scared her with the flash of hatred he hadn't even given voice to. A hatred that hadn't been meant for her. And she'd reacted with a look in her eyes like the one she'd had the night Birik had crashed into the room and beaten her half to death.

"Why did he punish you with the cutting?" he asked quietly even though he was certain he knew.

"Because I didn't perform the moon ritual."

"The sacrifice?"

She nodded, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms tight around them as if she could protect herself that way. In the middle of his large bed, dwarfed by his shirt, she looked small and terribly fragile.

"How often does he make you perform that ritual?"

"Every night." Her tone was bleak.

Every night?

"I find the animals during the day, and he kills them at midnight while I raise the power he wants."

He felt his fists tightening and forced himself to loosen his hands. The thought of her riding that white-haired bastard as she'd ridden him made his skin crawl with something akin to jealousy. But the thought of him taking her like that at eight made him crazy.

"Has he always been your...sexual partner?"

Her body jerked. "No. Sex has never been part of that ritual. Not until you came. Usually, I just dance."

The rush of relief nearly weakened his knees. "Thank the goddess."

She looked at him, her gaze probing. Uncertain. "Why?"

"How long have you been doing that ritual for him?"