Passion Untamed (Feral Warriors #3)(49)

The three of them hadn't gotten out of there together. Frederick had never become the jaguar Feral he was marked to be. It was nearly two years later that Jag had finally dragged his surly ass into Feral House and set about turning every Feral against him. They'd thought he'd never show up. To this day, nearly three centuries later, most wished he hadn't.

Frederick, with his quiet strength and dry wit, would have rounded out their team well, but he'd never gotten the chance, despite Vhyper's words of hope.

But sometimes words were all you had.

As he reached the main floor, he saw Lyon at the front door greeting three strangers, two men and a woman. The chief's gaze swung to Paenther, and he motioned him over.

"The Guard, B.P."

The Guard hailed mainly from Europe, trained in the British Isles, and were known to be fierce fighters. He was interested to see the leader of this team seemed to be the woman, a petite female in a trim pantsuit and high heels with flaming shoulder-length red hair.

Paenther shook hands with each of the three. The men both spoke with English accents, but the woman, Olivia, possessed a hint of a Scottish brogue.

As Lyon turned to usher them into the parlor, Jag came storming into the foyer. "That witch has to go! I feel like I've got her magic crawling all over me," he growled, then stopped short as he saw the visitors. His gaze zeroed in on Olivia, his gaze raking her from head to toe and back again. "You'll do."

"Jag..." Lyon warned, but the surly warrior slid his arm around the redhead's shoulders. "How about you come upstairs and spread your legs for me, Sugar," he drawled.

"How about I don't." The words purred from her mouth, but her eyes had turned hard as steel.

Jag didn't seem to notice. His hand dropped from her shoulder to grasp her breast. "I'll be good."

"I'm sure," she murmured as she lifted one of her high spiked heels and drove it down hard on his instep.

"Fuck!" Jag leaped back, lifting his injured foot. The look he turned on the woman was pure venom.

Olivia turned so that she could keep Jag in her sights, but glanced at Lyon and lifted one well-arched brow. "As you were saying?"

Paenther struggled to keep a straight face.

"Did I just see what I thought I saw?" Tighe said coming up behind him.

"You did."

Lyon eyed the woman with a bemused look. "I was saying I appreciate your willingness to help. I'll be pairing your warriors with mine, allowing my team to cover more ground."

The redhead gave a decisive nod, glancing at Jag, then back at Lyon. "We'll be ready. As many of us as you need."

"You're one of the fighters, then?" Lyon asked.

"Of course. Do not let my size fool you, warrior. Many have done so to their regret."

Admiration lit Lyon's eyes, and a hint of amusement as he glanced at Jag. "I don't doubt that. I'll be happy for your help. All of you," he said, his words encompassing the other two men.

Tighe chuckled low and glanced at Paenther. "Think Lyon will pair her with Jag? She could sure teach him some manners."

Paenther grunted. "A hundred bucks on the redhead."

Jag glared at the pair of them, growling. All of a sudden his skin began to sparkle with lights. The next moment, a furious jaguar prowled the parlor.

Fuck! Jag's yell roared through Paenther's head.

Lyon scowled and glared at Paenther. "See to your witch."

Paenther nodded and left the room. Tighe accompanied him back to the kitchen, where he was determined to find Skye some food.

"Hawke called while you were downstairs. They're on their way back."

"What happened?"

"They found the farmhouse where we picked you up without any trouble, and Wulfe located your scent. He followed it about four miles, then lost it. They spent all night searching but can't find anything that looks like a cave."

"What about the Market?" They turned the corner into the dining room, where Foxx, Kara, and Delaney were helping Pink sweep up the mess. On the sideboard sat a platter of cinnamon rolls still half-full.

"They can't find it." Tighe picked up one of the rolls and took a big bite. "Mmm, not bad."

Paenther grabbed one of the unbroken plates and loaded it with four rolls.

"They were starting to feel disoriented, so Lyon ordered them back here, stat."

"Magic."

"Yep. Gotta be."

"Dammit. I can find my way back in there. I know I can. As soon as I get these damned shackles off."

"Any word from the Shaman this morning?"

"None. If he doesn't come up with something soon, I may not have any choice but to cut off one of my hands to see if it works." He couldn't shake the memory of Frederick bleeding to death after Ancreta cut off his foot, but Frederick had been two years without radiance. He'd turned mortal, as all newly marked Ferals did if they didn't find Feral House within a couple of years.

It wouldn't happen to him. His hand would grow back. He hoped.

Tighe grimaced. "And if it doesn't work?"

Paenther met his gaze. "If the Mage find a way to free Satanan from that blade, a missing hand is going to be the least of my worries."

He took the plate and started back down the stairs to the underground, but as he neared the bottom, a strange sensation began to crawl over his scalp, as if something were dripping into his head and spreading, taking root.