Rapture Untamed (Feral Warriors #4)(35)

A tiny, lucid part of his mind told him to turn away, that it was just a dream. But he was caught, trapped as always, forced to watch the nightmare play out yet again.

They dragged Cordelia across the village square, four big human males easily overpowering her Therian strength though she kicked and fought, demanding they free her. She'd always demanded. That had been Cordelia's way.

But the men ignored her, dragging her toward the thick, tarred pole standing black and ominous within the circle of the fire pit.

As the Jag of old watched with a conflicted blend of angry righteousness and dismay, they shoved her back against the thick wood, wrenching her arms behind her, clamping iron manacles around her wrists to hold her fast. One of the men secured a second iron shackle to her ankle, then staked it to the ground.

Sunshine glistened on Cordelia's brown hair, locks falling in rare disarray around her shoulders.

The villagers wasted no time. Before Jag comprehended what they were about, one lit the torch, then shoved it into the kindling with a single vicious thrust.

Cordelia's skirts caught almost immediately. Her gaze locked on his through the curling smoke, flaying him with sharp accusation as the flames devoured her. Fire caught at her hair, lighting the brown tips like candlewicks, racing up to engulf her face as the chant of the villagers filled the air.

"Witch! Witch! Witch!"

Cordelia threw back her head and screamed.

"No!" The strangled cry clawed at Jag's throat as he woke, bolting upright, his body drenched in sweat, burning as if he'd stood before that fire again in truth instead of only in dream.

He gripped his head with shaking hands as Cordelia's screams echoed over and over in his head, and the guilt raked at his chest like a wild animal struggling to claw its way out.

Fuck.

It had been years since he'd had the nightmare. Decades. He'd thought the memories had finally left him alone, but the events of the day had brought it all roaring back -

seeing that face beneath the tarp, and the bodies tied to the posts. If only the past would leave him alone.

If only...

How many times had he thought those words? Those useless, f**king words.

He forced himself to lie back down even as he flung an arm across his eyes, wishing he could block out the sight. Wishing he could forget what he'd done.

Wishing, as he had a million times, that he wasn't such a bastard.

Olivia woke fully alert as she always did, despite her eyelids feeling heavy and thick.

Daylight streamed in between the gap in the drapes, a gray light devoid of sun.

Raindrops pattered on the roof, a steady, windless rain. If they had to attack in broad daylight, a rainy day was best. Even the Mage would be tucked inside, working their evil.

Over the patter of the rain, she heard the evenness of Jag's breathing and remembered waking to the distraught sounds of his nightmare some hours ago. Over and over, he'd saidCordelia , the name filled with anguish.

Whoever Cordelia was, or had been, Olivia felt certain she was the source of Jag's pain. She remembered how he'd sat up as he'd wrenched himself from the dream, his back and shoulders bowed beneath the weight of the nightmare. If she'd known him better, if they'd been closer, she might have offered him comfort. At the very least, a warm hand to the shoulder. But instinct told her the Feral wouldn't have been pleased to know she'd seen him at his most vulnerable.

Lifting her arms high over her head, she yawned, stretching limbs that felt strong and free of Daemon venom, at last, as her mind turned to the future and the Mage battle to come. She had no qualms about taking Mage lives, for she would never forget, nor forgive, the Mage for burning the enclave of her birth to the ground, forcing them to flee into the hills that fateful, horrific night.

Especially now with the Mage losing their souls and aligning themselves with Satanan.

But the thought of going into battle filled her with equal parts excitement and trepidation. Battle posed problems for her that it didn't for her men because her unusual strength and speed came not from the deep animal nature that still lived like a shadow inside most Therians, but from the draden. From sucking the energy of her opponent, weakening him just enough that her skills overtook his.

In a large battle in close quarters, she had two options. One was to grab her opponent and hold on, sucking the life from him. Unfortunately, that was the only way she could direct her feeding, and grabbing hold of an opponent often proved difficult if not impossible.

Which left her second option - to draw her attackers away from the primary battle, away from her teammates, where she could feed openly without harming her own.

And the last thing she wanted to do was harm her men. Or the Ferals.

She glanced over to find Jag on his back on top of the bedspread. He'd flung one arm wide, his hand dangling over the edge of the bed. His other lay across his eyes, his armband gleaming in the muted light. Despite the abandoned way in which he slept, she sensed the coiled tension, like a living thing inside him that never slept. Tension, yes, and a deep misery she was becoming more and more convinced poisoned his life.

But, goddess, he was a fine-looking man.

Her gaze skimmed over his body with raw feminine admiration. His thick biceps, broad chest, and flat, hard abdomen. And his legs, as solid and sculpted as any she'd ever seen.

He was a difficult, antagonistic, mercurial man. But he was more than that, better than that, though he didn't seem to know it, and she found herself drawn to him far more than she should be. She'd be smart to steer clear of him, but circumstances had stolen that option. Either she ran away from her life, or she remained at Jag's mercy until she figured out what he planned to do about her.