Rapture Untamed (Feral Warriors #4)(67)

No. Or if she had, he'd dismissed it in his youthful arrogance. He couldn't remember now.

But she'd been afraid for him. And the day she'd tried to haul him home? The day he'd denied her?

She hadn't argued. What had she said? "He's my servant!" Goddess, she hadn't been trying to rub it in, his denial, as he'd thought at the time. She'd been trying to protect him.

He dug his hands into his hair, fighting the waves of grief as he willingly remembered that day for the first time in three and a half centuries - all of it, not just the parts his guilt kept throwing at him.

Why had he denied her? Because he was mad at her. Furious with her for treating him like a little boy when he was so clearly a man. Goddess, what an idiot he'd been. But the truth rose from the depths of his pain - he'd yelled that she wasn't his mother, but his slave master. Out of anger. He hadn't realized the danger. At sixteen, he'd had no idea what the humans had in mind. He'd thought they meant to escort her from the village and throw her out, and he'd been glad for it! Vindicated. When they'd tied her to the stake, he'd been confused. Not until he saw the torch, had he realized they meant to hurt her. That was when he'd tried to reach her, but it had been too late.

He'd forgotten that part, that he'd fought to free her. But a dozen hands had held him back. And as he'd struggled, he'd looked up and met Cordelia's pained gaze. His sixteen-year-old's mind had seen accusation in her eyes, but his memory didn't support that. Not accusation, but fear. And desperation. Run! those eyes had said. Run!

Because she'd known he could so easily be turned on, too.

And they had turned on him, hadn't they? They'd chased him for hours, for miles. Had he been injured during the fight to reach Cordelia and given himself away? He didn't remember. All he knew was they'd chased him, and he'd done one thing right that day.

He hadn't led them back to the enclave, but had hidden until he could escape them.

But by the time he got safely home, it was almost dark. Too late for anyone to mount a rescue of Cordelia before the draden got her. He'd never told anyone why he'd been so late returning. He'd never gotten the chance. They'd blamed him bitterly for her death, as he'd blamed himself.

But as Olivia said to him, he hadn't meant for any of it to happen. He'd never meant for her to get hurt. His only crimes had been youthful ignorance and self-absorption.

And what was his excuse ever since?

Olivia was right. It was time to let it go. Easier said than done, but he knew where he needed to start.

He opened his eyes and glanced at Tighe. "I owe you an apology."

"Why?" Tighe asked warily.

"You, Delaney, all of you. I've been a jerk."

Tighe grunted. "That's news?"

"Smart-ass. What's news is that I'm apologizing." With those simple words, he felt a lifting of the terrible weight he'd been carrying around for so long, he'd forgotten it was even there.

"Is this Olivia's doing?" Tighe asked.

"Yeah."

"Thought so. I wasn't wrong about her, after all." Tighe thrust out his hand. "Welcome, Jag."

For once, the tiger shifter looked at him without that guarded expression he'd come to know so well. Instead, his eyes held genuine warmth.

Jag took the proffered olive branch, grabbing Tighe below the elbow, their forearms slamming in the traditional Feral greeting. Amazingly, no snide comment even formed in his mind. The bitterness and bile had slipped away.

"Don't set your hopes too high, Stripes," Jag drawled. "I was born with a bad attitude."

He grew serious. "I'll apologize to Delaney."

"Do that, although she's had you figured out for a while. She told me you only targeted her because your words didn't bother her. And they did bother me. She didn't think you'd ever intentionally hurt her."

Jag's mouth twisted wryly. "Olivia told me the same thing. Damned know-it-all women."

Tighe chuckled. "Get used to it. In my experience, they're usually right."

They continued the drive in silence, yet for the first time since he came to Feral House all those years ago, Jag didn't feel like the odd man out. Surrounded by his brothers, he didn't feel alone.

Olivia had done this. She'd opened his eyes and thawed the ice around his heart. She'd saved him.

And he would do everything in his power to save her in return.

Olivia came to slowly, pain attacking her flesh and tearing through her brain. A pain that felt as if a thousand thick, red-hot needles were poking into her skin.

A pain that told her she desperately needed to feed.

She was starving, and food wouldn't do it this time, no matter how much she ate. She needed energy. The pure energy of another's life force.

Slowly, painfully, she lifted her eyelids, the burning little needles rippling along the tender flesh. Her arms had been pulled taut above her head, and she tried to lower them, but she was caught fast - chained, her wrists bound by manacles.

Blinking with confusion and disbelief, she found herself standing upright in a glasslike cylindrical enclosure about ten feet in diameter. Like she'd been inserted into some kind of giant test tube. And she was utterly alone. Beyond her cell rose the stone walls of what appeared to be an old cellar - mildewed and dusty, the corners covered in cobwebs, and lit only by a single grime-coated window high on one wall. Nothing cluttered the space - no furniture, no abandoned tools or boxes.