Rapture Untamed (Feral Warriors #4)(8)

Except Jag.Dammit, this is going to get complicated if I don't get away from him soon.

As she started toward the stairs, she heard the front door burst open. Her fighter instincts kicked in, and she edged to the corner of the upstairs stairwell, where she could see who invaded Feral House, only to watch as four sweaty Ferals poured inside - Paenther, Tighe, the bald one she thought was Vhyper. And Jag.

They'd been slaying draden, no doubt. Even Jag looked exhausted. His hair hung damp and unkempt around his strong face, as if he'd run his fingers through it a dozen times.

His bare chest glistened beneath the glow of the chandelier, the play of muscles breathtaking even from two stories up, his armband gleaming around one massive biceps.

Her wayward body flushed, her pulse tripping, and she cursed and retraced her steps to her room. The last thing she needed right now was another run-in with Jag. She was too hungry. On too many levels.

Closing the door, she pressed her ear against it, listening to the soft pad of multiple footsteps on the stairs. She couldn't imagine fighting so many draden at once. In Britain, the largest swarms these days were usually no more than a dozen. The Guard roamed at night, in groups of four, and easily dispatched them.

But this close to Feral House, and the Radiant, she knew they could top a hundred.

Apparently, the scourge was multiplying faster than the Ferals could kill them, a problem that had grown all the more serious in recent months.

She waited silently, listening as three doors opened and clicked shut somewhere in the house. Three, not four. Far below, she heard the sound of the television. Not perfect, but good enough. All four would be sleeping or distracted while she proceeded to eat them out of house and home. Not literally. Hopefully. It had been a long time since she'd tried to live on nothing but food.

Taking a deep breath, Olivia eased out of the room a second time and made her way down one of the twin staircases that framed the elaborate three-story foyer. Feral House was a mansion decorated in an old-world style with lots of floral and gilt. As she descended the curving stair, she found her gaze drawn to the huge and vibrant painting on the floor - a scene of lush foliage, sprightly wood nymphs, and rugged centaurs.

The sound of rugby on the television carried down the hall, accompanied by a puppy's yips and the rumble of deep male laughter. The laugh rolled through her, stroking her with a bold, sensuous pleasure, and she found herself moving toward it on silent feet, drawn against her will.

As she neared the wide-open doorway of a well-tricked-out media room - a huge flat-screen television hanging on the wall before a bevy of large, leather recliners and sofas - the puppy's sounds of happiness rose. The man's laughter rolled through Olivia, lifting the corners of her mouth.

She eased to the edge of the doorway and peeked around, not intending to intrude, merely curious. But the sight of the man holding the puppy brought her up short.

Jag.

He lounged on one of the recliners in nothing but his camo pants, a tiny black schnauzer puppy cradled in his large hand, inches from his face. As she watched, the huge Feral shook his head, a wry look on his face. "I'm a cat, goofus. If you're going to escape the witch's lair, at least go make eyes at Wulfe."

But the pup was clearly exactly where she wanted to be, her body a wiggling mass of joy, her stub of a tail wagging like a windshield wiper in a downpour.

As her tongue leaped out to catch Jag's chin, he chuckled again, then lifted the pup until the two were eye to eye. "You're making a mistake, Toto. Trust me, I'm thelast one you should be wasting your kisses on."

Something inside Olivia contracted at his words, at the sharp kernel of bitterness she detected beneath the soft, rich layers of gentleness he showered on the pup.

An old truth. An old pain. Neither of which was any of her concern.

With a grunt, the Feral lowered the wiggling pup to his lap, stroking her head and back with a big, gentle hand as she plopped her little black rump on his thigh.

"If you're going to watch the game with me, you have to root for the good guys."

The pup gave a high, happy yip, then hopped down off the chair and ran to greet Olivia.

She grimaced, caught.

"Fickle female," Jag muttered, then stilled as his gaze followed the pup and found Olivia instead, his eyes flaring ever so slightly with surprise. Those dark eyes studied her face, then moved slowly, leisurely, as his gaze slid down over her shoulders, bared by the tank top, to snag on her br**sts.

Her breath caught. She bent down to pet the puppy with suddenly unsteady hands, trying to pretend she didn't feel as if the man had just used his own hands to stroke her instead of his gaze.

As she rose again, the puppy took off down the hall with a happy yip. Olivia looked at Jag, her heart sinking as she saw the devilment leaping in his eyes. Only her pride prevented her from turning tail and following the pup down the hall.

"You here to do a little tail-wagging for me, too, Sugar? Want to crawl up on my lap and lick me all over?"

Even as her temper sparked at his refusal to show her the slightest respect, her ni**les hardened, a rush of heat welling inside her.

"I'd love to, Jag," she said silkily. "But I forgot my heels."

To her surprise, he laughed, a soft roll of masculine amusement that lacked the gentle pleasure of the one he'd given the puppy but still set things to fluttering in her stomach and forced up the corners of her mouth.