Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(65)

In his arms, Natalie’s shaking grew worse, the tears a steady flow down her cheeks, now. How much more of this could she take? How much more could he take?

He pulled her tighter, his big hand stroking her hair, her back. “Natalie, sweetheart . . .”

“Don’t, Wulfe. I’ll get better.”

But he wasn’t so sure. “Roar, what if each time Satanan tries to set up a steady flow of the primal energies through us, I disconnect it by closing the loop and stealing Natalie’s pain? If I don’t do that this time, her suffering might never end. Satanan might just get stronger and stronger.”

Lyon frowned. “We don’t know that’s how it works.”

How the f**k were they supposed to tell?

His hand shook with the need to cover that wound and end her suffering. And she was suffering. Goddess, she was in pain. He could feel the tension in her muscles, the trembling. Her skin was damp with perspiration, her cheeks wet with tears.

Small cries began to escape her throat, tiny, strangled screams that tore at him.

“It’s not stopping, Roar. It’s not going to stop.” And he’d taken all he could take. Lifting his hand, he pressed his palm against her cheek, closed his eyes, and willed the pain away. But like before, it fought him. Satanan fought him, struggling to keep the connection intact.

“Get two more Ferals up here, ASAP,” Lyon barked.

Wulfe gritted his teeth, growling low in his throat as he pulled at the pain, as he battled back the Daemon’s hold on it. On her. Finally, finally, he felt it give way. Deep inside, his animal whined with relief.

Natalie sagged against him. “Thank you.”

Wulfe shuddered with relief, cradling her close. She felt so good, so right, in his arms. Her sweet scent warmed the air between them, weaving through his senses, lighting tiny fires in his blood. Now that she was no longer in pain, his body sprang to life, suddenly, intensely aware of the touch of her hand where it clung to his wrist, and of the press of her soft breast against his arm. His own hand traced the contours of her slender back, her spine, her elegant neck, his fingers sliding into the spun-gold silk of her hair. It was all he could do not to bury his face in the clean, feminine scent of it.

His hands began to shake with need. With every beat of his heart, the desire to pull her closer, to taste her again, grew more intense, more difficult to control.

His pulse quickened, his breath becoming increasingly shallow. The last time, he’d felt her silken flesh beneath his palms and lips, he had not been moved. Never had he been physically moved in her presence.

Until now. He throbbed with the need to slide deep inside of her.

Natalie pulled back. Their gazes caught, locked, and he watched lovely, if tired, gray eyes light with wonder, then fill slowly with dawning passion. Her own breath hitched.

“Oh, Wulfe.” Her words were the barest whisper.

“Wulfe,” Lyon barked. “We need to get you out of here. Down to the gym.”

All he wanted was to sweep Natalie into his arms and into his bed. Instead, he stroked her hair with a shaking hand. “Go. Melisande will take you back to your room.”

Without warning, the familiar buzzing began in his ears. A split second later, the red fury swept across his mind, stealing his will.

“Wulfe!” a male yelled.

Enemies. He drew fangs and claws, leaping from the bed and whirling toward the ones who would attack him.

“Watch his claws! Get Natalie away from him.”

Two males tackled him to the floor. “Jag, Fox, give us a hand.” Two more locked his wrists against the hardwood. “Olivia, weaken him. Not too much!”

Wulfe fought against their hold, struggling against the four who held him down, but lethargy began to steal through his limbs.

The sound of shattering glass had him turning to find the female he’d been holding now wielding a broken wine bottle like a weapon, a wildness in her eyes that gut-punched him.

“Natalie.” The name tore from between his lips and fangs. “Natalie, no.”

“Hell, not her, too,” one of the males muttered. “That bastard has his claws in both of them.”

As Wulfe fought his captors, struggling to reach her, to reach Natalie, the darkness and fury dissolved and he came back to himself in a rush.

“Let me up,” he snapped, his fangs and claws retracting. “Let me go to her!”

The hands holding him down disappeared, and Wulfe leaped to his feet as Natalie struggled in Jag’s far stronger hold.

“She tried to cut me,” Jag told him. “I think she was trying to protect you.”

“Natalie.” Wulfe reached her, gripping her jaw carefully, forcing those wild eyes to meet his. “Natalie, come back to me.”

She stared at him, the wildness slowly sliding from her eyes, and she blinked with confusion.

“Wulfe?”

He took the broken wine bottle from unresisting fingers and handed it to Jag before pulling her into his arms. “It’s okay.” But as he said the words, his gaze rose to his chief’s, and he knew the words for the lie they were. Because it wasn’t okay. Nothing was.

“Is it the primal energies or Satanan that’s affecting them?” Tighe asked, his gaze meeting Wulfe’s. “Do you know?”

“No.” This connection needed to end, and soon. Goddess help them. He curled his arm around Natalie’s shoulders and ushered her toward the door. “We’ll be in my room.” Not only did he need time to think, but he needed to get away from the wary, worried eyes of his brothers.