Warrior Untamed

Something had slithered in the darkness, something that breathed, and...waited. She’d leaned forward, and the shuffling noise sped up, grew louder, and she just managed to replace the lid—but not before she caught the glimpse of that pale hand with the elongated gray fingernails.

Even now, she shuddered at the memory. Creepy. She’d heard tales of Old Irondell—hell, every parent seemed to enjoy bouncing their child on their knee and freaking the crap out of them with the old stories—hers included.

But that’s what they were to most people—stories. Wicked, cautionary tales to make kids toe the line and not wander off.

Only, she knew they weren’t just stories. Old Irondell may be just a pale memory that was passed down, less and less, from one generation to the next. But there were some folks who still knew of the origins of the Reformation, of the time of The Troubles, when humanity discovered the existence of the shadow breeds: the vampires, werewolves, shifters and other creatures that were just plain weird, but who seemed to be on a mission to eat, or kill, or eat and kill any human they encountered. It had started a war that had lasted generations, until the time of Resolution, when all breeds gathered to negotiate a truce, which led to the Reformation, the redefining of territories and laws, and society itself. The homeless, the outcasts, those who didn’t “fit” into the normal, new Reform society had migrated to dwell below Irondell, away from the light. Away from Reform law. Nobody went into Old Irondell and came out unchanged.

If they ever returned. Most didn’t.

She didn’t need to go into Old Irondell. She had enough problems dealing with the shadow breeds above surface.

She turned back to the door, slid the peephole open and peered through the slot. There he was. Pyro jerk. That mean, homicidal son of a—oh. Wow. She swallowed.

He was doing a handstand. Correction, he was doing push-ups in a handstand position. He was shirtless and the jeans he wore were smeared with dirt, rust and grime. His chest glistened, his muscles rippling with each dip and raise, from the corded strength of his broad shoulders down to the ridged abdomen that showed the control and power of each move. His hair was long, touching the floor when he moved, and the beard that covered his jaw gave him a wild, untamed look. She’d made a point of providing her prisoner with a bucket of water every other day so he could wash, but she’d never seen him actually bathe, or sweat—or glisten. She swallowed again.

He pushed himself up, exhaling in a gust, then slowly lowered his feet to the ground with the grace of a gymnast. He rose from his position, his back to her, and he rolled his shoulders. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Sure, he’d been on a prison diet for the last five months, but still, he didn’t look like he was wasting away. No. He looked....healthy. Very...healthy. The chains that connected his wrists to the bolt in the wall clanked with his movements. She stared at that glorious wall of muscle, his figure an enticing V that narrowed into lean hips and a tight, tantalizing butt. He turned his head from side to side, as though stretching out some kinks, shook out those massive arms and then paused.

His head turned slowly to his right. He didn’t face her, but she could see the corner of his mouth lift up in a sexy little curl.

“Why, hello, Red.”

A sneaky, traitorous warmth flared inside her at his familiarity, quickly squashed by a wave of annoyance. No warmth for him, damn it.

Chapter 2

Hunter turned to face the door, refusing to let her presence bother him. She was right on time. He wasn’t sure if his captor’s punctuality was something he appreciated, or whether it irritated the hell out of him. It depended on his mood. He stood there for a moment, assessing his mood, and his stomach growled. Okay, so today it was appreciation. He was hungry, and she’d brought him food.

He raised his hands to his hips and tilted his head back to meet the green-eyed gaze of the witch behind the door. She stared at him for a moment, her gaze full of suspicion and wariness. He wasn’t going to try anything. He’d learned that lesson. Four times. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t try again, he just wasn’t feeling it today.

“Back up against the wall.” Her voice was low, husky and, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, the sound curled inside him, and he hated it as much as he enjoyed it. Five months he’d been trapped in this hole in the wall. Five lonely months. He’d never really been a social kind of guy, but after too many months of his own company, he was beginning to look forward to these too-brief moments of company with the bitchy witch. Crave it, even. Resented it, but craved it.

Yeah, he was a sick bastard. He backed up against the wall as instructed and folded his arms. If he didn’t threaten her, his cold little captor might stay longer.

The key clanked in the lock, and then the heavy steel door swung inward. She stepped into the room, and straightaway, he could smell her, feel her. Cinnamon and smoke. Lazy heat. He didn’t think the smoke could be blamed on him, though. He’d heard the sounds from above, the drilling, banging and clanging. They’d cleaned up that little mess he’d made. No, that scent of smoke was entirely of her own making. He was pretty sure his captor dabbled with fires of her own. As usual, she carried a torch. He hid a smile. She’d done her research. No candles, no flames, no access to sunlight, no fire of any kind...and blue light. But blue light was notoriously difficult to get hold of, so his captor had used a blue slide over the head of the torch. Sure the color of the light was blue, and gave an interesting hue to her skin, making her look otherworldly, but it was still light behind the shade. He could still use the feeble light of a torch to feed his power, if only a little. Yeah, they hadn’t put that little tidbit in the history books. It wasn’t the most efficient way for him to recharge—the light warriors had made sure to keep that one secret, too—but the glow from a torch did help. Each day, she fed him, both in food and energy.

Today she wore some sort of silky green top that flowed about her. It didn’t hug her form, but just hinted at the willowy, lithe frame beneath. Her jeans were tucked into leather boots. Boots with heels he knew from experience that hurt like the dickens if she kicked him.

She crossed to the pulley of chains that hung against the wall, set the brown paper bag and bottle of water on the floor and started to drag down on a length of chain. His jaw tightened as the iron chafed against his skin, and he could feel the sting as the cuff burned him. He thought he’d get used to it—especially with the efforts he’d put into those chains recently, but he hadn’t. Each contact of the metal with his body was like a hot poker to his skin.

Soon his right hand rose with each pull on the chain, and when she was satisfied with the position of his arm, she roped the chain around a hook on the wall. Then she started with the second chain. She did this every time, and he sighed. Damn her caution.

Of course, he’d given her good reason to exercise it whenever she was around him.

She left just enough give in the chain for him to have a limited range of movement with his left arm, then stooped to pick up the brown paper bag. He eyed the silky top as it gaped open with her movement, and he caught a glimpse of the creamy swell of her breasts, the scalloped pattern of black lace. He should be angry at himself. One, for being a pervert, and two, for spying on her. But, no. Five months. No sex. Angry wasn’t the right word for what he was feeling.

She opened the bag and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in plastic. She unwrapped it, then tossed it to him.

He caught it easily, eyeing the distance between them. She was just outside of his reach. Pity. He had fantasies of her stepping too close, of him stepping up and grabbing her, of him...doing wicked things. And then he’d call himself all sorts of a pathetic idiot for thinking anything remotely lustful about his captor and would replace those secret fantasies with something harsher, like forcing her to set him free.

He stared at her for a moment. She had red hair that looked like it had a life of its own, all vibrant curls and shiny locks, and green eyes that were a vivid spark of color, the pale complexion with a faint tinge of pink high on the cheeks was smooth and clear. The woman had the face of an angel, a body built for sin...and the ferocious temperament of a saltwater crocodile at sunset.

He looked down at the sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly. He was heartily sick of that combination, but damn it, he was also hungry. At least she gave him something more substantial in the evenings. Mostly. He tried to lower his other hand to hold the sandwich properly, but the chain clanked against the wall, and he hissed softly at the sting at his wrist. He covered the noise with a tight smile.

“Come on, Red,” he crooned. “How about loosening up the other one?”

She arched an eyebrow and stepped back. “You only need one hand to eat, jerk.”

His lips pulled up at the corners. And there it was, her regular endearment. He gestured toward her. “What, you’re not going to join me? We could swap sandwiches and bitch about our boyfriends.”

She would come, feed him, and when she was sure he’d eaten, she’d fetch him the bottle of water so he could wash it down. Before she left, she’d loosen the chains enough so that he had more slack in his restraints. Enough for him to make use of the crude seat fashioned on a stone ledge across the stone room he’d called home for way too long, and to walk a little around the room.

“Just eat.”

He should be thankful they were now on speaking terms. For the first two months of his captivity she’d treated him to a cold silence—and a blinding headache each time he tried to talk to her.

Or attack her.

He chewed on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then forced the food down his throat. “You know, one day we’ll have a proper meal together, Red. I’m thinking filet mignon and a glass of fine wine.”

“I’m thinking I’d rather hang myself up by hooks in my eyelids than spend one evening with you,” she said, folding her arms and leaning back against the stone wall. He watched as she crossed one long, slender leg over the other. Again, something curled inside him, something he resented, but couldn’t fight. Yeah. Five months, no sex. It screwed with your brain, making the most unsuitable woman seem compellingly attractive. Desirable. Sweet. He met those frosty green eyes again. Maybe not that sweet.

He needed to get out of here. He wanted to get back to work. Being alone with his thoughts was depressing. Too much time to think, to remember. To grieve...to regret. Ugh. He needed to work, otherwise he just sat here in this cold, dank little hole with only his memories and Steve to keep him company. At the thought of the rat he’d befriended, he broke off a portion of his sandwich and tucked it into his jeans pocket for later. She watched his movements, but just like every other day, didn’t query him. Probably thought he was squirreling away afternoon tea. He almost laughed at the suggestion of decorum and propriety in this misery. He took another bite of the sandwich, and chewed slowly, drawing their time together out. She glanced pointedly at her watch, and he grinned.

“If this cuts into your day, Red, you could always release me,” he suggested smoothly. “Just think—you wouldn’t have to spend so much of your culinary talents on me, such as they are. You wouldn’t have to stand and wait, watching me chew every bite...wouldn’t have to watch your back every second you’re down here. Set me free, Red.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired of this conversation?”

He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a conversationalist after being in the dark for so many months.”

Her gaze flicked around the cell. “You brought this on yourself.”

His gaze dropped. Yes, well, he couldn’t argue with that. “Why don’t we start over?” He smiled, calling on his customary charm he knew worked so well with the ladies.

Her eyes narrowed, and she straightened from the wall. “You tried to kill me. There’s no starting over.”

Except for this lady.

He sighed. “How long can you hold a grudge?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “Aren’t you bored with this yet? Isn’t it exhausting, keeping me fed and watered, dreaming up new tortures? All that effort...”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm, friendly smile, and she stepped closer. “Oh, I still post hate mail to my first ex. That’s since second grade.”

He eyed her. He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“Look, I’m sorry. How many times do I have to say it?”

“If you mean it, only once.” The remark was quietly spoken, and gave him pause. Her green gaze was blazingly direct. He ate the rest of his sandwich, forcing the gooey mess down his throat. Her gaze dipped to his throat, then lower, before it flickered away. Not quick enough that he didn’t notice it, though—or the faint bloom of color in her cheeks.

Interesting.

He lifted his hand to indicate the gloomy room. “Trust me, I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “Yeah. You’re sorry you’re stuck here. That’s what you’re sorry for.” She turned back to the door, halted, then faced him. “You tried to kill me,” she said, her voice low and shaking with anger.

He held up a finger. “No, I just wanted to destroy your shop,” he corrected her.

Her eyes rounded. “With me in it.”

He winced. “Yeah, well, that was my bad.” He did feel guilty over that. Just a little. Not that he’d let her know.

Her lips firmed, and he focused on her mouth, those full, pouty lips that were pressed together so tightly. “You torched my apothecary. Do you have any idea what you’ve cost me? Or my clients? I have had to turn away people in need because of you.”

He snorted. “Please. You create more damage than you know with your little witchy-woo spells and potions. I spend half my time cleaning up your messes.”

She tilted her head back, her vibrant red curls a blaze of color in the gloomy, torchlit cell. “Oh, that’s right. You’re their doctor.”

He’d have to be blind and deaf to miss her contempt, particularly when she talked about the shadow breeds like some stinky mess she’d stepped in and needed to wipe off her shoe. He smiled dryly. “I’m getting this vibe that you’re not really into the shadow breeds.”

Her smile was brittle and tight, and she stepped away from the wall, strolling slowly toward him. “Werewolves, vampires, shifters...your kind,” she said, casually lifting a hand to indicate him, “you all deserve to die.” She said it so matter-of-factly, he almost didn’t take offense. “You consume humans, with little or no regard for our lives. You all behave as though we are of no consequence, and yet you think the problem is ours when we arm ourselves against you.” She shook her head. “Hypocrite.”

His eyebrows rose. “I’m the hypocrite? You talk as though we’re the only ones capable of evil, yet you create the cruelest weapons for your precious humans to use against the breeds. Do you have any idea what your wolfsbane tisanes do to the intestines, to the stomach or throat? You think we are cruel, yet slipping a toxic corrosive to a living being is all in a day’s work for you.” As a shadow breed healer he’d seen the horrors humans had subjected the shadow breeds to, and had made it his mission to help them. “You’ve held me here for months, starving me of light. That’s the cruelest torture for one of my kind, yet you stand here and spout righteous indignation when you are guilty of doing the same yourself.”

“You are so deluded. You are here because you tried to incinerate me.”

“You’re fine,” he retorted. He still couldn’t figure out how that had happened. “I didn’t even singe you.”

“Only because I had defenses, not because that was your intention,” she snapped, stepping closer. This close, he could see the rosy bloom of anger high on her cheeks.

“And I’ve been paying for it ever since. Let me go. Let me get back to my life, to my work.” Hell, what had happened to his clinic in all this time? Had his brother, Ryder, stepped in? Or did it lie in ruins? Despite what everyone thought, he did care about the business, about what they did. Well, what he did. He had been surprised to discover what his father had been doing... His work was the only good thing about him. If he didn’t have his work, then he really was the selfish, destructive bastard everyone claimed him to be.

He’d be just like his father.

Damn it, he’d been confined in this prison for long enough.

First there’d been the spiders, then the rats. She’d even covered the floor with snakes once. Sure, it had been an illusion, a spell, but he’d still felt trapped, and the hallucinations had been terrifying.

Never piss off a witch.

“And you’ll be paying for it for a long time to come,” she said fiercely.

“If you hate me so much, why don’t you kill me?” he challenged her in frustration. “Just end this. Let me go, or kill me.”

Because if she didn’t, he’d go mad. He was sure of it.

“Come on, set me free. You can trust me. I’m a doctor.” He flashed her his most charming smile.

She rolled her eyes.

“Let me go, or end this,” he urged her.

Her gaze flickered, then she masked her expression behind a cool, brittle smile. “Oh, but we’re only just getting started.”

“Red, if you still want me around after five months, maybe it’s not revenge you’re after,” he said softly, suggestively. He knew he was poking the bear, but she started it.

“You think I won’t hurt you?” She shook her head as she stepped even closer, and he measured the decreasing distance between them.

“Oh, I think you could,” he said, leaning forward ever so slightly. “But I don’t think you’ll kill me.” The realization hit him like a spark of lightning, and he wondered why the hell he hadn’t figured that out much earlier. “You’ve had five months to do it—but you haven’t.” He tilted his head. “I wonder why not?”

Something flickered in her gaze, and her lips tightened. He’d hit a nerve. Triumph washed over him. God, he’d finally found a crack, a weakness. “You. Can’t. Kill me.” He drew the words out slowly. “Am I paying for your daddy issues, little girl?”

Her eyes narrowed, and that was all the warning he got—it was all the warning he needed. She swung at him. He caught her wrist, pulling her around with one hand as he yanked at the chain tethering his other.

There was a loud crack. Bricks crashed to the floor as the old pulley tore away from the ceiling, and then he had her back pressed up against him.

“Tut-tut, Red. You got too close.”

Chapter 3

Melissa didn’t quite know how he did it, but the bastard broke his chain. Just one, but it was enough to give him dangerous freedom. With one arm around her neck and the other wrapped around her waist and trapping her arms, he lifted her clear off the floor. She experienced a brief flare of panic. She tried to kick, tried to dig her heel into his instep, but he dodged her easily.

“Let’s end this now, Red. One way or another. Let me go, or I’ll snap your pretty little neck.”

“Let me go,” she gasped past the press of his arm against her throat.

“What? You don’t like to be held against your will? Try it for five months,” he muttered, his lips near her ear, then grunted as she lashed out with her foot. She made contact, but her kick had no force behind it.

The strength in his arms was frightening, yet he just held her. The breadth of his shoulders easily bracketed her own body, and she could feel his muscles bunch as he bore her weight. He could crush her. He could easily do as he threatened and snap her neck—but he didn’t. He held her. Then he did something that shocked her.

He leaned forward and rubbed his chin against her neck. His beard brushed against her sensitive skin, at once soft yet prickly, and the rough sensation set her trembling. “Come on, Red. You know you don’t hate me.”

Her breath hitched, and her nipples peaked at the tingles that spread down her neck, bringing a warm flush along with it. His naked chest was a wall of heat against her back, and his hips cradled her butt. Awareness, sharp and consuming, swept over her. She could feel him against her, every ridge of muscle against her back, the strength of his thighs and something that throbbed and moved against her, which created an answering pulse deep in her core. Her breasts swelled. No. She wasn’t—she couldn’t—no.

She stiffened in his arms. “No, I loathe you,” she said through gritted teeth. She twisted her wrist until her palm could make contact with his muscular forearm, and she latched on, pouring every inch of her resentment into that contact. She whispered a spell. Heat seared between them, and she tightened her grip. He grunted. Hissed. His arm moved slightly, and she managed to move her other arm until her hand could press against the outside of his thigh, and she clutched him, focusing her power on those two points of contact. The heat increased. She could feel his skin blistering under her hand, smell the fabric of his jeans burning.

His breath hitched, then he let her go, pushing her away. She whirled, hands raised, and an invisible force threw him against the wall behind him, holding him against the brick surface.

“Argh!” He tried to pull away, tried to reach for her, and she curled her fingers until he threw his head back in pain. “Stop it!”

She’d captured him initially with the help of her brother—and that was only after Hunter had exhausted himself in a battle first against his brother, and then his Warrior Prime of a father. Keeping the pyro jerk imprisoned on her own was proving a challenge. If it wasn’t for the iron cuffs he wore that bound his light warrior magic, he would have already overpowered her.

Melissa retreated and didn’t let up on the force she was directing against him until she reached the door. She clenched her hands and shoved her fists in a downward motion, and her prisoner collapsed to the floor. He moaned as he clasped his head, curling up into the fetal position, and she stormed out into the tunnel. With a flick of her fingers, the door slammed behind her, the lock sliding home. She strode up the corridor, fuming.

She’d gotten too close. She should have known better. He was like a viper, waiting for you to get within striking distance. Five months ago she’d been tempted by him, by his devilish smile and wicked brown-eyed gaze when he’d walked into her store. He’d been so confident, so darn cocky, saying he’d heard she was the best witch in Irondell with the best supplies, best spells, best concoctions—and the best strain of wolfsbane, and she’d swallowed his flattery, hook, line and sinker. She’d taken him into her apothecary, just like he’d taken her in with his false compliments.

She’d been thinking how gorgeous he was, and was even returning the flirty banter as she’d opened up her order book. Then her world had exploded. Fire, heat, and those brown eyes shot with burning flecks of red amber as he’d cast his flames throughout her little store. Then he’d backed out and closed the door, closing her inside her inferno.

He’d used her. She’d found out later he’d been trying to turn to ash any evidence of his brother’s involvement in a murder. He’d smiled at her. Teased her. Tempted her.

Torched her.

She pulled herself up the steep staircase that led back to her apothecary, trying to shoot strength into her shaking arms. That comment, though...the one about her father...that was—weird. For the past few weeks she’d been dreaming of the night he’d left—and other nightmares. She hesitated. Could he...? She shook her head. She didn’t know that anyone could do that. She closed the door behind her, engaging all the locks and wards, and then sagged against its surface, craving the unmovable support.

Tears burned beneath her eyelids. For a moment, ever so brief...she shook her head. No. Not that guy. Not ever.