Fae Touched (Fae Touched Book 1): Paranormal Romance

by Lisa Rae Roman

  Buck let his gray hair drop to cover his collar and the old burn.

  “The realms must remain separated,” Rose said. “If the creatures of Faery invade Earth, it would mean war. Millions of humans and Fae Touched alike would die when the Sídhe Lords demanded a return to the old ways. The days when we were subservient to their every whim.”

  “We need to find Abby, like yesterday,” Jenkins said after a long moment, hand scrubbing over his mouth and short beard.

  “I have an old buddy who’s an Alpha in that part of the West South Central.” Buck’s features might have been grizzled, but his mind was still sharp. “I know he’ll help us and keep it quiet. He owes me a favor.”

  “You have seventy-two hours to get him on board and pull together whatever supplies and weaponry you think we might need,” the prince said.

  “Forty-eight,” Samuel contradicted, teeth gnashing. “I’m not waiting a second longer to go after Abby.” Not one goddamn second!

  “Seventy-two,” Myles repeated, displaying sharp incisors. “We may only get one shot at recovering our property and saving the region from potential disaster. We need enough time to prepare properly. So, stop thinking with your dick—”

  Samuel’s gums split, his flesh stretching tautly over his cheekbones. His vision swam in a sea of yellow. His wolf wanted out, thirsting for the prince’s blood.

  “Easy, son.” Buck gripped his shoulder. When had the Ferwyn moved? “Ignore him and think about Abby. We’ll get our girl back, but she needs you to hold it together a little while longer.”

  Samuel breathed in deeply, the silence surrounding him dense with the combined smells of green forest, rich loam, and the spicy scent of a witch’s activated magic.

  Through the haze of white-hot rage, Samuel saw the bright glimmer of runes on Jenkins’ forearms, the liaison’s hands grasping tightly to the back of the chair where Rose remained remarkably unruffled.

  She met Samuel’s wild gaze clear-eyed and without a hint of fang. “Abigail is tougher than she looks.”

  Samuel nodded at the queen, unable to speak past the tightening of his throat. The weathered warrior stepped aside, and Tucker took his place.

  “We hunt, my Alpha.” Tucker cupped the side of Samuel’s neck, expression grim with resolve. “With or without them.” His simple vow was more than it appeared, the promise potentially pitting him against old clanmates—against his brother.

  Myles tugged on his jacket lapels, met his aunt’s imploring gaze, and capitulated ungracefully. “We’ll leave at sundown in two nights if everything ready.” He turned his attention to the region’s liaison. “Mr. Jenkins, I take it you’re planning on staying with the queen?”

  “I am,” he answered firmly. “I’m also sending for Monroe while you’re gone.”

  “I do not need one babysitter, let alone two.”

  “We’ll require another battle witch to replace you for the operation,” the prince continued, undaunted. “Can you recommend one who’d be discreet?”

  “I have someone trustworthy,” Jenkins said, playing right along. “And he’s damn good.”

  “Are either of you listening to me?” The queen crossed her legs, high-heeled foot swinging in agitation. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Excellent, tell him to meet with Commander Walker immediately for a briefing.”

  “What about Abigail’s brother?” Rose scowled at Jenkins. “We need to inform him about his sister. He will want to be there when she is rescued.” Not if, but when.

  “Conlan’s not convinced the facility isn’t behind Abby’s kidnapping and has gone after the director,” Samuel told her. “He went dark, and we can’t wait for him to report in.” He wasn’t waiting for anyone.

  “Do you think they’ve hurt her?” A wealth of emotion seeped into Noah’s voice.

  His nephew was no longer a pup, reaching his Ferwyn majority the past winter. As a member of the Guard, he’d learn of worse things happening before his service was done. Samuel’s duty as commander was to make sure Noah was emotionally and physically trained for the job. But as his uncle and Alpha, he wished to protect him from the ugliness of the world awhile longer.

  Samuel reached for the pack connections he had purposely dulled.

  Tucker’s guilt and anger lashed at his consciousness like a snapping rubber band, while Noah’s worry and Buck’s calm determination plucked at its outer edges. He took a deep breath, opening himself further, seeking the dissipating tie binding him to Abby.

  Blistering pain pulsated down the weakening link. Whatever they’d been doing to her every other day for the past two weeks was starting again.

  “Abby’s been Rip Walking. Over and over again.” Samuel kneaded at the searing underneath his ribs. “They aren’t just hurting her…they’re torturing her.”

  Chapter 25

  “Take a deep breath, then slap some lipstick on, and suck it up.”

  Bridget MacCarthy

  Abby’s fingers shook, and the mascara wand wobbled. Steadying her hand, she applied another coat of black to her lashes, replaced the cap, and dropped the tube into the bag containing cosmetics in her favorite brands and colors. Zipping the pouch, she set it on the chipped toilet tank and stoically carried on with her evening routine.

  She unwrapped the damp towel from her head and draped it over the shower rod. After untangling the knots in her wet hair, she gathered her hopelessly overgrown bangs, divided them into three sections, and weaved in the longer lengths to form a single plait. Securing the braid’s tail with a rubber band, Abby stared into the cracked mirror above the rusted sink, barely recognizing herself.

  Large pieces of newly whitened hair framed hollow cheeks and translucent skin. Purple smudges underscored unnaturally pale eyes; the shade of blue no longer reminiscent of Abby’s mother. Shallow grooves bracketed lips pulled taut from weeks of constant pain and nausea.

  The clothing they provided emphasized her rapidly thinning frame. The stretchy material of the calf-length leggings called attention to her skinny thighs, while the pink athletic bra accentuated a shrinking waistline, pronounced ribs, and bite-free sunken collarbones.

  Abby wrenched her gaze from the expanse of unblemished skin on her left shoulder, eyes pricking with unshed tears. She staunchly refused to indulge in another pity party, her sole breakdown occurring about ten days after being kidnapped. The day a cold sweat covered her skin, indicating the bond with Samuel was slowly splintering. She wouldn’t cry again.

  Taking a deep breath, she brushed at her inner thigh, gaining comfort in the surviving Mark hidden beneath the clingy fabric. She leaned closer to her reflection and smoothed the snowy strands nearest her temples, making sure the blood had washed out.

  As prepared as she would ever be, Abby limped into the former executive office serving as her prison.

  A full-sized mattress and box spring sat directly on the worn carpeting, placed between boarded windows. A thick, white comforter and gray satin throw pillows nearly identical to those found in her Harbor Complex apartment covered the frameless bed. A pedestal fan rotated futilely in the corner, its blades circulating humid air. The stifling heat almost made her appreciate the lack of hot water in the tiny shower. Almost.

  The office’s remnant desk was shoved to the far wall. Utilized as a substitute dresser, its surface was stacked with dozens of identical spandex capri pants, pastel sports bras, and a rainbow array of lace-trimmed boy-shorts. Next to her limited clothing choices was a manicure kit that included her favorite summer nail polishes and a cafeteria tray holding a hamburger sans onion, fries, a chocolate shake, and a can of Diet Coke.

  Disregarding the uneaten meal, Abby sat at the foot of the mattress and tucked bare feet under her butt. Her captors hadn’t supplied shoes or real bras, and she felt incredibly vulnerable without them.

  She bit her lip and stretched to retrieve the black t-shirt from beneath the mounds of pillows, bringing the freshly washed fabric to her nose. It no longer smelled of
wild forests and Samuel—but it had once.

  Since starting the Mating Dance, her bossy Alpha insisted on sleeping naked, stripping away the pajamas Abby obstinately put on every day. But no matter what Samuel thought of her persistent modesty, he never failed to place a tee over the footboard for her to slip on whenever leaving their bed. Never. Not once.

  Abby regained consciousness wearing one of those shirts.

  It was as though her jailors hadn’t wanted Abby afraid upon awakening in a hostile environment, the recognition of Samuel’s smell meant to ease her initial panic.

  But why did they care if she was scared or not?

  King Nathan’s possession of Samuel’s shirt was undeniable proof there was a traitor on Blood Island; someone in Sinclair’s employ within harm’s reach of those she cared about most. The t-shirt’s very existence was enough to ensure her cooperation. The Dádhe ruler only mentioned once how simple it’d been to obtain—Abby hadn’t needed another warning.

  And why did they bother to surround her with familiar things? Accommodate her likes and dislikes? Were they meant as a daily reminder of their unlimited knowledge and access to her life as a unspoken threat? Or did the small kindnesses assuage their guilt for making her Walk against her will?

  Ignoring a throbbing headache, Abby opened her mind and heart, searching for the telltale thrum of awareness and failing to find it. Samuel must be too far away—from wherever she was—to feel their connection. Which was good news, she told herself firmly. It meant he was safe. But it also signified the shattering of the mating bond, and Abby hated its impending loss. Hated it so much she wanted to scream, to rant, and to rave. To pitch a royal hissy fit and then hit someone—preferably Sinclair—really, really hard. And to have one last chance to tell Samuel Walker how much she loved him.

  She’d withheld those three little words for what seemed like legitimate reasons at the time.

  Emotional self-preservation was one excuse. But not saying the words out loud hadn’t made them any less real or the thought of walking away from Samuel easier. Her heart wouldn’t hurt less when finally forced to choose whether to return to the facility or hide among humans again for everyone’s safety.

  Survival instinct and her conscience were two more. Living among the Fae Touched meant embracing her magic and its baggage: the pain, the responsibilities, the limitations—the failures. It would mean the inevitable exposure of the Na’fhuil to the world and the consigning of her brother and the Jumpers still in hiding to a lifetime of being hunted for their abilities.

  But the reasons for holding back didn’t matter anymore. Abby was just grateful Samuel hadn’t made her his Ca’anam. And it was absolutely for the best that he hadn’t said he loved her either, especially if they never saw each other again.

  That’s what she told herself. Repeatedly.

  At least without the third Mark, the imminent breaking of their bond wouldn’t cause the commander to yield to demand of the Glaofin. And for that Abby was genuinely thankful.

  Right on cue her stomach cramped, and a film of perspiration coated her forehead.

  “Bless it all anyway,” she said aloud, wiping the sweat from her face with her wrist as heavy footfalls headed her way.

  She quickly refolded Samuel’s tee, tucked it under the pillows, and straightened her spine, resting her hands calmly in her lap.

  Mason O’Donnell opened the door after a perfunctory knock and stepped inside. Sinclair’s thlán looked as if he’d recently rolled out of bed, thick red hair sticking straight up and smashed to the side of his head. A wrinkled t-shirt with a huge smiley face design and jeans with holes in the knees covered the vampire’s lean frame.

  “Ready, Abby?” he asked, light brown eyes taking in her untouched dinner. He glided to the desk, gait fluid, a frown on his unshaven face. “You didn’t eat.”

  Picking up the melted shake, he held it out to her. “You need to keep up your strength, or you’ll be no good to us.”

  “I can’t.” She stood almost gracefully, doing her best to hide the soreness in her limbs. “It’ll just come back up. And I can’t say I particularly care if I’m any use to you or your king.”

  Auburn eyebrows rose, crinkling his forehead. “I think that’s the rudest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He waggled the cardboard cup. “Drink.”

  “No.”

  In a snap, Abby was back on the low mattress and sitting in Mason’s lap.

  “Drink,” he repeated, tugging her firmly to his chest when she tried to scramble off.

  She stopped struggling but stiffened. “Tell me about Chess, and I’ll try.”

  “I’ve already told you the truth. The WSC had nothing to do with what happened at the club.” The straw floated near her mouth. “Three sips.”

  “Then who did?” She took the cup and drank a small mouthful. Her stomach protested, but she kept it down.

  “It’s the same answer it was the last time you asked me. We don’t know. Two more.”

  “But you have a guess?”

  Mason and Sinclair suspected someone, but they refused to tell her who that might be, no matter how many times she questioned them since being kidnapped.

  “Have you noticed any difference in the pathway? Any sign it’s reopening?” he asked instead.

  Gagging on the second swallow, Abby could only shake her head.

  “I know this is hard on you, and I’m sorry it has to be this way.” Mason’s palms rubbed briskly at the chilled skin on her upper arms.

  “Then let me go.”

  “The leader of the Athair,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Why not tell me his name? What would it matter—”

  “The leader explained the Rip is a bridge between the human and Fae worlds, so only someone with the blood of both races can access it.”

  “A Na’fhuil.”

  “Not any halfblood. The only magic that affects the Rip is Walking, and you’re the only Walker.” He gave her a light squeeze. “We need that gate opened, Abby.”

  “No matter whom you have to hurt to do it?” She twisted to look at him over her shoulder. “Or how much your principles get bent in the process?”

  “Yes,” he said simply and with finality.

  “Then I’m the one who’s sorry for you.”

  Mason went rigid, but he pushed the cup closer to her mouth. “Take the last one, so we can go.”

  Abby took the last sip.

  As soon as she’d complied, he helped her stand.

  She took several long breaths, inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth. It would serve the vampire right if she tossed her cookies all over his sneakers.

  “You okay?” He cupped her shoulders and leaned down to see the truth in her expression.

  “No,” she said honestly. “But apparently that doesn’t matter.”

  “Abby…” The corners of his eyes were tight.

  “Can we get this over with, please?”

  Mason’s lips formed a narrow line, but he nodded brusquely and guided her past the two Guards outside her door. The tall Dádhe shortened his stride, purposely matching her measured pace until they entered the area she spent far too much time in over the last few weeks.

  Like in her makeshift jail cell, the windows in the room were entirely covered in heavy plywood, blocking the sun and any hope of discovering her location. The walls were dirty, the once white paint yellowing. The floor had been swept but was still sticky with grime. Cement pillars and electrical outlets poked through the stained linoleum at uniform intervals. Abby squinted into the bright lighting, imagining cubicles with telemarketers laboring under the harsh glare.

  She caught several of the WSC’s Guard scurrying like cockroaches to the exits at her arrival. Soon only King Nathan and his healer remained.

  Nathan Sinclair wasn’t dressed like a monarch, wearing black jeans, a worn gray Henley, and scuffed cowboy boots. He stood with his hands stuffed into the pockets of the faded denim, the casual
stance stretching the shirt across his muscled torso. His sleeves were pushed up, displaying vein-laden forearms. The buttons at his throat were undone, exposing weather-tanned skin, and a silver chain with dog tags hanging in the opening.

  Beside the ruggedly handsome vampire, the raven-haired Anwyll waited with her medical bag, a folding chair, and a wide-mouthed bucket with several wet hand towels draping its lip. The witch’s dark eyes filled with sympathy as they followed Abby’s slow progression into the large, open space.

  Her heart rate increased at the visual reminder of what was to come, but she approached the pair with her chin lifted and posture a ballerina would envy.

  “Tinker Bell,” Sinclair greeted, employing the nickname he bestowed the first day of her captivity, declaring she reminded him of the storybook pixie. The king never used Abby’s name. Maybe it was easier sending her into the Rip repeatedly if he thought of her as a displaced inhabitant of Faery instead of someone to protect if only born on his side of the Mississippi River. “Are you ready to begin?”

  “No, not really, milord.”

  Sinclair frowned and said bluntly, “She looks ill.” He hadn’t seen Abby in over a week, and the obvious deterioration of her health in the short period seemed to come as a shock.

  “I told you Walking makes her sick,” the young healer said heatedly. “The magical backlash is brutal. She needs longer breaks between trips into the Rip. My healing spells provide a temporary fix—a shot of adrenaline to keep her going until she finally collapses. And a day of rest. No, that’s a lie. It’s not resting. I won’t soft-sell what we’re doing here. Even to myself.” She toed the pail disdainfully with her sandaled foot, scooting it several inches across the peeling tiles. “A day to recover isn’t enough time. Her body can’t adjust that quickly.”