“You,” I say, waving my blade around like some magic wand. “You need to show me how to hold this thing first.”
He looks at my grip, then nods.
“You’re holding it fine.”
Then he lunges at me again. This time he swings his shorter weapon and clips mine right out of my hand. Gone. Flying through the air and smacking to the ground way over by the trees.
I run for it, picking it up and turning to face him in time to get the thing stripped from me again. I try to block his attack with my own weapon but get cut for my efforts.
I’m panting, gasping, hurting, chasing my blade and trying each time to hold it better, to move faster, as he effortlessly relieves me of the thing again and again. Leaving small nicks on my fingers and palm.
He kicks me behind the knee, and I fall backward, smacking to the ground. My hand slaps down on a stick. I grab it and smack the thing into his legs as hard as I possibly can. It breaks. Killian doesn’t even wince – he just moves. I don’t see where his blade is heading until after I’ve felt the pain and a long slither of blood runs down my arm to mix with the trickles from all the other cuts.
But I roll, because hurting isn’t nearly as bad as dying, and throw myself to my feet. Then stagger to get my balance before hearing the sound of a knife through fabric and feeling the sting of steel across my shoulder, overlapping the cut that was already there.
They’re not deep cuts. Probably not even worth calling them a cut at all. More like the kind of mark left by a piece of glass.
Every time Killian moves, he has complete control. No matter what I do, he’s there, and the tip of his weapon moves through my skin as easily as it would slice through water.
I’ve been hurting since this dance begun. Sweating and gasping for breath since he tossed me on the ground the first time.
But when did everything go fuzzy?
“Killian,” Pax booms.
The word echoes off the cliffs, making everything stop. Even breathing.
Even Killian. In the same second, I sink to my knees. My whole body is shaking with the effort to not fall flat on my face even as black spots invade my vision.
“She’s not okay,” Killian says, letting out a string of curses under his breath.
His shadow looms into me, and I lift my blade toward it. It’s not even a solid shadow, fluid on the edges, scary fluid. Like his outline is alive.
“Easy, lass,” Killian says, his voice different. Softer.
Cold fingers wrap around mine, trying to ease the weapon from my grip. I hold it tighter.
“Let go of the blade, Shadow,” he whispers.
“Mine,” I say – try to say, kind of groan.
I feel pressure on the end of the blade, and hear the sound of a sheath sliding over it.
“Yours,” Killian says before I’m scooped up.
My eyes have given up working. I think they gave up long ago. But I can feel that I’m in Killian’s arms – because I feel safe.
“Why didn’t you stop?” Pax demands.
“Because she kept getting back up.”
We leave the other two to settle the horses. I can smell blood on Seth and Roarke. On Pax too, but it’s not his own.
He bounds up the side of the cliff, sniffs, then tracks our scent directly into the cave. Followed by the pounding sound of his fist hitting a wall.
Three times.
One of his knuckles cracks – the pain sears through him as if it is searing through me.
I settle Shadow on the bed while Pax kicks my saddlebags across the floor. I’m fully prepared for him to pounce and rip chunks out of me. Teeth and muscles tearing and pain.
He needs to.
But after I’ve fixed Shade.
Her sleeves are shredded. Her left, from shoulder to fingertips, and her right would be the same if not for the bandage in the middle. I grip her sleeves one at a time and give them a sharp tug – tearing the stitching at the shoulder and tossing the fabric out of the way. The bandage on her arm is barely holding together. Three cuts have made light work of it. They’re the type of cuts that tape will fix. Shallow. Drawing a little blood but doing no real damage. No damage – if there were just one or two. Healed within hours if she were a Saber.
There’s seventeen. Not counting the little ones that dot her fingers.
I pull the destroyed bandage from her wrist, using it as a swab. Drenching it in alcohol and wiping every inch of her arms clean.
She flinches – but doesn’t wake.
I dry her arms, then fix the adhesive cloth tape from my kit over the wounds.
My own cloak smacks into my back, and I pull it around to cover the girl, before standing slowly and turning to face the guy behind me.
His eyes are vibrant, the kind of glowing gold that means his magic is bursting at the seams.
I step away from Shade, putting some empty space behind me, and wait for him to attack.
“What. Did. You. Do?” he demands. Growls. Canines extending.
I draw in a slow breath. Then another.
But he doesn’t strike.
“Check her pocket,” I say. “Check.”
He moves to her, his hands trembling as he pulls back the cloak and feels through her pockets. She sighs, her body relaxing, and rolls to snuggle into the cloak.
Pax brushes a loose hair from her cheek, the glow of his eyes calming a little. He pulls her tunic into place – his hand hesitating over the blankets that stink of murderer. But there’s more pressing things devouring our energy than the lingering smell under Shadow’s damaged body.
He returns to me, the paper in his hands.
“You should reprimand me,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“Do it.”
He grits his teeth, his jaw muscle ticking with the effort required not to crack his own teeth.
“I trust you,” he finally says, though I can tell he’s having trouble getting the words out. “Doesn’t mean I agree with you.”
He unfolds the paper and scans over the delicate black ink. I’ve seen Pax blanch twice – when we lost Mother. When he lost his child.
Not when he lost his wife. That news reached him while he was a wolf, and a wolf’s reaction to death is… different.
“This is in Mother’s hand,” he says. “How did our Shade get this?”
“Jada.”
“You read this and decided she needs some fighting skills.”
I grunt, stepping out of the way as Seth and Roarke drag themselves and their bags into the cave.
“You’re right,” Pax says, holding the paper out for Roarke. “But she needs to survive the training. We’ve got bigger problems.”
“Like who attacked us?” Seth asks.
“We didn’t get them all,” Roarke says.
“I didn’t see anything but flames,” Seth says.
“I smelled a BloodSeed.”
“Well, I killed him,” Roarke says.
Pax nods. “Seth ran the rescue, though I don’t think we got everyone out, and Sromma and Daryan got away.”
I roll the knuckles of my left hand against the palm of my right.
They’re all looking at me, and all I have to do is nod. Yes, there is still a darkness lying in wait for us. But I don’t think it’s any one of the men that we have so far met.
It’s something, or someone else.
52.5 miles from Potion Master Eydis
“Will everyone stop knocking me out?!” I scream, sitting up way too fast and using the smooth cave wall beside me for balance. “The next person to leave me unconscious will be getting castrated.”
I stop long enough to draw in a breath and hunt the four of them down. Killian is by the door, and he looks back over his shoulder just long enough to frown at me. The other three have pulled most of the crates apart, thoroughly searched through them, and left a big mess. Seth’s perched on top of the biggest crate. Roarke is sitting on the floor using Seth’s crate as a backrest, and Pax is sitting on
a metal box beside them – looking at me with his chin lowered and his gaze darkened.
Pax.
He’s alive.
They’re all a-freaking-live.
My heart does two things simultaneously – suddenly feels whole again, then becomes seriously pissed off.
I don’t care what they were just talking about – they need to believe I’m serious.
“I mean it! I’ve castrated the Brahmans before, and I don’t imagine you guys are all that different anatomically. ”
Seth laughs, cutting through the tension in the room.
I lift one hand to point at them and catch sight of the layers of tape over my fingers. Seth leaps down from his crate, and, shaking his head like everything I just said was a great big joke, he heads for the door.
Killian swats at his shoulder like there’s a great big bug underneath his shirt, then leaves with Seth. Disappearing from the cool dim of the cave, into the evening light. I can tell by the change in angle and the gentler glow, so I might have been out cold for an hour. What I can’t tell is where they’re going or why.
The other two haven’t moved, so I turn back to them.
Pax leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, no longer looking at me. His sleeves are speckled with blood. The top three buttons of his shirt have been ripped open, and bruises dot both his knuckles.
He picks something up from beside him and holds it out between two fingers.
“When were you going to share this with us?” he asks, and he actually sounds hurt.
Inside I feel bad, guilty maybe, but my verbal self-defense system kicks right in. I pull myself out from underneath Killian’s cloak, and three others – why did they all layer me in their cloaks? It wasn’t that cold.
I ignore that, getting to my feet as the words start tumbling out.
“I already did. I showed Killian, and he clearly showed you, which means I shared it, and that was such a pleasant experience.”
“You’ve had this for two days.”
Roarke clears his throat, standing slowly and heading toward the exit with a limp.
I hold my hand out to Pax. Out and up like I can freeze him in time for just a moment while I ask Roarke, “Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing,” Roarke says, without turning around as he waves vague in Pax’s direction. “Fix him.”
Then he’s gone, hobbling out the door.
Fix him? I turn back to Pax, who has stood up and who looks like I’ve managed to make him even angrier. Note to self – Pax doesn’t respond well to hand gestures that translate to ‘shut up.’
My heart skips a beat, telling me that running might be a good idea right now, as my mouth opens and my hands settle on my hips. The two notions – run or stand my ground – are battling inside me.
“When were you going to tell me? Clearly something in that –” I wave a hand toward the note that has slipped from his fingers and fallen to the floor. “Affects me, and I deserved to know.”
“It. Wasn’t. Safe,” he says, his deep tone sending chills down my spine.
Damn this mate thing – I can’t even decide if they’re good chills or chuckin’-scary-save-yourself chills.
I step backward, just a little movement toward the exit. He steps forward, and I find myself taking a bigger step in response. The floor of the cave is sandy and loose under my boots, making a little crunching noise with each motion.
“Then,” I say, my brain happy that my mouth is supplying a distraction. “It wasn’t safe to share that note either. This works both ways, Pax. You don’t get to lay down all the rules and not follow them.”
His shoulder muscles tense, a sure sign that fists will be following. Throwing a punch is more something I’d expect Killian to do, but Pax is really pissed off, and the last time I saw him like this, he ripped a chunk out of a tree. I spring into a run, angling myself for the exit while trying to keep one eye on him. All I see is a blur, then he’s in front of me, and I rush to alter my course and keep a safe little pocket of space between us.
He closes that distance. Getting his hands around my waist, pinning me against the wall. The one furthest from the exit, shrouded in shadow because the lantern light hardly reaches around the boxes and crates.
“You can’t keep secrets.” His words are low and heavy. Each one of them is laced with the threat of a wolf entering this conversation.
I can keep secrets, and I did. I’m not about to apologize for that – but now would be a really bad time to open my mouth and say anything but an apology. My gaze darts toward the exit. He puts his hand on the wall beside my face, blocking my view. Power spikes against my skin, filling the room. His golden eyes are alight with a glowing ring around the iris.
This keeping secrets thing is a really big issue for him.
I bite my lip to keep anything stupid from coming out while I try to think of something not-stupid to say.
But there’s a lot going on right now. My heart’s beating so fast that it’s interrupting my ability to breathe. He’s clearly not in control of his power, that thing that can kill me if this goes too far, and despite all of this, he’s looking at me like I mean something to him. Like I’m important.
The idea sends a rush through me that is almost too much to bear.
He growls, his fingers clenching against the wall and crumbling away chunks of ochre.
Before I can gasp, he’s leaning in, pressing his lips to mine and snatching the air from my lungs, the thoughts from my head, the beats from my heart. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t start soft and build to passion – every movement is firm and determined and claiming.
His fingers leave the wall and trace along the back of my neck, soft with crushed ochre powder. Finding the spot where his hand fits perfectly just beneath my hair. Tilting my head back, pushing in closer.
I rise up on tippy-toes, even though some part of me knows that this is probably not a good idea.
But not a bad idea, I tell myself.
The power in the room settles over my skin, warm and inviting. Joining and twisting with the need that is coursing up from deep inside me. The zap of it runs over my skin – like it’s waiting for an invitation.
He tugs me off the wall and pulls me in close to him as his tongue brushes across my teeth and his fingers run through my hair, tilting my head back a little further. I consider that maybe I need to stop, that maybe breathing is important, but my fingers curl through his shirt and I press myself against him instead.
His hand leaves my hair and returns to my hip – lifting me off the ground and pressing me back against the wall so I’m exactly the same height as he is. His body is against mine, holding me in place as his kiss moves from my lips to my neck.
Down my neck and onto my shoulder.
I moan and am delighted in the sound leaving my own lips. A sound that says ‘yes’ and ‘more.’
The sound is still rolling over my throat when pain sears through my shoulder – pain that fills me with heat and makes my muscles quiver. Pain from his teeth, or rather his wolf’s teeth, buried into my flesh.
He withdraws, a low growl vibrating through his chest and into mine. If I could respond, I would. I want to.
I swallow hard to stop the impulse. Me growling in return would just be weird.
He tugs at the front of my shirt – either ripping or popping open my buttons until my chest is bare. I don’t bother looking to see if the shirt is ruined.
Don’t care.
The cool air of the cave whispers over my flesh and dampens some of the heat from his magic. Delicious, intense, passionate heat. I want that heat – want more of it – want more of him.
My right arm keeps a hold of his shirt, using it as support to keep the damaged limb out of the way. My left hand slips under it, along the curves of his muscles, exploring the way he feels and wishing I had the strength to just rip his shirt off too. Instead, I push it up, and he grips my wrist in response. Pulling it from under his shirt and pinning it against th
e wall. Between the pressure of his body against mine and the hold he has on my hip, he manages to lift me up a little higher. Putting me where he wants me.
His teeth scrape over my shoulder with just enough intensity to leave a trailing sensation. Then they push through my skin again, biting harder.
I gasp and grit my teeth and enjoy it all at the same time.
He presses into the bite, all canines, exploring the moan that escapes me, the way my back arches and my breath quickens for a long moment before releasing me. Leaving me with four punctures and a thin trickle of blood – and wanting more.
His tongue trails over the blood, over the second bite and up to the first. I realize I should be caring about the heavy effect of his magic, about the way it’s making my hand twitch as his power sinks into my body. But everything in me just wants more.
Him. More. Him. More.
“Pax,” I gasp. “Don’t stop. But if you leave me. Unconscious. I will cut. Off your balls, and put them. In your boots.” I practically have to stop and gasp in a breath between every second or third word.
A chuckle rumbles through him, then he leans in and draws up a long breath.
“You smell like desire.”
“Yes, desire.”
His fingers uncurl from my wrist, from the spot where he was pinning me in place and stopping me from pulling his shirt off.
“You smell like hesitation,” I tell him, using his phrasing even though I can’t smell anything – just him, which is a combination of saddle, horse, and hard work.
His gaze meets mine for the first time since he pinned me here, eyes still aglow.
“Control,” he corrects.
“You don’t need to control me.”
Which in my head goes something like, you are not allowed to control me. And to prove it, I push off the wall just enough to lift my legs and wrap them around his hips. Pressing myself hard against his loose cotton pants and everything underneath and almost regretting it when my body responds with desperate zaps like lightning. I thread both my hands through his hair and link them behind his head so he can’t pull them apart. My fingers tremble a little, a side effect of his power. Small consequence for his lust.
Shadows and Shade Box Set Page 48
