Forged in Ember

by Trish McCallan

  They’d either get along great . . . or beat each other to a bloody pulp.

  “Maybe your dad recognized the rot beneath Clay’s surface,” Mac said quietly. “Maybe he rode him so hard in the hopes of stomping it out.”

  The insight caught Amy by surprise. Had Dad recognized what Clay had the potential to become?

  “You think Dad knew what a disgusting piece of human excrement Clay would turn out to be?”

  The venom in her question took them both by surprise.

  Mac’s eyebrows lifted.

  A flush heated her face. “That was unkind under the circumstances, wasn’t it?”

  “Hell, no.” Mac stalked toward her. “What he did was unforgivable. You’d be freaking Mother Theresa if you weren’t furious.”

  She looked down at the floor, fought the burn in her eyes. It was the oddest thing. His immediate support made her want to cry.

  “How could I not have seen the monster he turned into? You saw it. Brendan saw it.” She wasn’t aware she’d asked the question aloud until Mac answered.

  “Because you’re loyal. Family matters to you. You give those you love the benefit of the doubt. There’s nothing wrong with that.” His voice was rough, stumbling again.

  Amy’s heart clenched, throbbed to the point of breaking. He was making excuses this time. Excuses for her. Excuses she didn’t deserve. “I was a fool. I should have seen it. I should have stopped him.”

  “No.” He settled on the couch next to her and took her hand. “Loyalty is never foolish. It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”

  There was something in the roughness of his words that pulled at her. In the firm yet gentle grip of his hand. Slowly her gaze rose. Their eyes met. She saw strength in the darkness of his eyes. Protectiveness. Trustworthiness. And something more . . . elemental. Attraction. Maybe even desire.

  It didn’t surprise her. She’d seen it in his eyes before, back in the tunnels and while lying on the patio beneath his hot, hard body.

  Without thinking it through, she reached for his face. Cradled his hard cheeks with her palms. Pressed her lips to his. An explosive breath flooded her mouth as his opened under hers. She slipped her tongue inside his lips, delicately tasting him. Oh God, did he taste good—like bacon and coffee and raw, unabated masculinity. Like honesty and trustworthiness and unashamed hunger.

  She relaxed, a hum of pleasure and relief rising. Warmth spread through her, dampening the anxiety and anger. She’d been afraid those horrible days of captivity had ruined her chances of enjoying sex again. Of seeking pleasure. Of accepting intimacy and offering it in return.

  She’d worried that she’d never feel this kind of closeness with a man again.

  Her mouth opened wider, her tongue tangling with his. Quicksilver chills raced up and down her arms, prickling her spine. Her arms fell to his waist, wrapped around him, and drew him closer.

  Which wasn’t close enough, not for either of them.

  With an urgent groan, he slid his hands around her hips and pulled her onto his lap.

  Uneasiness stirred and stiffened her muscles. Memories pressed against the wall in her mind.

  The warm, lazy desire chilled.

  No . . . no, damn it . . . no.

  Reaching for that earlier pleasure, she closed her eyes and pressed against his chest, flicked the inside of his cheek with her tongue, and took his groan into her mouth.

  Those bastards weren’t going to take this from her too. She wouldn’t let them steal this pleasure or the anticipation.

  He moaned, the sound a loud rumble in her ears. His hands tightened on her hips, dragging her closer. Subtly he lifted his hips and stroked her with his erection, letting her know exactly what he wanted.

  The flash of a tattoo. The burning, invasive assault between her thighs. Lights spinning overhead. A harsh, mocking laugh as she gritted her teeth, locking the scream inside her throat.

  The warmth vanished. The prickles faded. Her desire shifted to horror. The flashback still reeling through her mind, she shoved her palms hard against his chest.

  He released her instantly, his hands falling from her hips.

  Scrambling, she fled his lap.

  “Amy.” His voice was thick . . . raspy. His eyes were heavy-lidded with hunger. He pressed his fists against the couch and pushed himself to his feet.

  “I’m sorry.” She backed up, her muscles locked and trembling, the memories boiling over, smothering the passion. He took a cautious step toward her—like you would with a wounded wild animal. She took an even longer step back. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. Deep breaths, deep breaths, sweetheart.”

  She wondered what she looked like to have him so worried.

  “I’m okay.” But the raw, rattling breath she drew belied the claim. “I better . . . I better go.” Another step back.

  “Sure.” He remained absolutely still, his dark, concerned gaze locked on her face. “But just so you know, you’re safe here. Okay? Nothing will ever happen unless you want it to.”

  The rough apology in his words broke her. She spun and fled. The image of his stark, frozen face followed her down the hall.

  Chapter Seven

  WHEN THE KNOCK struck his door, Wolf opened it without hesitation. But he’d expected Jude, who intended to accompany him to the smudging ceremony. The Hiihooteet ritual—or death ritual—stirred strong emotions. Such burdens were shared easier between friends . . . and clansmen. Jude was both.

  It wasn’t Jude’s face that greeted him when he opened the door.

  “Hell.” Sometimes the white man’s curse fit the moment more accurately than anything from the people’s language. He shifted forward, blocking admission lest Black Cloud decided to enter without welcome. “I have no time for you.”

  “Nice to see you too. What’s with the feathers?” Mackenzie’s gaze lingered on the four eagle feathers dangling from Wolf’s thick braid.

  Wolf crossed his arms across his chest and ignored the question. The death ritual was not for outside ears.

  Although there’d been a caustic edge to the commander’s tone, the harsh voice was more tempered than Wolf had ever heard it. And there was an odd, tight, maybe even confused look in the black gaze eyeing Wolf’s hair.

  Something had thrown Black Cloud off his game.

  “I know you’ve heard of the hit on Purcell. His death narrows our chances of finding the cure for Amy’s boys.” Mackenzie smoothed a palm over his shorn head and cupped the back of his neck.

  Wolf tamped down his impatience and simply nodded.

  “James Link is our best bet now. He’s in charge of Dynamic Solutions’ advance technology department, and that shit they injected into Benji and Brendan is as experimental as hell. We need to move on him, A-SAP.” The midnight gaze that fixed on Wolf’s face glittered with grim determination.

  James Link . . . Wolf frowned. Mackenzie had a point. If the compound originated from Dynamic Solutions, as they suspected, then James Link was their best prospect for finding a cure. However, as the acting CEO, he’d be impossible to access.

  Not that inaccessibility had ever stopped them from acquiring a target before.

  Nevertheless, this topic could not be debated now. There were other priorities. Priorities that had already been put off too long. It had been ten days since the chopper crash. The Hiihooteet ritual was not meant to be stretched this far. The delay had been unavoidable. Many of his warriors had been deep in missions and difficult to retrieve.

  “I will take this under advisement.” Wolf spread his feet, willing Mackenzie to depart. Per usual, Black Cloud ignored the hint.

  “You boys have as much reason to go after Link as we do. As a member of the NRO, he’s spinning in your wheelhouse. A joint mission to grab him would benefit both of us.” Mackenzie’s voice hardened and rose. A direct challenge.

  Hell—he wasn’t wrong.

  The timing was.

  “I will bring this t
o the council,” Wolf said, willing Black Cloud’s boots to start moving.

  “Good. That’s good.” Another swipe over his bristly head, and Mackenzie stepped back and turned.

  Wolf locked down his surprise. How about that? The SEAL was leaving without trying to bully his case forward. Atypical behavior to be sure.

  “We shouldn’t wait too long.” Mackenzie spun back to face him, a tired slump dipping his shoulders. “The sooner you take this up the ladder, the better for Amy and her kids.” With that he turned and walked away.

  The second knock on his door came moments later.

  This time he opened it to Jude’s placid face. As the elder of the Eagle Clan, his nesi wore traditional garb—soft hide trousers and a hide vest over his painted chest. Red and yellow feathers dangled from Jude’s graying braid.

  “What demands did Black Cloud make this time?” Jude asked, glancing to the right, where Mackenzie had disappeared.

  “He wants men and equipment.”

  “For?” Jude eased back, giving Wolf space to enter the corridor.

  “James Link.” Wolf fell into step beside his uncle. Silence fell as Jude considered the matter.

  “This would not be a bad thing,” Jude finally offered with a lift of his shoulders.

  Wolf huffed softly in agreement.

  By the time they reached the Hiihooteet chamber, everyone had assembled. Caged lanterns burned along the craggy walls. The cavern was shaped in a circle—as were all things sacred. Its rock walls and ceiling bore an endless chain of interlocking white circles, denoting that all things were related. In the middle of the dirt floor sat an ancient pot, smoke leaking from the lid like wreaths of breath on a cold morning.

  Neniiseti’ stepped forward and nudged off the lid to the pot. Smoke boiled up, a steady flood that hit the ceiling and spread out in an undulating wave. Neniiseti’ grasped the pot by the wood handles, lifted it above his head, and beseeched Shining Man to allow the smoke to light a path to the spirit world so their dead warriors might find their way to the ancestors. He turned and approached Jude, who leaned forward until his head was immersed in the billowing gray. By the time the pot was offered to Wolf, the ceiling was a sea of smoke.

  After the last warrior had partaken of the purification smoke, Jude stepped forward. He halted before each warrior and chanted the recall prayer—words spoken only by the beniinookee of the Eagle Clan—and painted a red circle on each warrior’s forehead and cheeks. The sacred red circles were physical pleas to retrieve the pieces of their spirits that had torn loose at their brothers’ deaths and followed them into the spirit world.

  After the last warrior had been prayed over, Jude joined Neniiseti’ at the fire. Normally a warrior’s totem pouch was used to illuminate their path to the ancestors, but the helicopter crash had left no bodies or totems. They’d had to improvise.

  Neniiseti’ glanced at the name taped to the back of a toothbrush and threw it into the fire. His voice filled the cavern as he beseeched Shining Man above to show Abe White Horse the path to the ancestors.

  A broad face with deep-set black eyes flashed through Wolf’s mind. Abe had smiled easily and often. A practical joker, he’d always known what to say or do to break the tension. A fist of loss grabbed his chest and squeezed the air from him. Abe’s death was a throbbing abscess among them all.

  After the last word fell away, the warriors stirred against the walls, the rustling of their clothes muffled and eerie in the filmy air.

  “Hooxei. Walk with me,” Neniiseti’ said, his voice disembodied within the hazy chamber.

  Wolf stopped at hearing his name in the people’s tongue and waited at the exit for Neniiseti’ to reach his side. The elder exited the chamber before him, as was tradition. Neniiseti’ stopped outside in the ancient tunnel, watching the warriors ahead gain distance. Wolf planted his feet and locked his hands behind his back, waiting.

  Once the men ahead grew indistinct, the elder turned to face Wolf. “Friends on the outside speak of strangers asking questions about local Indian tribes with military aircraft.”

  Wolf straightened, the haze from the smudging ceremony fleeing his mind. There was only one organization that would be interested in the answers to such questions. “The NRO?”

  They’d known discovery was a possibility when they’d ferried the boys to Shadow Mountain. But the choice had been given. Children were never abandoned . . . at least not among the Arapaho.

  “This is unknown but likely,” Neniiseti’ said. “It would please the council if these strangers were brought before us.”

  Wolf nodded his understanding. The base was well hidden, protected from curious eyes. The question seekers would hear nothing of value. However, they might hold value themselves. If they knew where Faith Ansell’s clean energy device had been taken, the effort to acquire them would be worth the trouble.

  “As you wish, Grandfather,” Wolf said with a respectful half bow. “In other matters, Mackenzie asks the council’s support to go after James Link. There is evidence Link is involved in the NRO. If so, his answers before the council could prove enlightening.”

  Neniiseti’ frowned slightly, his gaze unfocused as he stared down the tunnel. “If the evidence is misguided, and Link is not involved—” He broke off to shake his head. “In such a case, an offensive would be foolish, perhaps even dangerous, exposing our warriors.”

  “Perhaps.” Wolf kept his tone calm and respectful. “But if he is involved, stepping aside would be foolish, perhaps even lethal for the Chastain children.”

  The elder sighed, his head lifting and falling slightly in agreement. “I will bring this before the council.”

  Wolf murmured his appreciation and waited. The old one had not walked on yet, which meant there was more to discuss. His intuition proved correct when the spirit walker locked fierce eyes on him.

  “Last night a heneeceine3 walked in my dreams. A caged heneeceine3 with the stink of infection.”

  A lion. A wounded lion.

  Every muscle in Wolf’s body seized. The elder was referring to Jillian; the dream lion made that crystal clear.

  “The heneeceine3 paced the cage. With each pass the stink grew stronger, the heneeceine3 grew weaker. The rot spread. Slowly the heneeceine3 crumbled until it was no more. Until the cage stood empty.” He paused, the fierce black gaze softening. “Your woman cannot heal here. You must let her go.”

  Let her go.

  Wolf’s chest contracted, his muscles aching. “She is not strong enough. She needs more time.”

  “She grows weaker, not stronger here. She cannot stay.”

  The gasp of air Wolf took burned all the way down his throat and set his lungs ablaze. “She is not safe on the outside. You know this. She cannot leave.”

  There was no give on the elder’s face. “She cannot stay. The spirits have spoken. She must go.” With the finality of his words echoing between them, the elder walked away.

  Wolf stood there, his boots frozen to the ground, his muscles locked and shaking, his beniinookee’s order ringing in his ears.

  He knew of the weight Jillian had lost since arriving at Shadow Mountain, noticed the fragility that increased with every day. Unless he brought her food, she didn’t eat. If he left her to it, she’d sleep all day . . . every day.

  He recognized the emptiness in her eyes, her disinterest in everything around her. He knew she still wept in her sleep, cried for her babies, stained her pillow and cheeks with tears.

  Neniiseti’ was right. He knew that. She was not getting stronger. Indeed, her spirit grew weaker each day.

  But to let her go . . . his entire body ached at the thought.

  She was protected here. Safe. If he sent her away, even to the heteiniicie, to those he trusted, she could wander away, disappear from his life. She could be targeted by enemies and taken, or killed.

  He could lose her.

  You’re already losing her.

  Frustration burned a path across his lungs and cinched
his chest tight. She slipped further from him with each passing day; this he knew too. Her spirit was in a death spiral. If he could not pull her out of this, he would lose her. But if he sent her away, he could lose her then too.

  He could lose her either way.

  After talking to Wolf, Mac headed for the gym.

  Maybe he could torture his body into submission and get some sleep tonight. Fuck knows he hadn’t gotten it the night before. The fatigue was extra annoying since he’d gone to bed at a decent hour only to toss and turn. He was too damn old to awake with his cock at full salute and his balls as blue as those moronic aliens in Avatar.

  The replay of those moments on the couch with Amy’s hands burning against his face and her tongue sweeping inside his mouth had been bad enough. But the dreams didn’t stop there. They had to flash forward to her glazed, terrified eyes as she fled his arms.

  His gut clenched.

  Christ, the look in her eyes had hit like a bullet. Took the air from his lungs and the strength from his legs. Amy was one of the strongest people he knew, and for those raw, agonizing moments she’d looked broken.

  How could he have been so fucking blind? How could he have missed what she was going through? She’d been kidnapped, for Christ’s sake. Raped—repeatedly. Of course she carried major emotional scars. Just because she didn’t paste the pain on her face so the world could gawk didn’t mean the emotions weren’t there.

  Christ, he could kick his own ass.

  Rage stirred, added spit and fire to his stride. Most of the men who’d held her captive were dead, but two were still awaiting trial in Seattle. What he wouldn’t give to track them down, take out every ounce of her agony on their worthless hides.

  Amy buried 90 percent of herself below the surface, projecting calm competence while hiding her pain. Which was the opposite of his ex. Hell, Piper wielded emotions like nuclear weapons, scorching everything in her path.

  He hadn’t known it at the time, but finding Piper riding Martinez had been the best moment of their marriage. He’d walked out of that bedroom minus a wife and the world’s softest pillow-top mattress, which he’d fucking hated but agreed to just to shut her up.