Warrior Untamed

by Shannon Curtis

  How was he supposed to know his brother wasn’t the coldhearted murderer Hunter thought he was? Okay, so it didn’t help that his brother had thought the same thing about him. Turns out, they were both wrong. Their father, on the other hand, could account for at least two murders. Hunter didn’t want to think about the probability that there were more. He eyed Steve. The rat held the morsel of the sandwich in his front paws, nibbling at it delicately.

  “Such petite table manners, Steve. You know, I think folks underestimate you rats.” He shifted again, getting a little more comfortable in his stone-and-brick cell. He forced himself to relax. It was night. He wasn’t quite sure what time, but he could sense the sun had set. Over the last few weeks he’d gone dreamwalking. He’d learned quite a lot about his temperamental prison warden as she’d slept. He’d managed to crack the locks on some of the memories she’d tried to shield. She’d been happy, once. A red-haired sprite with a cheeky sense of humor. That had changed, though, the night her father had left. He’d played that one over a few times, just to try to understand it, but it was a garbled mess in there. Her emotions were too jumbled to get much of a read.

  Perhaps tonight he could find out why she hated the shadow breeds so much? If he could find that key, he could use it to his advantage.

  Closing his eyes, he regulated his breathing, allowing himself to slip into slumber, his consciousness drifting away from his body as he started his dreamwalk. It didn’t take long to find her subconscious—he’d made the trip enough times he could find her easily enough.

  * * *

  Melissa carefully picked her way down the steps into the grand ballroom. Oh, wow. She hadn’t been to a Reform society debutante ball since, well, since Theo. Couldn’t quite figure out why she was at one, now. Where was Theo? There was something bothering her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She tried to remember how this had come to be, but each time she tried to recall how she got here, her thoughts danced and flitted, and she couldn’t follow anything down to its source. She sighed. She felt like she should be worried, perhaps even alarmed, but even those thoughts zipped away, as though dancing with the wind.

  She glanced around the opulent ballroom. As a teen, she’d thought it was a romantic event, magical even—a sign of maturity and acceptance. Then she’d discovered what a tedious torture they were, with all the Scions of the Prime classes gathered in some sort of archaic custom of forging alliances among the Reform elite.

  She tripped, bracing a hand against a nearby wall to catch herself. She glanced down. What the...? She gaped. She was wearing an emerald green gown, with a strapless beaded bodice and flowing skirt. She couldn’t see her shoes, and her hair was such a heavy weight on her head, she didn’t want to bend over too much in case she overbalanced. But she could look down enough to see her outfit. She was wearing a bodice that seemed to cover only half her chest. Oh. My. God. She straightened to prevent displaying her full assets. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but the bodice support was gravity-defying.

  She fingered the satin of the skirt. It was quite simply the most beautiful thing she’d ever worn. And the most feminine. She wished Theo could see her in it. But he wouldn’t. Regret bloomed, stiff and uncomfortable. Why wouldn’t he? Again, the flutter of something at the edge of her consciousness teased her. She blinked, and her eyelashes brushed a solid edge. She raised her hands to touch her face. She was wearing a mask. She had no idea what it looked like, but she could feel the crystals on the surface. Her wrist caught her eye. Where was her tattoo? Two years ago her brother had etched it into her skin—painstakingly and way too gleefully, she’d thought at the time. But now, the inside skin of her wrist was smooth and unmarked. Confusion and concern for the missing mark teased at her, like the gossamer wings of a dragonfly, before fluttering away.

  She stepped farther into the ballroom, her gaze flickering from one elegant sight to the next. Waiters bearing crystal flutes filled with champagne—or blood for the vampires. Her lips tightened. She could see them, despite their masks, their alabaster skin a dead giveaway. The lycans, too, were easy to spot, with their longer, thicker hair, the rebellious attitude they all seemed born with—and their obvious antipathy toward the vamps.

  Her fingers curled as she raised them, and she startled when a waiter stepped in front of her, offering her a glass of blush pink champagne. She accepted it, sighing brusquely. Her mother would not like it if she used magic against a fellow Scion. It was encouraged for the offspring of the Prime leaders to get along—at least at the ball. She glanced around the room. An elegant cage full of monsters.

  “What are you looking for?” a deep voice murmured above her right ear. She managed not to flinch, although she couldn’t quite hide the shiver that tingled down her back at the low masculine voice so close to her ear, the whisper of breath across her collarbone.

  “An escape, perhaps?” she commented casually as she slowly turned, raising the glass of champagne to her lips. When she faced him, she forgot to drink.

  He was tall, his black jacket perfectly tailored for his broad shoulders and muscular arms. The dark vest he wore over the white dress shirt emphasized his narrow waist and lean hips, and the black bow tie highlighted the strong column of his throat. He looked like a tall drink of handsome, barely contained strength poured into a dark suit. The mask concealed the upper half of his face, but the strong jawline and sculpted lips she could see were tantalizing, attractive, with an inherent pout that was undeniably sexy—and frustratingly familiar. Recognition—just like the memories of how she wound up here tonight—dipped and danced out of reach. Her gaze lifted. His dark hair was cut short, but still long enough for her to play with—if she’d just reach up and...

  Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. If he was at the ball, he was a Scion. She didn’t play with Scions. That would delight her mother and she made a practice of not delighting her mother. She refused to participate in the woman’s political power plays.

  The dark eyes behind the mask turned assessing, and he tilted his head. “They all seem nice enough,” he commented, inclining his head to the crowd behind her.

  She stared at him. His skin was tanned, a healthy complexion that didn’t suit a vampire, and he didn’t give off a lycan vibe. She was curious, but that in itself was enough of a warning for her. She hadn’t been curious about a guy since Theo. Wasn’t ready to be curious about a guy. Not now, and hopefully not ever. She glanced around the room. Where was Theo? She wanted to go home.

  “It’s just not my kind of scene,” she murmured, and sipped from her glass.

  His gaze flicked to the open French doors and he smiled. “Then why don’t we change the scene?” he suggested, lifting his hand to indicate the terrace outside in a graceful gesture. For a moment she stared at his hand. Long fingers that looked courtly in their gesture, yet masculine, and a steady palm that showed a solid, stable strength. The hands of a musician with the strength of a warrior. The thought came out of nowhere, distracting and disturbing, and she shook it off. She was the Scion of the White Oak Coven; she could more than handle herself with any man in this room.

  She clutched her skirt, lifting it slightly to step outside without falling flat on her face. The night air was warm, with a slight breeze that was like a sensual trail of ethereal fingers across the skin. Her brows dipped. Surprisingly balmy for December—but Reform balls were always held in October. She was sure it was snowing outside...again, something fluttered in her mind, easily ignored. Small starbursts of color bloomed in the pots evenly spaced along the balustrade, white roses unfurling under the stars.

  She stepped out of the light of the doorway to face the stranger. “So tell me, which Prime family are you associated with?”

  He shrugged. “Does it matter?” He grinned, and she stared at the sexy tilt of his lips, the flash of white teeth. “Honestly, I never really got into these events. Always thought the
y were too pompous. Didn’t realize the company could be so beautiful.”

  Her cheeks warmed as his dark eyes flared with a heated appreciation that was hard to miss, despite the mask. An appreciation that was returned. Despite her champagne, her mouth felt dry, and something lazy and sensual uncurled deep within her.

  “So, you’re not really a fan, huh?” she whispered, intrigued someone else viewed the marriage mart and alliance negotiations with as much disdain as she did. Intrigued by a man who seemed neither vampire nor lycan—or any of the other shifter breeds.

  He took the glass from her hand and placed it on the ledge of the stone balustrade that bordered the terrace, his gaze dropping to focus on the cleavage revealed by her low-cut bodice. His lips curled higher, his gaze grew hotter and her heart thumped in her chest. “I could be changing my mind about that,” he whispered, raising his hands to cradle her face, turning her until the base of her spine pressed against the balustrade. Her heart thumped a little faster. She didn’t feel physically threatened, but something whispered to her, something full of warning and wickedness, and yet it didn’t frighten her. It excited her.

  His scent, something wicked and musky, with patchouli and a faint undertone of amber, enveloped her, entrancing her, and she slowly raised her hands to his broad shoulders—not sure yet whether she was pushing him away or drawing him closer.

  Then he lowered his lips to hers.

  * * *

  There was no soft teasing or gentle awakening, Melissa realized. His mouth demanded, and she delivered, parting her lips as his tongue swept in to rub against hers. His hands delved into the intricate curls on top of her head, angling her head so he could deepen the kiss. Over and over, his mouth moved against hers. Her pulse began to throb in her ears as a sensual warmth swept over her. He pressed against her, and she could feel the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in the biceps that bunched as he pulled her closer, ever closer. She moaned softly, tilting her head back as he explored her mouth, her heart thumping in her chest, her breasts swelling as arousal, hot and hungry, flared within her.

  He bent down, his hands sliding over the back of her skirts, and she felt the earth shift as he lifted her up and settled her on the balustrade. His lips left hers to trail a hot caress down the side of her neck, and moist heat gathered between her legs as she tried to wrap her thighs around his waist, the cumbersome skirts an aggravating barrier between their bodies. Cool air teased against the moist trail, and her nipples tightened at the sensation. He pressed his hips against hers, and damp heat flared between her thighs. She tilted her head back as he rubbed himself against her in a carnal dance that had her aching for more. Now.

  The erotic heat spread from her chest to her thighs, and she writhed against him, craving skin-on-skin contact and deliciously frustrated by their clothing. He nipped, his teeth sharp but delicate, causing the pinpricks of sensation to dart down to her nipples and farther. He licked his way across the swell of her breasts to the edge of her beaded bodice, hot licks that had her trembling, her breasts swelling even further at the attention. Desire, arousal, a deep yearning couched in hot hunger flooded through her, hot and demanding.

  Her eyes opened, and she glanced down as her nipples tightened, craving his touch—any touch. His dark hair was so stark against her pale skin, like some carnal demon having his wicked way with a virgin.

  She smiled. Only she wasn’t a virgin. Her hands slid to his hair and she tugged, tilting his head up and claiming his lips with a hunger that rivaled his. Their tongues tangled, dueling for domination. This...this was heady, wanton... She’d never felt this free, this shameless, with anyone. Not even Theo.

  Theo. The last time she’d been to a ball, she’d been with Theo.

  But this wasn’t Theo.

  She tore her mouth from his, panting as she stared at the handsome face, his lips wet from her kisses. She knew those lips.

  “No,” she gasped.

  Chapter 4

  Melissa jolted awake, her body tight with need, craving a satisfaction she’d just denied herself. She rolled over in her lonely bed, groaning with frustration.

  Her heart pounded, her nipples were tight and longing for the touch of a man’s hands and her thighs were damp. She sat up in bed, her eyes wide as her chest rose and fell with her pants. What. The. Hell?

  Realization dawned, and she dived out of the bed, stomping out of her bedroom and through her small apartment above the bookstore. That bastard. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but he’d taken one of her memories and twisted it. She remembered that night, damn it, and she sure as hell hadn’t been out on the balcony kissing an anonymous stranger. She flung her front door open, then slammed it shut behind her. That...jerk. The relief at realizing she wasn’t willingly fantasizing about her prisoner was quickly consumed by rage. She ran barefoot down the stairwell to the corridor that led to the external street access, her pink nightgown streaming, the silk unfurling in her wake as though caught in an invisible tempest. Two steps down the hall was the internal security door to her store. She didn’t bother to manually key in the code. She snapped her fingers. The door swung open. She stormed through her bookstore, disregarding the books flying off the shelves and falling to the floor behind her as her power raged around her. Anger poured through her, and she could feel her power building within her. She should scale it back, temper it a little, but she just wanted to let loose.

  She swept through the door at the back of the store, chanting as she scampered down the stairs. The door to her apothecary burst open before her and she stalked across the underground room. The cupboard hiding her fire hose reel caught her eye, and she halted, seething.

  Yep, this would do the trick. She yanked open the doors and pulled on the head of the hose, flicking the lever at the base of the hose reel. She turned to face the mural. A flick of her hand, a quick, fiercely muttered incantation, and she unlocked her wards. The painted door flung open. She didn’t stop for the torch. She climbed down the stairwell, tugging the hose along with her. The bare concrete floor felt cold beneath her feet, but she didn’t pause until she came up to the steel door. She used her power to slide the lock and thrust the door open. It made a resounding clang as it snapped back to the wall.

  Her prisoner jolted awake, blinking as he pushed himself up from the floor where he lay.

  “You need to cool down,” she snapped, and yanked the lever on the hose.

  Ice-cold water shot across the room, pummeling the man on the floor. He roared, trying to gain his feet, but she kept the hose trained on him. He slipped, tried to rise again, but the force of the water was too powerful, and he fell back against the wall.

  He bellowed as he tried to twist away from the high-pressure blast of water, but she didn’t give him any relief. After a long moment, she shut the hose off.

  “Stay the hell out of my head,” she yelled, and whirled around, the door slamming shut behind her, the lock sliding home.

  Anger was good. Anger she could hold on to, anger she could use. She pulled it around her like a cloak. Because if she didn’t have anger, all that would be left would be guilt at the fantasy that betrayed her fiancé’s memory, and the shame of betrayal, of giving in to temptation from one of them. She climbed the stairs and locked up, but paused when she entered the bookstore. It looked like a mini-tornado had whirled through, leaving devastation in its wake.

  Just like pyro jerk. That dream, that wicked kiss—that had devastated her. She had to get control. Of herself, of her powers...of her reaction to him. She would not give in.

  Sniffing, she knelt down to start picking up the scattered items throughout the store, restoring order to the shelves as she calmly restored order to her thoughts.

  * * *

  Hunter shook the water out of his eyes, then glared at the door as he leaned back against the wall. That cold shower had cooled his desire for
the damn woman. He made a fist and hit the floor beside him, and a spray of water hit him in the face. Damn it.

  Arousal, tight and unrelenting, gripped his cock, stirred his pulse. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t planned it. His lips tightened as he rubbed at the hard ache. That cold shower had been painful, like ice bullets against his ardor. He swore. He’d meant to lurk, that was all, let her lead the way. He’d sent her a subliminal suggestion. Why did she hate the shadow breeds?

  He hadn’t expected her to take him to a Reform society ball. He’d given her a gown straight out of his imagination, one that hugged that siren figure yet had hidden her secrets. Classical yet incredibly sexy. That had not been his intention. Usually he just contented himself with being a mere witness to memories—like the dreams he’d previously walked through as Melissa had slept. His father had often played with suggestion, as had Hunter when first learning his dreamwalking skill. But what had just happened—that wasn’t normal. He couldn’t tell if that scene on the balcony was driven by his subconscious or hers. Whose suppressed desire had shanghaied that dream? Goose bumps rose on his skin as the chill night air caressed the icy water that drenched him, leeching at his desire. She’d surprised him, though. When he’d asked her subconscious to reveal the source of her hatred for shadow breeds, she’d shown him a scene of society’s civility, and instead of following that clue, he’d been distracted. The muscles in his jaw felt so tight he had to consciously relax them. He wished he could blame it on the icy drenching, but he practiced deluding others, not himself. He was painfully horny, damn it. For the bitchy witch.

  He shook his head, droplets of water flicking off his head like a shaggy dog. A damn Reform ball.