by Lola Taylor
Or maybe it was because she’d had years of practice in honing her Asshole Meter, and it was going crazy right now.
That odd, motherly look had returned to Mistress Black’s face. On a whim, she sat on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on Verika’s leg. Verika jerked back, scooting as close to the headboard, and as far away from Mistress Black, as she could.
Mistress Black’s jaw ticked, her motherly warmth quickly fading to icy indifference. “He’s fine. Alive and well, as it were. I have not harmed him.”
“What about Rick? Did Rick harm him?” The thought made her blood boil, turned her vision to scarlet.
“As I said, Rick has been taken care of.” Irritation colored her voice, making it crisper. As if she were offended at being questioned. “And as I said, your mate is fine.”
“You’ll pardon me if I don’t take you at your word. Take me to him.”
Mistress Black stared at her a long while, sizing her up. “I am in control here. You may be my blood relation, but make no mistake—I will afford you no special treatment if you keep crossing me.”
In other words, Verika had better leash her quick tongue or face Mistress Black’s wrath. And she’d already seen what that could do.
A beat of silence passed before Mistress Black smiled. “All good? Then we are at an understanding.” She patted the bed and stood. “Come along.” She snapped her fingers.
Verika grated her teeth. What was she, a damn dog?
“You kept up your end of the bargain, so now I shall keep up mine. I am a woman of my word after all, something I pride myself on. Let’s go remove that nasty brand.” She took a few steps toward the door—and careened right into the wall.
Verika shot off the bed, not out of concern but out of curiosity. “Are you all right?” she asked with caution.
Mistress Black quickly straightened and smoothed her robe. Her breath had quickened, and her color had paled. “I’m fine,” she rasped, clearing her throat and flipping her hair over her shoulder. She marched out of the room without another word.
Verika, dressed in a simple black nightgown with a neckline that was much too low for her tastes and black slippers, followed behind her. It bothered her slightly that someone had changed her clothes, had seen everything she had to offer. But all things considered, she realized how ridiculous that worry was.
Here she was, in the clutches of a madwoman who would probably end up killing her and Elijah both by the end of the night.
Yeah, so not worrying about a clothing change. Especially when the gown was so pretty.
She glanced again at the door, eyes narrowing and mind spinning with excited thoughts.
All the shifting around, how she’d kept turning her back to Verika to look at herself in the mirror.
Had it not been an attention disorder but an attempt to cover up an illness?
Mistress Black had access to the best physicians in the world, or at least, Verika assumed she did. The woman clearly had an abundance of wealth. Plus, she was a powerful witch. Even Verika had often cured herself of everything from the common cold to the flu.
So what kind of virus or condition was so strong so as to weaken this very dominant woman?
More importantly, how could Verika exploit this weakness?
Elijah felt the chains first, felt their cold metal teeth digging into his flesh. A memory trickled into his sleep-addled brain, a distant thought of lonely, dark nights, of blood dripping from his lacerated flesh onto the dirty prison floor, of rats skittering about in the shadows, chittering excitedly. A woman, shadow and sin and every wicked thing of the earth incarnate, stepped forward. An ancient blade glinted in her hand, flashing red from the fresh blood coating its teeth.
His blood.
Fear throttled his heart rate.
It hit him like a bucket of ice water to the face, jolting him out of the magic-induced stupor Rick had put him in.
Gasping, wide-eyed, Elijah looked about.
No one’s there, he reassured himself. He was alone.
A second later, he realized how terribly wrong that statement was.
“Verika?” he called, his voice coarse.
He reached for her through their bond—only to find it muted.
His terror mounted. God, what had he done? What kind of a reckless mate was he, allowing his woman to gallivant headfirst into danger?
They never should have gone to the damn farmhouse. If he’d had an ounce of decency in him, he would have ignored her pleas to trust her, swept her up and taken her as far away from Mistress Black and magic and—and—
He growled, realizing how ridiculous that sounded. She never would have forgiven him, or trusted him ever again, if he’d done that. He wasn’t sure which was worse: allowing his mate to throw herself into danger on his behalf, or not trusting her to take care of herself and keeping her locked up for her own protection. Either way, he would have failed his mate.
He didn’t deserve her. If time had proved anything to him, it was that the people around him got hurt. He was a plague upon their happiness, a harbinger of death and destruction.
Gage, Alara, Nik, Danica…he’d been the reason his brothers had lost their mates. He had been the reason Mistress Black had become so keenly interested in them in the first place.
He’d practically shone a light on Verika, broadcasting, “Badass Black Witch here for the taking!”
Did he mention he was a shitty mate?
He had to get out of here, had to find Verika.
If she were still alive.
No, he firmly shut that fear down, trembling with barely contained rage and grief that vile thought brought. No, she was alive, dammit. She had to be; he surely would have felt her loss in the marrow of his soul. Or so the legends went. He’d never actually met anyone else who’d been mated before. And the whole bonding thing with his brothers so hadn’t happened, so it wasn’t as if he could find out from them in leisurely conversation. One mention of the word “mate,” and Nik would probably run him through with something sharp and pointy.
As the sleeping spell slowly drained from his mind, Elijah’s senses began to wake…sort of. His head throbbed and felt as if it were stuffed with cotton.
Damn that vampire-demon-whatever-the-hell-it-was.
He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the persistent pounding against his skull. Quit being a little bitch. Look around. Get a bearing on your surroundings, you pansy.
He did. Silver runes glinted off dank, stone walls alight with burning torches. Claw marks marred bars in front of him, as though a wild animal had attacked them. Two of the bars were bent outward slightly, directly in front of where he stood chained to the floor by big, medieval-looking manacles around his wrists and ankles.
He stared at those crooked bars, going still. His heartbeat seemed to reverberate in the icy silence. With knowing dread, he looked down at the manacle clamped around his right wrist.
Something was crudely scraped into the metal—EMJ.
Elijah Marshal Johnson.
He sucked in a breath. “That bitch,” he seethed.
Typical. Why not “welcome him home” by throwing him in the very cell she’d tortured him in so many times? Why not remind him of every terrible thing she’d done?
“Once a bitch, always a bitch,” he murmured.
He didn’t even bother looking for his initials on the other manacles; he knew they’d be there. It was one of the many horrific images burned into his memories. Mistress Black had thought it’d be hilarious to lovingly engrave his name on the manacles he so often frequented. She’d even used the blade she sliced him up with to do it.
His stomach rolled, and his throat grew tight as a wave of sickness rushed up. Swallowing it back down stubbornly, he took a few long, deep breaths.
The air tasted stale, and much too cold. Or maybe that was the fear pumping into his veins.
Get. A. Grip. He should print a T-shirt with that across the front, backward so he could read it
every time he had one of his “come off the ledge” pep talks with his reflection.
“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay,” he muttered over and over again.
The more he said it, and the deeper the realization of where he was sunk in, the faster his heart beat.
Way to go, champ. Freak yourself the hell out.
Shutting down that self-deprecating voice, he focused on his top priority—figuring out how to get the hell out of here. He fought to control his breathing as he moved his limbs. Pain lit up his wrists and ankles, as if metal barbs grated against his bones.
Well, that was something new. Apparently, Mistress Black had upgraded her hardware.
He almost welcomed the pain. It would keep him awake, keep him from second-guessing whether this was a dream or reality.
He wished he were dreaming. That this was one of the many nightmares he’d had starring Mistress Black. Because you could wake up from a dream. But reality…well, he’d almost prefer the nightmare.
Almost.
Footsteps approached. His head jerked up. A nerve pinched in his neck, causing his teeth to grit.
The hairs along the backs of his arms and neck stood on end a moment before the sharp tang of magic tainted the air.
His heart skipped a beat, thrumming faster and faster.
And nearly stopped when a woman with flaming-red hair stepped into the room.
“Verika,” he breathed. The air in his lungs rushed out in one loose breath.
The second their eyes met, they both stopped. Both their eyes scanned over the other’s body, searching for any sign of injury.
With a relieved sob, Verika ran forward, grabbed the bars. She pressed her face against the cold metal, and he met her for the kiss.
“I thought she’d done—I thought I’d never—” She hiccupped.
“Sssh.” He pressed his forehead against hers, her wide, frightened eyes still frantically scanning his face, as if she were unable to believe he was real. “She can’t kill me, remember? Not while I wear her mark.”
“A situation we’re about to rectify,” came a cool voice.
Elijah’s whole body seized up. It was like reliving every violent, awful thing that had ever been done to him. Her dark voice seemed to burrow under his skin, digging its claws into his fears and lacerating his courage in one vicious swipe.
Barely able to contain a tremble, he bit his lip.
A soft hand reached through the bars and grasped his arm.
He blinked. The warmth of his mate’s surety, the strength of her presence, snapped him out of his fears. And in looking into her eyes, at the courageous, pure soul within, he found the will to be brave.
He finally had a purpose, a calling stronger than all his fears combined. Protecting Verika—his lady, his love—was the only thing that mattered now. It was the only thing that would ever matter.
Mistress Black neared the bars. The orange glow of the torchlight cast her face in shadows and made her look the more sinister for it. Or maybe she just always looked that way. Yeah, she was beautiful. But after the things she’d done… Let’s just say Elijah had begun to see her in a new light, pun intended.
Mistress Black smiled. “Hello, my pet.”
He gave her a stony glare. Verika never stepped away. She gripped his arm, not in warning but for comfort.
“Not even deigning to speak to me, your master?” Mistress Black said archly.
“You’re not his master.”
They both looked at Verika, whose eyes had begun to glow faint gold. Her Change was near. It both excited and frightened Elijah. Excited him because he’d be able to take her on his moonlit runs. She’d be able to run through the night, feel the wind on her fur, the earth beneath her paws. It was extraordinary.
The fear came from knowing the Change would hurt like hell the first time. There was nothing to be done for it because it was going to happen one way or another. But as a wolf sworn to shelter his mate from all pain, it made his chest ache knowing he was powerless to ease her suffering.
Mistress Black stepped back, appraised her fellow witch. It was slight, but Elijah swore he sniffed a whiff of fear—from Mistress Black.
That fear quickly morphed into barely suppressed fury. “You dare challenge me?”
Verika swallowed hard, stepped forward to shield Elijah from view. His heart leapt to his throat. He grappled for her arm, trying to pull her back, but she shrugged him off. “I’m telling you I’ll do anything to protect my mate. And you’d do well to heed that.”
Mistress Black considered her a long moment, sizing her up while power crackled at her fingertips.
Panic started to set in. Elijah’s eyes flashed from woman to woman. He let out a protective snarl. “I swear, if you hurt her—”
“You’ll do what? You’re not exactly in a position to follow up on your threats.” Mistress Black cocked her head and looked at him with boredom. Her power flickered out, and in a blink the tension in the room was almost gone.
Almost.
Verika never budged as Mistress Black stared down Elijah. “The brand,” Verika said, drawing Mistress Black’s attention back to her. “You said you’d remove it.”
Those dark, soulless eyes stared at Elijah a moment longer before at last blinking and looking to Verika with—pride? Hunger? Either sent a chill down Elijah’s spine, and a possessive growl rumbled in his throat.
A slow, tight smile spread on Mistress Black’s lips. “So I did.” She snapped her fingers.
There was no warning before the pain hit him, an all-consuming inferno that set his brain, his body, his soul on fire. His back arched as the brand glowed brilliant red, him gritting his teeth to contain his screams so as not to frighten Verika further.
Verika kept hold of his arm as he thrashed, her expression strong even as horror and pain bloomed behind her eyes. The color began to leach from her skin.
The murmuring of an incantation rode the air between his agonized groans. Mistress Black stood with her arms crossed, watching him writhe with a satisfied smile.
There was the flash of silver, and then something sharp embedded itself into his arm.
“What are you doing?” Verika shrieked, making to remove the knife.
“Don’t!” Mistress Black snapped. “Unless you want to screw up the spell and have your mate branded to me for eternity!”
Verika promptly drew back, worrying her lip. Her eyes remained glued to the dagger.
The very same dagger Mistress Black had used to torture him with time and time again. The one she’d used to slice open his abdomen.
Elijah steeled his mind, closed his eyes, and fought against the trickle of fear that wriggled into his bloodstream.
He would not be afraid. He would not let this monster make him cower any longer.
He pictured Verika’s face in his mind, of the sun lighting up her hair like fire or how her smile always made him feel lighter. He dreamed of her gazing up at him, of the pride and love shining in her eyes, and marveling at how he’d never felt so cherished, so loved before.
He held onto that love, grasped it and used it to shield himself from the pain.
Something glowing slid down his arm; the brand had broken apart and was being sucked into the knife.
A sheen of sweat had broken out on Verika’s brow. Her knees started to cave, but she gripped the bars to keep herself upright.
That’s when it hit Elijah—she could feel his pain, too, through their bond.
“Stop,” Elijah rasped. “You’re hurting her.”
“I cannot stop,” Mistress Black said, her breathing shallow as she watched the blade absorb the brand. “An only partially removed brand is worse than a full one because the magic is broken. There’d be no telling what it would do to you—to all of us.”
Verika cried out and then bit her lip as her knees at last gave way, and she sank to the floor with a whimper. Her eyes squeezed shut, and a tremble wracked her body.
Elijah looked fran
tically between the blade and Verika. “Hurry up!” he barked through gritted teeth.
“Al…most… there… ah!” The knife absorbed the last of the brand, and the magical glow winked out in a blink. Mistress Black staggered away from the cell. She caught herself on the wall to keep from falling over.
Verika’s eyes snapped open, and she gasped for air, as did Elijah. He reached for her, damning the cage and the manacles for not allowing him to go to her. “Verika! Verika, look at me! Are you all right?”
“I’m—fine, just—stunned,” she said between coughs. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he breathed, chest heaving as the adrenaline faded away to exhaustion. He tried looking over his shoulder. “Is it gone?”
“Here, love.” Verika stumbled to her feet, ran to the bars, and peered at his back as he shifted so she could see. Her face lit up. “It’s gone! Elijah!”
She reached through the bars and grabbed his hands, squeezing hard.
You’re free, she said through their bond. We’re free.
Almost, he said back darkly. His eyes flicked to the woman lingering in the shadows.
Verika steeled her gaze and turned to face her. “Thank you. It means the world to us for you to do this.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a favor.” Mistress Black chuckled.
“Why am I not surprised?” Elijah said.
“You’re going to give me something I want in return.” Mistress Black pointed at Verika.
Verika tensed, as did Elijah. “I don’t know what you plan on doing with her,” Elijah seethed, “but whatever it is, you can forget it.”
Mistress Black smiled. The knife floated up and away from her hand before flying to Verika’s throat. Verika’s breath caught as the blade hovered over her flesh. All it would take to end her would be a flick of Mistress Black’s wrist…
