A witch’s spell...a warrior’s curse

If not for her protective wards, witch Melissa Carter would be dead at the hands of her enemy, shadow breed Hunter Galen. Now he’s her prisoner. Though she tortures the powerful warrior with spells, he torments her with dark fantasies, inciting a forbidden lust too strong to deny.

Hunter must escape to complete his mission—destroy his father, who vowed revenge on him and his beautiful captor. But a warrior mates for life and now Hunter must protect Melissa—his mortal enemy and unlikely love. Doing so means descending into the underground world of the Darkken, a place so evil they might not come out alive...

A fitting place for her prisoner.

She peered through the slot at him... and swallowed.

He was shirtless, his chest glistening, his muscles rippling from his broad shoulders to his ridged abdomen.

He shot her a sexy smile.

“Hello, sweetness.”

She forced an end to her stare. “Up against the wall.” She dragged the pulley of chains to pull his hands back against the wall. Only then did she approach. Pity. She’d fantasized of stepping too close, of him grabbing her... doing wicked things.

He tugged the chains. “Let me go, Melissa.”

Her glare morphed into a cool, brittle smile. “Oh, but, Hunter, we’re only just getting started.”

Her triumph was short-lived when his brutal gaze raked her from head to toe. “If you still want me around after five months, maybe it’s not revenge you’re after.”

SHANNON CURTIS grew up picnicking in graveyards (long story) and reading by torchlight, and has worked in various roles, such as office admin manager, logistics supervisor and betting agent, to mention a few. Her first love—after reading, and her husband—is writing, and she writes romantic suspense, paranormal and contemporary romance. From faeries to cowboys, military men to business tycoons, she loves crafting stories of thrills, chills, kills and kisses. She divides her time between being an office administrator for the Romance Writers of Australia and creating spellbinding tales of mischief, mayhem and the occasional murder. She lives in Sydney, Australia, with her best-friend husband, three children, a woolly dog and a very disdainful cat. Shannon can be found lurking on Twitter, @2BShannonCurtis, and Facebook or you can email her at contactme@shannoncurtis.com—she loves hearing from readers. Like... LOVES it. Disturbingly so.

Warrior Untamed

Shannon Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

He heard the grate of a key in a lock, followed by the creak and clang as the gate at the far end of the corridor was slowly opened. He kept his eyes closed, bending and working the blazing colors in his mind like a fiery kaleidoscope. The warmth and light in his mind kept the dark chill at bay, the cold stone against his back and beneath his buttocks a sensation he’d learned to ignore.

He heard the whispers, the rough slide of regulation boots on stone floor, felt the faint stir in the air currents as one—no, two people made their way toward his cell. It was her scent, though, that caught his attention. Something light, floral...he could almost sense the innocence, the naïveté—the gullibility. He resisted the urge to smile. No sense in giving anything away.

The peephole in his cell door slid open, the noise an annoying squeal in the silence of the tomb—for this was a tomb. There was no other word for it. It was where they hoped he’d spend the rest of his lifetime, and the next.

“What’s he doing?” He heard the woman whisper. He couldn’t tell much from the soft sound, but her scent was now stronger, laced with a tired curiosity. Like a wilted frangipani.

“Dunno. Meditating. Plotting. Maybe just losing his sanity. He’s like that all the time.” He knew that voice, had become quite practiced at ignoring it, but this morning—or was it evening—he decided to give it his attention.

“He doesn’t do anything else?” Her voice was raspy, as though even the question taxed her reserves. She sounded fatigued. Drained.

She didn’t know the meaning of that word. Drained. But she would.

“Nope. Pretty easy duty, I must admit.”

“Why is he locked all the way down here? There’s nobody else in this block.”

“The lights. There is no natural light in here, so it’s fluorescent lighting.”

He knew they couldn’t see the clenching of his shoulder muscles beneath the rough fabric of his prison uniform, but he still tried to mask it with a deep inhalation. He needed something to relax him whenever he thought of his current circumstances, the weakness that even now leeched the energy from his limbs. He needed light. Or something. And he wasn’t getting it down in the bowels of this prison, thanks largely to his sons.

White-hot rage welled inside him whenever he thought of their betrayal. Ryder, he could understand. That kid had always been ungrateful. But Hunter—his son’s betrayal stung the most. Hunter had worked diligently by his side for years, just like a sheep, following his every command. Until that last night... The cold kiss of fury snaked down his back. He hadn’t seen that betrayal coming. He’d always believed that if it came down to it, Hunter would choose his father over his brother, but his son had surprised him. Just like his mother.

He exhaled, expelling the tension. But he would have his due. The light, floral, stale scent of the prison guard teased his senses again. And soon.

“What do the lights have to do with anything?” he heard her whisper.

The rustle of fabric told him the guard was shrugging his shoulders. “Who the hell knows? We’re just here to make sure he rots where he sits. He organized the murder of an Alpha Prime. He deserves everything coming his way.”

There was a brief silence, and he found himself waiting for her response.

“I heard about that. He supposedly conspired with the Woodland Pack?”

“Yeah, with the Woodland Alpha Prime. But seeing as that was pack against pack, that case has been handed over to Alpine Pack under tribal jurisdiction.”

“Well, it was their Alpha Prime who was murdered. But wasn’t he murdered in some dentist’s chair? Why is this guy here?”

He took another slow breath in. She was asking questions. Good. She had doubts. He was going to exploit that, and he was going to enjoy it.

“This guy organized the poison to be delivered. The dentist knew nothing about it. Get this—the dentist was his son.”

His jaw muscles clenched. Well, Ryder had deserved it. Pulling away from the family like that, ignoring them. He’d ceased to be his son the day he started using his trust fund on his own practice—that would be in competition with the family’s medical center. Hell. What did Ryder think would happen, that he’d actually give his blessing? He almost shook his head in disbelief, but kept himself still. What Ryder had done, well, it was to be expected. Hunter, though—that stung. That really, really stung. He thought he’d raised him better than that.

“But why is he here? He hasn’t had a trial yet. I thought everyone was innocent until proven guilty?”

“Good grief, how long have you been working for Reform?” The male guard wheezed with laughter. “There’s no such thing as innocence here.”

“I just thought—”

“Don’t. Don’t think he can be saved, don’t think he’s decent and don’t pity the bastard. Just look in on him once in a while, make sure he hasn’t strung himself up with his bedsheets—or if he has, make sure he’s good and dead before you call anyone.”

There was a hesitation, then finally a sigh. “Sure. What else is there to do?”

“I’ll show you the break room. It’s going to be where you spend most of your time—the screen in there is awesome.”

He heard the snick as the peephole was closed, then the soft shuffle of footsteps until they reached the gate at the end of the corridor. It wasn’t until the gate had opened and closed, the keys had clinked as they turned in the lock and the scent had faded, that he let the sly smile lift his lips.

Arthur Armstrong opened his eyes slowly. They had no idea who they were dealing with.

Chapter 1

Melissa Carter tried to be patient. Really. But it wasn’t her strongest personality trait. Actually, most would argue she didn’t possess it at all. And she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in so long. “Anytime this century, Lexi.”

Lexi glanced up and frowned. “If I have to wear this day in, day out, then I need to make sure it’s right.”

Melissa pursed her lips but refrained from comment as she let the young woman scan her rings for the fourth time. It was fine. She could handle this without screaming. She could prove her mother wrong and be patient.

“And it has to be a ring? Not a necklace?” Lexi asked wistfully, eyeing an intricately woven Celtic knot pendant on a stand behind the counter.

Melissa kept her expression neutral as she heard that same question for the third time. She shook her head. “No. You’re likely to change a necklace depending on the outfit. Or it might get snagged—or yanked. A ring is more likely to stay on, and that’s what we want for you, Lexi. Something to stay with you.” Her irritation died as she remembered the reason for this, and she kept the sympathy out of her eyes, out of her voice. Lexi didn’t need sympathy. There were times when she thought Lexi needed a smack upside the head, but she’d leave that to Lexi’s older brother, Lance. For now, she just wanted to make Lexi safe, and if Lexi had come to her, it meant the young woman had come to the same realization—she was out of her depth and needed help. The fact she’d come to Melissa, well, perhaps that required some sympathy, but Melissa preferred action to the warm and fuzzies.

She leaned over the tray, and scanned through the silver jewelry. Usually she let the stones in the jewelry speak to her clients, and attract them on their own. But her bookstore was filling with customers, and Lexi suffered a lack of confidence—hence her current situation. She still couldn’t quite understand that one. Lexi was beautiful. Blonde, petite, the kind of woman guys wanted to do things for, like open doors and carry bags. She sighed. She couldn’t remember the last time someone offered to carry something for her. Oh, wait. Lexi’s brother, Lance, had—but he’d been carrying her supplies, and it had been his job, so that didn’t really count.

“How’s Lance doing?” She hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. She didn’t get along with a lot of people, but Lance was an exception. He was the only set of fangs she allowed in her zone, with a special dispensation built within her wards to give him access. He’d worked hard, never complained—a trait she admired in her staff—and had always been punctual. Not too chatty, but decent, in a rough kind of way. She didn’t make a habit of hiring ex-cons, but he’d been her exception. He’d needed a job, she’d needed someone to haul supplies—and his fangs were actually the good kind. Perfect. The fact they’d formed a strong friendship surprised them both—and probably everyone who knew her, considering her personality didn’t really lend itself to making a lot of friends. After what had happened with Theo, though...she blinked. Lance had gone above and beyond the duties of a friend, then.

“Haven’t heard from him in a while,” Lexi said, shrugging.

Melissa frowned. She knew the kind of trouble Lance chased. Admired him for it. “You’re not worried?”

Lexi looked up and blinked, her eyes taking on a blank glaze. “What? No. Everything is fine,” she said in a flat voice.

Melissa’s eyes narrowed. Ri-ight. Lexi definitely needed to get away from the compelling effects of her current boyfriend.

“What about this one?” She tapped at a delicate ring. Its band was intertwined silver strands, and the stone was speckled with green and black. “Green snakeskin jasper. It’s a protective stone, perfectly suited to what you need, and it matches your...” She flicked her gaze up to Lexi’s eyes. Oh. They were a deep blue. Melissa’s eyebrows dipped briefly. She’d never noticed that. Lexi’s brother had worked as a stock boy—okay, stock man—for her a few years ago, and his eyes were the darkest green, almost black. She’d never noticed the siblings didn’t share the same eye color. Her gaze drifted downward. “Scarf. They match your scarf.”

Lexi wore a bottle green-and-black scarf to go with the rest of her outfit. She frowned. “But that’s just today.”

“And you look fantastic, so it obviously agrees with you. With your coloring, this ring will either complement or present a tasteful contrast with any of your other outfits,” Melissa lied quickly.

Lexi looked at it doubtfully. “Really?”

Melissa nodded as she plucked the ring from the tray. “Yep. Trust me. Let me go enhance it for you.” She stepped into the back room behind the shop’s counter—it was basically the size of a broom closet. She placed the ring on the midnight blue swath of velvet that lay on a low shelf. She closed the door and pulled on the cord. Warm light bathed the tiny space, and she stood there for a moment. Shelves lined the space, and a sporadic collection of small bottles, vials and bowls were placed in order of need around the working space. These were only her more commonly used ingredients. Her lips pursed. Not as many as there should be, thanks to the pyro jerk who had torched her hidden apothecary below her bookstore.

She was slowly renovating the space, though. It was no secret she was a witch—a witch who sold spells, incantations and laced trinkets. Those customers who wanted more than books usually stepped below stairs...but she’d learned a hard lesson five months ago. Never trust a soul—no matter how innocent and tempting he looked. She’d lost so much...it was taking a lot longer to rebuild her valuable stock, damn it.

As tiny and as bare as this space was, it was fast becoming a haven for her. There were no requests from customers, no pleading and no demands for attention in here, just her and her magic. She eyed the ring briefly. Green snakeskin jasper guarded against negativity and could act as a shield against psychic attack, protecting the wearer against harmful or destructive temptations. Lexi had a vampire boyfriend, and Melissa could sense the compulsions at work on the young woman. The fact Lexi was still wearing a scarf inside her store didn’t escape her, either. It was cold outside, and dirty snow lined the gutters and sidewalks of Irondell as winter descended on the city, but inside the Better Read Than Dead Bookstore it was warm and cozy. Consciously or unconsciously, Lexi was hiding the bite marks and she needed a little help to withstand the mesmerizing coercions this man was exerting over her. If she didn’t resist soon, she’d end up a vamp slave... Melissa shuddered. It was one thing she couldn’t quite comprehend, those people who willingly surrendered their blood and actively sought to be bitten by the vamps, chasing one bite after another, after another. The life span of a vamp slave wasn’t long, for obvious reasons. Why Lexi was with a bloodsucker in the first place, Melissa couldn’t understand. But she could help.

She held both her hands over the ring, closed her eyes and drew on her magic. She could feel it rising to her fingertips like a warm bath of light, and she focused, chanting a protection spell to further imbue the natural qualities of the stone. She added in a little layer of confidence, as well. Lexi had to stop hanging out with the Mr. Wrongs, and start believing she was worthy of a Mr. Right—not that Melissa would ever have that kind of conversation with the woman. She soooo didn’t do warm and fuzzies.

Melissa opened her eyes, and the stone in the ring glowed briefly as the spell anchored, and then the magical light slowly banked. Melissa lifted the ring, feeling the warmth and weight of its new power. She smiled with satisfaction. The ring was constructed of silver—she’d like to see Mr. Wrong try to take this off his little blood bag.

She left the broom closet—no, Power Room. She frowned. She had to come up with a better name for it. Maybe the Dark Well of Influence? She wrinkled her nose. She’d keep working on it.

She smiled brightly at Lexi and handed her the ring. “Here you go.”

Lexi reached for it timidly, eyeing it before sliding it onto the middle finger of her right hand. She tilted her head, then her gaze flicked to Melissa across the counter.

“I don’t feel anything. Are you sure it’s working?”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “These things don’t come with a built-in electric shock, Lexi. Give it time. It will grow on you.”

Lexi sighed, then nodded. “Okay. I hope this works.” She dug her wallet out of her handbag. “How much?”

Melissa named her price, and Lexi’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh, cool, I thought it would be more.”

Normally it would, but Lexi was Lance’s sister. This was the least she could do for a friend. She didn’t have many friends.

Melissa met her gaze squarely. “Stay safe, Lexi.”

Lexi nodded, then fidgeted with her scarf. “You do like to crank the heat up in here, don’t you, Melissa?” She loosened the scarf, and Melissa could see the edge of a dark bruise, and the open, angry bite mark.

She reached beneath the counter. “Hey, try this.” She handed over a small tub of lotion. Lexi tilted her head as she read the label.

“What is it?”

“An all-over body moisturizer with a new scent I’ve been working on. This is a sample bottle. Let me know what you think.”

Lexi flipped the cap and sniffed the contents, then smiled. “Okay, thanks.” The young woman eyed her for a moment, and her brow dipped. “You look tired.”

Melissa winced. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously. You look tired, and you never look tired. What gives? Is your mom giving you grief?”

Melissa’s smile was brittle. It was no secret her mother always gave her grief. “I’m not sleeping well,” she admitted. She wasn’t in the habit of confiding with Lexi—with anyone, really, but maybe it was an indication of just how tired she was that she relaxed her usual guard with the petite blonde.

Lexi raised her eyebrows. “Is something troubling you? Bad dreams?”

That was an understatement. It was as though all her awful life moments were on auto-replay whenever she closed her eyes. Especially the day her mother told her she’d never let her daughter step in as Elder Prime... And the night her father walked out... She blinked. Yeah. Those weren’t dreams. They were nightmares. And she most definitely didn’t want to “share” those. Not with Lexi, not with anyone.

“I’m fine. I’ll just drink some chamomile tea tonight.”

Lexi shrugged, then placed her items in her tote bag. “Whatever. I have to hustle. I have a hot date tonight.”

Melissa smiled, mentally batting away a tiny green flame of envy that flared within her. One, she wasn’t interested in any dates, hot or otherwise, and two, Lexi was dating a shadow breed, for Pete’s sake. There was nothing worthy of envy there.

“Well, that moisturizer is guaranteed to make the night interesting,” she murmured, and Lexi laughed as she left the store. Melissa watched her briefly in the street. The young woman eyed up and down the street, then loosened the scarf some more so it fell open. A smile twitched at Melissa’s lips as Lexi strode down the street, a confident sway to her hips catching the eye of males passing by. The ring was working. Good.

She hoped Lexi would try that “moisturizer” as soon as she got home. It was a mix laced with lavender, chamomile and a heavy dose of verbena. No vampire would want to get near her if she slathered that toxic herb all over her.

Her watch beeped, and her smile fell. Great. Time to feed the pyro jerk. She beckoned Jenna, her assistant, over.

“Can you man the cash for me? I’m going to take a quick lunch break.”

Jenna nodded, stepping behind the counter.

Melissa grabbed the brown paper bag and a plastic bottle of water from the bottom shelf of the counter, and strode toward the door behind a stack of books at the back of her store. When she reached that last stack, she pulled her heavy keyring from the front pocket of her jeans, and sifted through them until she found the two keys for the double-lock system she’d asked her brother, Dave, to install on the door, and then pulled on the cord that lit the stairwell. She could use her magic to open the doors, but loved to hear the click and snick of the locks. She skipped lightly down the stairs and stopped to key in the code to unlock the next intricate lock system she’d installed on the second door.

The heavy steel door swung inward and muted lighting automatically switched on, illuminating the work areas, but leaving the rest of the area in soft shadows. She stepped inside the large room. Now it bore little resemblance to the scarred and ashen remains of five months before. They’d installed fire-retardant hardwood and plastic composite to limit the possibility of a fire occurring again. Like anything below surface, this place was off the plans, off-the-record—and not insured. She’d have her apothecary back soon, and then she’d be able to do more than just bespell jewelry and mix herbs into lotions and drinking drafts. She’d be able to do some considerable damage to the damned shadow breeds. Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped farther into her secret space.

It was the door she’d cleverly painted as an intricately carved tree trunk that she now made her way over to. This one had a series of locks, but was also warded, so she waved her hand to lift the spelled lock, then opened the door. She grabbed the large torch that she hung off a hook just behind the door, flicked it on and stepped carefully down into the dark void, her sneakers squeaking softly on the steep narrow metal steps that led down into the darkness. The light emitted was blue—something she knew her prisoner couldn’t draw on.

The air down here was dank and musty. She took a deep breath. Metal. Rust. Concrete. Stone. It wasn’t exactly a forgiving place, all hard surfaces and cold darkness. She thought of her prisoner, and her mouth firmed. A fitting place for the pyro jerk. Goose bumps rose on her arms as she located the trapdoor. That trapdoor was about three stories below street level, and she’d never ventured beyond it. She’d opened it once, hauled it up with the help of a crowbar. She’d been curious...but when she’d crouched at the lip of the hole, she’d paused. Listened.

Something had slithered in the darkness, something that breathed, and...waited. She’d leaned forward, and the shuffling noise sped up, grew louder, and she just managed to replace the lid—but not before she caught the glimpse of that pale hand with the elongated gray fingernails.

Even now, she shuddered at the memory. Creepy. She’d heard tales of Old Irondell—hell, every parent seemed to enjoy bouncing their child on their knee and freaking the crap out of them with the old stories—hers included.

But that’s what they were to most people—stories. Wicked, cautionary tales to make kids toe the line and not wander off.

Only, she knew they weren’t just stories. Old Irondell may be just a pale memory that was passed down, less and less, from one generation to the next. But there were some folks who still knew of the origins of the Reformation, of the time of The Troubles, when humanity discovered the existence of the shadow breeds: the vampires, werewolves, shifters and other creatures that were just plain weird, but who seemed to be on a mission to eat, or kill, or eat and kill any human they encountered. It had started a war that had lasted generations, until the time of Resolution, when all breeds gathered to negotiate a truce, which led to the Reformation, the redefining of territories and laws, and society itself. The homeless, the outcasts, those who didn’t “fit” into the normal, new Reform society had migrated to dwell below Irondell, away from the light. Away from Reform law. Nobody went into Old Irondell and came out unchanged.

If they ever returned. Most didn’t.

She didn’t need to go into Old Irondell. She had enough problems dealing with the shadow breeds above surface.

She turned back to the door, slid the peephole open and peered through the slot. There he was. Pyro jerk. That mean, homicidal son of a—oh. Wow. She swallowed.

He was doing a handstand. Correction, he was doing push-ups in a handstand position. He was shirtless and the jeans he wore were smeared with dirt, rust and grime. His chest glistened, his muscles rippling with each dip and raise, from the corded strength of his broad shoulders down to the ridged abdomen that showed the control and power of each move. His hair was long, touching the floor when he moved, and the beard that covered his jaw gave him a wild, untamed look. She’d made a point of providing her prisoner with a bucket of water every other day so he could wash, but she’d never seen him actually bathe, or sweat—or glisten. She swallowed again.

He pushed himself up, exhaling in a gust, then slowly lowered his feet to the ground with the grace of a gymnast. He rose from his position, his back to her, and he rolled his shoulders. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Sure, he’d been on a prison diet for the last five months, but still, he didn’t look like he was wasting away. No. He looked....healthy. Very...healthy. The chains that connected his wrists to the bolt in the wall clanked with his movements. She stared at that glorious wall of muscle, his figure an enticing V that narrowed into lean hips and a tight, tantalizing butt. He turned his head from side to side, as though stretching out some kinks, shook out those massive arms and then paused.

His head turned slowly to his right. He didn’t face her, but she could see the corner of his mouth lift up in a sexy little curl.

“Why, hello, Red.”

A sneaky, traitorous warmth flared inside her at his familiarity, quickly squashed by a wave of annoyance. No warmth for him, damn it.

Chapter 2

Hunter turned to face the door, refusing to let her presence bother him. She was right on time. He wasn’t sure if his captor’s punctuality was something he appreciated, or whether it irritated the hell out of him. It depended on his mood. He stood there for a moment, assessing his mood, and his stomach growled. Okay, so today it was appreciation. He was hungry, and she’d brought him food.

He raised his hands to his hips and tilted his head back to meet the green-eyed gaze of the witch behind the door. She stared at him for a moment, her gaze full of suspicion and wariness. He wasn’t going to try anything. He’d learned that lesson. Four times. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t try again, he just wasn’t feeling it today.

“Back up against the wall.” Her voice was low, husky and, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, the sound curled inside him, and he hated it as much as he enjoyed it. Five months he’d been trapped in this hole in the wall. Five lonely months. He’d never really been a social kind of guy, but after too many months of his own company, he was beginning to look forward to these too-brief moments of company with the bitchy witch. Crave it, even. Resented it, but craved it.

Yeah, he was a sick bastard. He backed up against the wall as instructed and folded his arms. If he didn’t threaten her, his cold little captor might stay longer.

The key clanked in the lock, and then the heavy steel door swung inward. She stepped into the room, and straightaway, he could smell her, feel her. Cinnamon and smoke. Lazy heat. He didn’t think the smoke could be blamed on him, though. He’d heard the sounds from above, the drilling, banging and clanging. They’d cleaned up that little mess he’d made. No, that scent of smoke was entirely of her own making. He was pretty sure his captor dabbled with fires of her own. As usual, she carried a torch. He hid a smile. She’d done her research. No candles, no flames, no access to sunlight, no fire of any kind...and blue light. But blue light was notoriously difficult to get hold of, so his captor had used a blue slide over the head of the torch. Sure the color of the light was blue, and gave an interesting hue to her skin, making her look otherworldly, but it was still light behind the shade. He could still use the feeble light of a torch to feed his power, if only a little. Yeah, they hadn’t put that little tidbit in the history books. It wasn’t the most efficient way for him to recharge—the light warriors had made sure to keep that one secret, too—but the glow from a torch did help. Each day, she fed him, both in food and energy.

Today she wore some sort of silky green top that flowed about her. It didn’t hug her form, but just hinted at the willowy, lithe frame beneath. Her jeans were tucked into leather boots. Boots with heels he knew from experience that hurt like the dickens if she kicked him.

She crossed to the pulley of chains that hung against the wall, set the brown paper bag and bottle of water on the floor and started to drag down on a length of chain. His jaw tightened as the iron chafed against his skin, and he could feel the sting as the cuff burned him. He thought he’d get used to it—especially with the efforts he’d put into those chains recently, but he hadn’t. Each contact of the metal with his body was like a hot poker to his skin.

Soon his right hand rose with each pull on the chain, and when she was satisfied with the position of his arm, she roped the chain around a hook on the wall. Then she started with the second chain. She did this every time, and he sighed. Damn her caution.

Of course, he’d given her good reason to exercise it whenever she was around him.

She left just enough give in the chain for him to have a limited range of movement with his left arm, then stooped to pick up the brown paper bag. He eyed the silky top as it gaped open with her movement, and he caught a glimpse of the creamy swell of her breasts, the scalloped pattern of black lace. He should be angry at himself. One, for being a pervert, and two, for spying on her. But, no. Five months. No sex. Angry wasn’t the right word for what he was feeling.

She opened the bag and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in plastic. She unwrapped it, then tossed it to him.

He caught it easily, eyeing the distance between them. She was just outside of his reach. Pity. He had fantasies of her stepping too close, of him stepping up and grabbing her, of him...doing wicked things. And then he’d call himself all sorts of a pathetic idiot for thinking anything remotely lustful about his captor and would replace those secret fantasies with something harsher, like forcing her to set him free.

He stared at her for a moment. She had red hair that looked like it had a life of its own, all vibrant curls and shiny locks, and green eyes that were a vivid spark of color, the pale complexion with a faint tinge of pink high on the cheeks was smooth and clear. The woman had the face of an angel, a body built for sin...and the ferocious temperament of a saltwater crocodile at sunset.

He looked down at the sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly. He was heartily sick of that combination, but damn it, he was also hungry. At least she gave him something more substantial in the evenings. Mostly. He tried to lower his other hand to hold the sandwich properly, but the chain clanked against the wall, and he hissed softly at the sting at his wrist. He covered the noise with a tight smile.

“Come on, Red,” he crooned. “How about loosening up the other one?”

She arched an eyebrow and stepped back. “You only need one hand to eat, jerk.”

His lips pulled up at the corners. And there it was, her regular endearment. He gestured toward her. “What, you’re not going to join me? We could swap sandwiches and bitch about our boyfriends.”

She would come, feed him, and when she was sure he’d eaten, she’d fetch him the bottle of water so he could wash it down. Before she left, she’d loosen the chains enough so that he had more slack in his restraints. Enough for him to make use of the crude seat fashioned on a stone ledge across the stone room he’d called home for way too long, and to walk a little around the room.

“Just eat.”

He should be thankful they were now on speaking terms. For the first two months of his captivity she’d treated him to a cold silence—and a blinding headache each time he tried to talk to her.

Or attack her.

He chewed on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then forced the food down his throat. “You know, one day we’ll have a proper meal together, Red. I’m thinking filet mignon and a glass of fine wine.”

“I’m thinking I’d rather hang myself up by hooks in my eyelids than spend one evening with you,” she said, folding her arms and leaning back against the stone wall. He watched as she crossed one long, slender leg over the other. Again, something curled inside him, something he resented, but couldn’t fight. Yeah. Five months, no sex. It screwed with your brain, making the most unsuitable woman seem compellingly attractive. Desirable. Sweet. He met those frosty green eyes again. Maybe not that sweet.

He needed to get out of here. He wanted to get back to work. Being alone with his thoughts was depressing. Too much time to think, to remember. To grieve...to regret. Ugh. He needed to work, otherwise he just sat here in this cold, dank little hole with only his memories and Steve to keep him company. At the thought of the rat he’d befriended, he broke off a portion of his sandwich and tucked it into his jeans pocket for later. She watched his movements, but just like every other day, didn’t query him. Probably thought he was squirreling away afternoon tea. He almost laughed at the suggestion of decorum and propriety in this misery. He took another bite of the sandwich, and chewed slowly, drawing their time together out. She glanced pointedly at her watch, and he grinned.

“If this cuts into your day, Red, you could always release me,” he suggested smoothly. “Just think—you wouldn’t have to spend so much of your culinary talents on me, such as they are. You wouldn’t have to stand and wait, watching me chew every bite...wouldn’t have to watch your back every second you’re down here. Set me free, Red.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired of this conversation?”

He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a conversationalist after being in the dark for so many months.”

Her gaze flicked around the cell. “You brought this on yourself.”

His gaze dropped. Yes, well, he couldn’t argue with that. “Why don’t we start over?” He smiled, calling on his customary charm he knew worked so well with the ladies.

Her eyes narrowed, and she straightened from the wall. “You tried to kill me. There’s no starting over.”

Except for this lady.

He sighed. “How long can you hold a grudge?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “Aren’t you bored with this yet? Isn’t it exhausting, keeping me fed and watered, dreaming up new tortures? All that effort...”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm, friendly smile, and she stepped closer. “Oh, I still post hate mail to my first ex. That’s since second grade.”

He eyed her. He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“Look, I’m sorry. How many times do I have to say it?”

“If you mean it, only once.” The remark was quietly spoken, and gave him pause. Her green gaze was blazingly direct. He ate the rest of his sandwich, forcing the gooey mess down his throat. Her gaze dipped to his throat, then lower, before it flickered away. Not quick enough that he didn’t notice it, though—or the faint bloom of color in her cheeks.

Interesting.

He lifted his hand to indicate the gloomy room. “Trust me, I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “Yeah. You’re sorry you’re stuck here. That’s what you’re sorry for.” She turned back to the door, halted, then faced him. “You tried to kill me,” she said, her voice low and shaking with anger.

He held up a finger. “No, I just wanted to destroy your shop,” he corrected her.

Her eyes rounded. “With me in it.”

He winced. “Yeah, well, that was my bad.” He did feel guilty over that. Just a little. Not that he’d let her know.

Her lips firmed, and he focused on her mouth, those full, pouty lips that were pressed together so tightly. “You torched my apothecary. Do you have any idea what you’ve cost me? Or my clients? I have had to turn away people in need because of you.”

He snorted. “Please. You create more damage than you know with your little witchy-woo spells and potions. I spend half my time cleaning up your messes.”

She tilted her head back, her vibrant red curls a blaze of color in the gloomy, torchlit cell. “Oh, that’s right. You’re their doctor.”

He’d have to be blind and deaf to miss her contempt, particularly when she talked about the shadow breeds like some stinky mess she’d stepped in and needed to wipe off her shoe. He smiled dryly. “I’m getting this vibe that you’re not really into the shadow breeds.”

Her smile was brittle and tight, and she stepped away from the wall, strolling slowly toward him. “Werewolves, vampires, shifters...your kind,” she said, casually lifting a hand to indicate him, “you all deserve to die.” She said it so matter-of-factly, he almost didn’t take offense. “You consume humans, with little or no regard for our lives. You all behave as though we are of no consequence, and yet you think the problem is ours when we arm ourselves against you.” She shook her head. “Hypocrite.”

His eyebrows rose. “I’m the hypocrite? You talk as though we’re the only ones capable of evil, yet you create the cruelest weapons for your precious humans to use against the breeds. Do you have any idea what your wolfsbane tisanes do to the intestines, to the stomach or throat? You think we are cruel, yet slipping a toxic corrosive to a living being is all in a day’s work for you.” As a shadow breed healer he’d seen the horrors humans had subjected the shadow breeds to, and had made it his mission to help them. “You’ve held me here for months, starving me of light. That’s the cruelest torture for one of my kind, yet you stand here and spout righteous indignation when you are guilty of doing the same yourself.”

“You are so deluded. You are here because you tried to incinerate me.”

“You’re fine,” he retorted. He still couldn’t figure out how that had happened. “I didn’t even singe you.”

“Only because I had defenses, not because that was your intention,” she snapped, stepping closer. This close, he could see the rosy bloom of anger high on her cheeks.

“And I’ve been paying for it ever since. Let me go. Let me get back to my life, to my work.” Hell, what had happened to his clinic in all this time? Had his brother, Ryder, stepped in? Or did it lie in ruins? Despite what everyone thought, he did care about the business, about what they did. Well, what he did. He had been surprised to discover what his father had been doing... His work was the only good thing about him. If he didn’t have his work, then he really was the selfish, destructive bastard everyone claimed him to be.

He’d be just like his father.

Damn it, he’d been confined in this prison for long enough.

First there’d been the spiders, then the rats. She’d even covered the floor with snakes once. Sure, it had been an illusion, a spell, but he’d still felt trapped, and the hallucinations had been terrifying.

Never piss off a witch.

“And you’ll be paying for it for a long time to come,” she said fiercely.

“If you hate me so much, why don’t you kill me?” he challenged her in frustration. “Just end this. Let me go, or kill me.”

Because if she didn’t, he’d go mad. He was sure of it.

“Come on, set me free. You can trust me. I’m a doctor.” He flashed her his most charming smile.

She rolled her eyes.

“Let me go, or end this,” he urged her.

Her gaze flickered, then she masked her expression behind a cool, brittle smile. “Oh, but we’re only just getting started.”

“Red, if you still want me around after five months, maybe it’s not revenge you’re after,” he said softly, suggestively. He knew he was poking the bear, but she started it.

“You think I won’t hurt you?” She shook her head as she stepped even closer, and he measured the decreasing distance between them.

“Oh, I think you could,” he said, leaning forward ever so slightly. “But I don’t think you’ll kill me.” The realization hit him like a spark of lightning, and he wondered why the hell he hadn’t figured that out much earlier. “You’ve had five months to do it—but you haven’t.” He tilted his head. “I wonder why not?”

Something flickered in her gaze, and her lips tightened. He’d hit a nerve. Triumph washed over him. God, he’d finally found a crack, a weakness. “You. Can’t. Kill me.” He drew the words out slowly. “Am I paying for your daddy issues, little girl?”

Her eyes narrowed, and that was all the warning he got—it was all the warning he needed. She swung at him. He caught her wrist, pulling her around with one hand as he yanked at the chain tethering his other.

There was a loud crack. Bricks crashed to the floor as the old pulley tore away from the ceiling, and then he had her back pressed up against him.

“Tut-tut, Red. You got too close.”

Chapter 3

Melissa didn’t quite know how he did it, but the bastard broke his chain. Just one, but it was enough to give him dangerous freedom. With one arm around her neck and the other wrapped around her waist and trapping her arms, he lifted her clear off the floor. She experienced a brief flare of panic. She tried to kick, tried to dig her heel into his instep, but he dodged her easily.

“Let’s end this now, Red. One way or another. Let me go, or I’ll snap your pretty little neck.”

“Let me go,” she gasped past the press of his arm against her throat.

“What? You don’t like to be held against your will? Try it for five months,” he muttered, his lips near her ear, then grunted as she lashed out with her foot. She made contact, but her kick had no force behind it.

The strength in his arms was frightening, yet he just held her. The breadth of his shoulders easily bracketed her own body, and she could feel his muscles bunch as he bore her weight. He could crush her. He could easily do as he threatened and snap her neck—but he didn’t. He held her. Then he did something that shocked her.

He leaned forward and rubbed his chin against her neck. His beard brushed against her sensitive skin, at once soft yet prickly, and the rough sensation set her trembling. “Come on, Red. You know you don’t hate me.”

Her breath hitched, and her nipples peaked at the tingles that spread down her neck, bringing a warm flush along with it. His naked chest was a wall of heat against her back, and his hips cradled her butt. Awareness, sharp and consuming, swept over her. She could feel him against her, every ridge of muscle against her back, the strength of his thighs and something that throbbed and moved against her, which created an answering pulse deep in her core. Her breasts swelled. No. She wasn’t—she couldn’t—no.

She stiffened in his arms. “No, I loathe you,” she said through gritted teeth. She twisted her wrist until her palm could make contact with his muscular forearm, and she latched on, pouring every inch of her resentment into that contact. She whispered a spell. Heat seared between them, and she tightened her grip. He grunted. Hissed. His arm moved slightly, and she managed to move her other arm until her hand could press against the outside of his thigh, and she clutched him, focusing her power on those two points of contact. The heat increased. She could feel his skin blistering under her hand, smell the fabric of his jeans burning.

His breath hitched, then he let her go, pushing her away. She whirled, hands raised, and an invisible force threw him against the wall behind him, holding him against the brick surface.

“Argh!” He tried to pull away, tried to reach for her, and she curled her fingers until he threw his head back in pain. “Stop it!”

She’d captured him initially with the help of her brother—and that was only after Hunter had exhausted himself in a battle first against his brother, and then his Warrior Prime of a father. Keeping the pyro jerk imprisoned on her own was proving a challenge. If it wasn’t for the iron cuffs he wore that bound his light warrior magic, he would have already overpowered her.

Melissa retreated and didn’t let up on the force she was directing against him until she reached the door. She clenched her hands and shoved her fists in a downward motion, and her prisoner collapsed to the floor. He moaned as he clasped his head, curling up into the fetal position, and she stormed out into the tunnel. With a flick of her fingers, the door slammed behind her, the lock sliding home. She strode up the corridor, fuming.

She’d gotten too close. She should have known better. He was like a viper, waiting for you to get within striking distance. Five months ago she’d been tempted by him, by his devilish smile and wicked brown-eyed gaze when he’d walked into her store. He’d been so confident, so darn cocky, saying he’d heard she was the best witch in Irondell with the best supplies, best spells, best concoctions—and the best strain of wolfsbane, and she’d swallowed his flattery, hook, line and sinker. She’d taken him into her apothecary, just like he’d taken her in with his false compliments.

She’d been thinking how gorgeous he was, and was even returning the flirty banter as she’d opened up her order book. Then her world had exploded. Fire, heat, and those brown eyes shot with burning flecks of red amber as he’d cast his flames throughout her little store. Then he’d backed out and closed the door, closing her inside her inferno.

He’d used her. She’d found out later he’d been trying to turn to ash any evidence of his brother’s involvement in a murder. He’d smiled at her. Teased her. Tempted her.

Torched her.

She pulled herself up the steep staircase that led back to her apothecary, trying to shoot strength into her shaking arms. That comment, though...the one about her father...that was—weird. For the past few weeks she’d been dreaming of the night he’d left—and other nightmares. She hesitated. Could he...? She shook her head. She didn’t know that anyone could do that. She closed the door behind her, engaging all the locks and wards, and then sagged against its surface, craving the unmovable support.

Tears burned beneath her eyelids. For a moment, ever so brief...she shook her head. No. Not that guy. Not ever.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a woman’s voice murmured from the gloom.

Melissa startled, then peered across the room. A figure moved away from the wall, stepping into the soft pool of light. Melissa closed her eyes briefly. She wasn’t in the mood for this.

“Mother,” she greeted the woman with resignation. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how your...” Her mother hesitated briefly, then continued “...project was coming along.”

For a moment, Melissa thought her mother was talking about the renovation. Then almost laughed. Right. The last time her mother had shown any interest in her life was five months ago, when they’d had a terrible argument.

Over the pyro jerk downstairs.

“Well, as you can see, the apothecary is coming along nicely,” Melissa said, deliberately taking the obvious direction for conversation.

Her mother’s green eyes flared briefly. “I meant our little light warrior,” her mother stated succinctly, folding her arms.

Melissa glared at her. “He’s not our little light warrior, Mother. He’s mine.” She frowned at the possessive phrasing, realizing it probably sounded completely different than the way she intended. “And he’s not so little.”

She closed her eyes. And yep, that could be taken out of context, too. Her heart still pumped at being held against that large body, so much stronger than her own. She told herself the elevated heart rate, the sensitive...she folded her arms over her chest. Adrenaline. That’s all it was, adrenaline.

“Please tell me he’s still alive,” Eleanor Carter didn’t bother to hide her exasperation.

Melissa faced her mother reluctantly. “What if he’s not, Mother? What if he’s dead? How would that make you feel?”

“Do not play with me, Melissa,” Eleanor snapped. “He is a light warrior, for heaven’s sake. Do you know how rare that is?”

“With the way they make enemies? Trust me, Mother, it’s as much a surprise to me as it is to you this one has survived as long as he has.” She walked across the room to the door and the stairwell that would lead to her shop.

“He would make a useful ally, Melissa. He’s in our debt. Use it to your advantage—and for God’s sake, don’t screw it up,” her mother ordered as she followed closely. “You know we have to nurture this relationship.”

Melissa halted at the door. “That is so ironic—you talking about nurturing.” She bit off a brittle laugh.

“Melissa! You never stand back to look at the big picture. He is valuable.”

Melissa whirled. “What about me, Mother? What value do you have for me?” Anger flared to encapsulate her hurt. “He tried to kill me, Mother, and all you can talk about is creating an alliance with the pyromaniac psychopath. What about me? Don’t I matter in this? Why aren’t you angry that he tried to kill your daughter? And if not your daughter, at the very least one of your coven. Why aren’t you knocking down that door to tear his heart out?” Why won’t you fight for me? She turned and stomped up the stairs.

The door at the head of the stairs slammed shut, and Melissa halted, pursing her lips. This is how her mother had dealt with conversations when she was a teen, for Pete’s sake. She turned around to face her mother, arms folded.

Eleanor Carter slowly walked up the stairs until they were on the same tread and they could meet each other’s gaze on an equal level. “Do not lecture me on defending my coven, Melissa,” her mother stated in a cold tone, and Melissa realized she was no longer talking to her parent. “You may be my daughter and a Coven Scion, but you are still only a second-degree witch, and I am your Elder Prime. Do not presume to discipline me on coven matters.” Eleanor lifted her chin. “You are popular with the humans, and you are gifted, but you still behave like a liability, whereas that light warrior is an asset. That is why I’m not tearing his heart out.”

Eleanor flicked her fingers, and the door opened. She walked into the bookstore, chin up and shoulders back, looking every inch the coven regent she was. Melissa stayed in the stairwell for a moment, blinking back the burn. God, she was so pathetic, always hoping her mother would for once put her daughter before her coven.

Should have known better.

She stomped up the steps and slammed the door shut behind her, closing off all thoughts of the “asset” downstairs, and the humiliating pain that her mother valued the man who’d tried to kill her more than her own daughter.

* * *

Hunter held out the remains of his sandwich to the rat. “You better fill up while you can, Steve. Might be a while before we get another feed.”

He winced as he shuffled back against the wall. His body ached. Everywhere. His burns were almost healed, though. It had taken him a few hours longer than usual to mend—a sign of his low reserves. He grimaced. “Mental note—knock her out, next time. She hits like a...witch.” He tilted his head back against the brick behind him. She hadn’t brought down the evening meal. He supposed he deserved that. He hadn’t intended to start anything with her today. It had just...happened.

He frowned. Things just happened a lot around him. She’d been right. Her surviving their meeting in her apothecary was purely based on her luck, not his design. He’d had one thought—protect his brother. He hadn’t spared the witch any consideration when he’d obliterated all records of her orders.

He and Ryder hadn’t been on speaking terms when Jared Gray, Alpha Prime to the Alpine Pack, had died in his brother’s surgery, poisoned by wolfsbane. His first instinct was to slap some sense into his brother for committing a crime that could be so easily traced back to him. His second instinct was to hide any evidence connected to the case. If they couldn’t prove his guilt, they couldn’t convict his brother.

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 they 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.

He’d heard all about them, but had never attended one. He should have—he was the eldest son of a Warrior Prime, and the ball was a social event to gather all the Scions of each Prime family in one spot, as a celebration of Reformation Day. It was also where connections were made, alliances were forged and some strategic pairings were made among the sons and daughters of the Primes. As a Warrior Scion, he had a right to attend. As a light warrior, a shadow breed that kept its very existence secret, though, there was no way his family would ever participate in such an event.

They had other ways of making alliances and wielding power, and it was far more delicate and discreet than the obnoxious gatherings of the Reform elite.

He rubbed his bare arms. He was chilled now. His lips curled. And yet, he was also energized. Strange. Usually when he dreamwalked, it was to find out secrets and implant suggestions, or fake memories—even make people forget... He’d never once thought to use it to entice, to seduce. Light warriors drew energy and power from all sources of light, except for created fluorescence. They were also able to pull power from sexual energy and emotions. He’d always believed there needed to be a physical proximity for that to work, though, not something that could be accomplished through an unconscious connection. Apparently he was wrong.

He’d connected with the witch, and with just one dreamy kiss she’d revitalized some of his stores. Totally worth a cold shower. He idly wondered what a real kiss with the woman would be like, then shook his head. He didn’t think her reaction would stop at just an uncomfortable, near-Arctic dousing.

* * *

Two days later, Melissa stared at her pale features in the mirror of the store’s bathroom. She pinched her cheeks, blinking her eyes open wide as she tried to wake up. She glanced at her watch. One hour. One hour before she could close the shop. Part of her wanted to curl up under the counter and sleep for a hundred years. Another part of her wanted to inject caffeine and never close her eyes again.

She was going to kill him. Sure, her mother would be disappointed, but she’d be able to sleep, damn it. He was tormenting her, and no matter what spell she conjured up, he managed to get past her defenses and dance through her dreamscapes.

She turned the tap and splashed cold water on her face. Last night had been bad. Over and over again, she’d relived the night her father had left. She eyed herself in the mirror, the haunted memories surfacing so easily now, as though her mind no longer obeyed her command to bury it.

She and her brother, Dave, had crept out from their rooms, eyeing each other warily in the darkened upstairs hallway as their parents had argued downstairs. It was the eve of Melissa’s sixteenth birthday, when she would graduate from adolescent to Initiate and attend her first Reform ball.

“She’s too young, Eleanor, and you know it.”

“She’s the Daughter-Scion, Phillip, and she has to start behaving like one.”

“She’s sixteen. She’s our daughter. You can’t marry her off, not yet.”

“She doesn’t have the luxury of just being our daughter, and you know it. We have to form that alliance. I don’t want to be at the mercy of the Armstrongs, or the Marchettas, or any other Reform family. We need to ensure our witches have strong representation within the Senate, and this merger will ensure that. You know we can’t use David, but we can at least use Melissa as an asset.”

David pulled her away from the banister and tried to drag her back into her bedroom, but she shook her brother off, her blood chilling at the argument downstairs as she returned to the railing. An asset? That’s how her mother saw her?

Their parents were in the living room, oblivious to the listening ears upstairs.

“Why the Hawthorns?” Her father’s question was laced with frustration and exasperation.

Melissa’s eyes rounded, and she glanced up at her brother. The Hawthorns? They were known to dabble in blood magic. Hadn’t one of their ancestors given in to the blood-craze? She shook her head. No, surely not. Surely her mother wouldn’t ally the House of White Oak with the House of Hawthorn...she turned toward the head of the stairs, but Dave yanked her back, lifting his finger to his lips in caution.

“The Hawthorns are strong, Phillip, and because of their—proclivities—they count some vampire colonies among their allies.” Her mother’s answer was haughty, as though offended she had to explain herself.

“Do you hear yourself? Vampires? We don’t want to align with the bloodsuckers, Eleanor.”

“Why? Are you afraid of them?”

Melissa frowned at the blatant scorn in her mother’s tone.

“I am wary of them. I don’t trust them, and neither should you. Anyone slave to the blood thirst will always be an enemy to the humans and witches, Eleanor, and you know it.”

“Well, I’m not scared of them, Phillip. It’s done. I’ve already discussed it with Marcus Hawthorn. He is willing to formally introduce his son to Melissa at the ball tomorrow night.”

“So, you’ve gone ahead and done it without discussing it with me.” Her father’s tone brought tears to Melissa’s eyes. It was so brittle, so cold.

“I do not need, nor seek, your permission, Phillip. I am the Coven Elder, and in this my authority is absolute. Deal with it.”

“I won’t stand for this, Eleanor.”

Her mother laughed, a cold little tinkle that sounded like broken glass cascading over stone. “There is nothing you can do, Phillip. It’s already arranged.”

“I won’t stand by your side and watch this. You’ve gone too far—you should have discussed this with me. We could have come up with an alternative.”

“You’re my Consort, Phillip, not my confidant.”

Melissa flinched at the sound of breaking glass, and then her father stormed out of the living room and into the front foyer.

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore, Eleanor. I’m renouncing this farce of a marriage. Do as you will—you always have.” He gave a sharp, cruel bark of laughter. “You’re so worried about your standing among the society, I’m almost interested to see the spin you’ll put on that, but I find I really couldn’t care less.”

Her father yanked his coat down from the hook behind the door. Melissa broke away from David, tears streaming down her face as she started to walk down the stairs.

“Daddy, please don’t go.”

Phillip Carter turned around, and she could see his struggle to contain his anger in front of his children. Finally, he smiled sadly and shrugged as she approached him. “Sorry, poppet. I just can’t do this anymore.”

He gave her a hug, then gazed up at David. Father and son looked at each other for a long moment, and then Phillip finally nodded, as though there was some meaningful, silent exchange.

And then her father left.

When Melissa turned away from the open front door, she saw him, a shadow in the corner of the foyer, his brown eyes watching the scene intently. He hadn’t been there at the time, but he was there, inside her memory, replaying it for her again and again. There was something predatory about his gaze that suggested his name was more than just something handed down to him at birth, but more a characteristic of his personality.

Damn pyro jerk. Just for that, she’d cast an elemental spell and had made it snow in his cell for the rest of the night. He was still shivering when she’d tossed him his sandwich at lunchtime.

Melissa looked away from the mirror and grabbed the hand towel hanging from a loop attached to the wall. She dabbed her face dry, her teeth clenched, that last image of her father storming off into the night haunting her. Neither she nor Dave had seen him since. She wasn’t going to cry. Not again. She’d wasted too many tears, remembering that night.

She fluffed her hair, pasted a fake smile on her face, then turned to the door that led out to her store. She had a client coming in to pick up a hex pouch, and another one due for an extremely diluted solution of wolfsbane. It wasn’t enough to kill a lycan, but it was enough to make the man’s abusive werewolf wife feel poorly enough to leave him alone.

Her hand rested on the doorknob. That night memories of her father weren’t the only dreams she was having. She frowned. She’d have to do something about her prisoner. She didn’t want these dreams, didn’t want these painful memories resurfacing at his whim, not hers. She didn’t think she could let him go, though. Who knew what chaos he would wreak on the unsuspecting and vulnerable if let out. He showed no real remorse for his actions, no consideration for others, but continued to push his own agenda. She wasn’t allowed to kill him, but she had wanted to teach him a lesson. Her shoulders sagged. Perhaps he was unredeemable.

Right now, though, she was too tired to care.

Straightening her shoulders, she swept into her store, a fake smile on her face as she greeted her customers.

A while later, after the two customers had left, she was almost deliriously happy to shut her front door, swinging the sign to Closed. She switched the light off over the display window and rubbed the back of her neck as she walked down the aisle toward the internal door that opened near the stairs that led to her apartment.

A furious tapping on the door at the front of the store had her turning, her brows dipping as the tapping became thumping. She walked back toward the store entrance, then started running when she caught a good look at one person propped up against her store window and another person struggling to keep him up. Melissa unlocked the door, and Lexi sobbed, nearly hysterical as she draped her brother’s arm over her shoulders.

“Please, Melissa. We need your help. Lance is hurt—bad.”

Chapter 5

Hunter hugged himself. The snow flurries had melted within his cell, but there was still a leftover chill from the witch’s retaliatory snowstorm. How apt that she took an icy approach. She probably thought he’d been replaying that particular memory out of spite, but he wasn’t.

Okay, so maybe there was a tiny bit of spite in there, but he’d really wanted to find out more about his captor. She’d been so young in that memory, not even an Initiate—untried and untested with her powers. He’d seen her hurt flare when her mother discussed her as no more than a resource for the coven, sensed her fear and anxiety at being married off, seen her blanch at the mention of the Hawthorns. The White Oak Coven... He racked his brain, trying to remember what he knew of the family. He knew of no current alliance between the Hawthorns and the White Oaks, and managing and orchestrating alliances and enmities were part of a light warrior’s toolbox, as his manipulative father had taught him. Arthur Armstrong had made it his business to understand, and even to influence, the partnerships and negotiations within Reform society.

When he saw Melissa’s dream of the ball, though, she’d been close enough to her current age—definitely an adult, and not some sixteen-year-old on her first introduction into Reform society. What had happened with the Hawthorns? He knew enough of Eleanor Carter’s reputation to know the Coven Elder was politically savvy and extremely powerful. What had happened to Melissa’s arranged marriage? It was an archaic custom, and one that couldn’t be enforced. If the Scion didn’t wish to be married off, there were opportunities to withdraw without causing insult, but he couldn’t remember hearing of anything involving the White Oak Coven. Hell. It wasn’t like Melissa was the kind of woman who could be discreet and diplomatic in that kind of situation, so surely he would have heard of some shock or scandal...?

Every time he learned something of his captor, it just raised more questions. Not that a broken engagement was any help to him getting out of his prison... He was just...curious.

He settled himself back against the wall. She was tired. His dreamwalking was disturbing her sleep. He regretted that. Her face had been pale and drawn when he’d caught a brief glimpse of her as she’d tossed him his lunch. If she wasn’t craving a nap, she’d be going to bed early tonight. He frowned. Goose bumps rose on his arms. He realized there was a chill in the air, but he also knew excitement when he felt it—and he was strangely excited by the prospect of seeing her in her dreams. She was unguarded there, and hadn’t quite figured out how to block him, yet—although he’d had to exercise more effort last night, so she was getting there. He saw her in all her vulnerable, awkward and naive glory. So far, though, he still couldn’t understand why she was such a hard-ass when it came to the shadow breeds. To be fair, he’d behaved badly toward her, and all thoughts of protecting his brother aside, he should have factored her into his firestorm, and was ashamed he hadn’t. She had a right to be angry with him, but he sensed there was more to the anger than just him nearly killing her—although some might think that was enough of a reason.

No, he sensed there was more behind that anger, a bitter sense of betrayal he just didn’t understand—and now he couldn’t use it to get the hell out of here.

He closed his eyes. She might be avoiding him, tossing him his food from the door, and not speaking to him at all, but she couldn’t avoid him in her unconsciousness—and he’d be ready and waiting for her tonight.

* * *

Melissa grimaced as she and Lexi struggled to carry Lance’s massive form over to the bed in her spare bedroom. It had been quite the challenge for both her and Lexi to get him up the stairs from the bookstore in his semiconscious state, but she had no place to lie him down in the store.

God, the blood. There was so much blood. Lance’s complexion was almost gray, and his eyelids kept fluttering, as though he was struggling against a tide of unconsciousness that threatened to claim him.

“I haven’t seen him in ages, and for some reason, I just felt this need to touch base with him,” Lexi said between ragged breaths, her words stumbling over each other. “I found him like this—” Lexi shook her head, unable to continue.

“Get his legs up,” Melissa instructed as she lowered him onto the bed. She glanced at the young woman. Apparently the ring was doing its job. “There are towels in the bathroom and a bucket under the sink. Fill it up with water—don’t worry, it’s clean, and then bring it all in here.”

Lexi’s hands were shaking as she hoisted her brother’s feet up onto the bed, and Melissa touched her shoulder. The young woman turned to her, her blue eyes glistening with tears and bright with fear.

“It’s okay, Lexi. You did good, bringing him here. How did it happen?”

Lexi shrugged. “I don’t know. I was on the way to his place, and found him in the park down on Addison Road. You were the first person I thought of for help.”

Melissa patted her shoulder reassuringly. “He’ll be fine.”

Lexi nodded, took a deep breath, then hurried to the bathroom down the hall.

Melissa opened Lance’s leather jacket and sucked in her breath. His shirtfront was dark and shiny with blood, so much that she couldn’t rip the damp material, and had to slide the buttons out of holes to peel back the fabric. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as though he couldn’t quite fill his lungs, and his body was bathed in a cool perspiration.

She gently rolled him onto his side, wincing as he groaned. There was blood on his back, as well.

Her mouth dried when she saw the extent of his injuries, and her gaze flicked up to Lance’s face. He stared at her, his green eyes dull with pain and sadness, a weary acceptance stamped on his features.

“It’s fine, Mel. I know.”

Melissa shook her head, blinking back the tears. “Don’t say that, Lance. You’re going to be fine. We’ll fix you.” This man had worked quietly and diligently in her store, had listened to her rants about her mother, had gotten drunk with her and her brother on the odd occasion, and had been there when Theo had died in a way no other could have been. “You’re going to be fine,” she repeated in a whisper, gazing at the cuts on his chest, and the hole that looked too close to his heart.

It took an effort, but Lance covered her hand with his bloodstained fingers, and she flinched at the cool touch. “I’ve been shot, Mel. I’m dying. You can’t fix this.”

Lexi entered the room with a bucket of water and towels, and Melissa lifted her chin toward the bedside table. “Good woman. Now, there is a cupboard at the end of the hall, with a basket on the bottom shelf. Go get it for me quickly.” Lexi jogged out of the room, and Melissa turned to her friend.

“Who did this to you, Lance? Who did this?” She hissed the words at him softly, conscious of Lexi just down the hall.

Lance smiled weakly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Melissa’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, it does, because we are going to deliver a whole world of hurt on them.” She dipped a hand towel into the bucket, squeezed it, then started to clean his chest. She needed to see exactly what she was dealing with here.

Lance’s smile fell, and he shook his head, just once. “No, stay out of it, Mel. Look after Lexi for me.”

Her gaze flicked up to meet his. She wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready to say goodbye to one of her best friends, wasn’t ready to take on his burdens. “Oh, no you don’t,” she whispered harshly. “You don’t get to dump that high-maintenance chick on me. You can clean up her messes.” She wiped away most of the blood, although it still pulsed, slowly, from some of his wounds, so red—unnaturally so. The lacerations were deep, but it was the hole near his heart that most concerned her. A bullet wound, through and through, with an exit wound in his back. Lance was a dhampir, with a metabolism that aided self-healing, but the fact that he was healing so slowly suggested he was, indeed, gravely injured.

She brushed his dark blond hair back from his forehead. “But for now, you need to sleep.” She whispered a sleep spell, and his eyelids drifted shut, his dark lashes forming crescents against his cheeks.

Lexi ran back into the room, and halted when she saw her brother. “Oh, God, is he—?”

“No, he isn’t, and he won’t, not if I’ve got anything to do with it.” She took the basket from Lexi and opened it up. Inside were her essentials—her emergency magic kit. This wasn’t the first time an injured person was brought to her. “Round up as many candles as you can and bring them here. You’ll find them everywhere throughout the apartment.”

Elements helped her focus her magic, and as she wasn’t near a watercourse or a garden, and she didn’t want to subject Lance to a gale, not in his state, then fire was her go-to element.

She worked quietly, cutting Lance’s bloodstained clothing away from his body, and Lexi helped her clean him up. She frowned. His cuts weren’t healing. As a dhampir, Lance had the ability to heal fast—which wasn’t happening.

“Help me place the candles around him,” she told Lexi. Using the furniture setup of the room, she and Lexi placed the candles on the surfaces so that they formed a rough circle around the bed. With a flick of her fingers, all the wicks of the candles lit up, and Lexi turned off the overhead light so that candlelight was the only illumination within the room.

“Sit over there,” Melissa instructed, pointing to the chair in the corner, and Lexi hurried over, her face pale and anxious as she watched her brother on the bed. Melissa climbed up near the head of the bed, gently lifting Lance’s limp head and resting it on her knees. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, calming her heart, evening out her breathing and summoning her powers. Placing her fingers at Lance’s temples, she let her magic flow over him.

She frowned. She could sense something inside him, something small, but sharp, with a shadow that was slowly spreading. Whatever it was, it wasn’t letting him heal. She tried to battle it, tried to conquer it, then tried to confine it, but she could sense it diffusing through his system.

She didn’t know how long they remained like that—Lexi sitting quietly on her chair in the corner, Lance breathing harshly into the silence and Melissa holding on to her friend, trying desperately to pull him back from the brink of death. She poured her own strength, her essence, into helping him. It slowed down the creeping shadow, but it didn’t stop it. This was some sort of natural poison that she couldn’t halt. She focused on that small, sharp object, the source of the toxin. It was so close to his heart. She tried to draw it out of him, using her magic like a magnet, but Lance moaned softly with pain. Melissa felt the raw edge of agony stiffen his muscles. She was only hurting him further.

She sagged back against the head of the bed and opened her eyes. The room was almost dark. She’d burned through many of the candles, and only a couple still flickered with light. Her legs felt numb. She must have been sitting there for hours. Lexi was staring at her, her expression of anxiety and hope like a suffocating weight on Melissa’s chest.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered brokenly, shame and desolation washing over her as she stared at her friend’s sister. “It’s not—it’s not responding to my magic.” Admitting that she couldn’t help her friend felt like a betrayal, an abandonment. “He needs medical help.”

Lexi stared down at her brother in confusion. “What?”

“He’s a dhampir, Lexi. In some ways, he’s the strongest being I know. In this, though, he is as weak and vulnerable as the rest of us humans. He’s got a bullet fragment inside him, and I can’t get it out.”

“No.” Lexi shook her head, tears streaming down her face as she rose from her chair. “There has to be something you can do, Mel. Please. Whatever it is—I’ll pay.”

Briefly, anger flared within her at the suggestion she would receive payment for helping a friend, but she quashed that anger. Lexi loved her brother and was desperate. She’d do anything to save him, and Melissa could relate to that—she’d do anything to save her own brother as well as her close friend. No, it was better to save her anger for those responsible for this—whoever shot Lance. But they weren’t going to be able to wreak any vengeance if they didn’t know who pulled the trigger, and in order for that to happen, Lance must survive. Only, she couldn’t help him.

Her gaze drifted down to the man lying on the bed, his features so still. She knew someone who could, though, and the very thought of asking him for help burned like acid in her stomach. The thought, though, that Lance would die was even worse.

Melissa dredged up her remaining stores of magic. The work she’d already done on Lance had been draining. She pressed gently against his temple and whispered a dormancy spell. It wasn’t quite as effective as a suspension spell, but putting the half-human Lance into a suspended state would halt his heartbeat, and a continuance spell may not work without that vital pulse. A dormancy spell allowed his body and mind to go into a state of hibernation, still sustaining life, but limiting the spread of that toxin, whatever it was.

“I, uh, I need to step out,” she said, her voice husky with strain. She blinked. Her vision was blurry and gray. Dormancy spells weren’t easy, and they took a toll. “Stay with him. Talk to him, Lexi. I’ve put him in a coma, to stop...it.” Death. She’d put him in a coma to stop death. Her mother would freak if she found her playing with the natural order of things. Magic could be used, but once you used it against nature’s course there were consequences. Melissa mentally defended herself against the imaginary conversation with her Coven Elder. She’d delayed death, not contravened it.

She knew one person, though, who could prevent it—and he was currently shivering in a cell in her basement.

With each step she took down to his prison, she argued with herself. Was there another option? Could anyone else help? What about Dave? No. He’d encounter the same issue she did. Lance needed medical help, not magical. How long could she keep Lance dormant? Perhaps she could wait just a little longer, until someone more suitable could be reached? The stairs leading from her store down to her apothecary spun for a moment, and she clutched the wall for support until her vision settled and she could enter her secret store.

A dormancy spell worked differently to most. For it to continue its effect, it had to siphon energy from her own reserves, and she’d drained most in her efforts to heal Lance and to halt the toxin. It was almost too much effort to despell the wards on the mural door. She reached for the torch and carefully made her way down the steep stairs, clinging to the railing as she went.

She halted before the dark door and took a deep breath, composing her features. She hated this. Hated it. She swung open the door and the torch cut a swathe of light through the darkness.

Her prisoner sat on the floor, his back to the wall, and he lifted his head. His lips curled in a wicked smile.

“Hello, Red. Come to make a deal with the devil?”

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