This one in particular was a sight to behold. His skin was a beautiful shade of bronze, his chest broad and muscular, adorned with a thick, intriguing tattoo - an intricate interweaving of curves and lines. Around one of the thickly muscled arms chained above his head curved a golden armband. At one end, the head of a panther stared out at her, its eyes twinkling with emeralds. She knew the armband could not be removed except by the wearer himself.
Birik had tried.
With a deep breath, she forced herself to meet that dark, angry gaze.
The moment she did, he growled at her. "Free me."
"I can't." Her breath caught, her pulse fluttering as she felt the pull of those eyes. She had the oddest sensation that if she wasn't careful, she'd find herself tumbling into those black depths, becoming the captive instead of the captor.
Lifting her hand, she reached for him, sliding her palm across his warm, granite chest, tracing his tattoo, feeling the ripple of hard muscle against her skin. Desire arced through her body. His masculine scent rose up to meet her on a rush of dark, carnal pleasure.
The animal inside him, pacing angrily, turned its head toward her in greeting.
"Don't touch me," the man snarled.
"I have no choice." She stared into those furious eyes, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "Hear me, Feral. Your only chance at survival is to cooperate with me. If you fail to prove useful, Birik will destroy you. And I don't want that."
A muscle in his jaw leaped. "Then let me go."
"I can't." Her palm slid down to his abdomen to brush the edge of the thatch of hair springing up around his root. His muscles tightened, quivering beneath her touch. "Let me mount you, warrior."
"Never." But his erection twitched, jerking. His will denied what his body craved.
What both their bodies craved. She knew he remembered as well as she did what it had been like, that slide of flesh within flesh. The pleasure...good Mother, the pleasure. She hadn't realized it could be like that. Her body had been breached more times than she could count, yet sex had never brought her anything but discomfort or pain.
Until this man walked into her life. From the moment she first saw him, her body had throbbed almost continuously, pulsing and contracting with desire, dampening her thighs. Now that passion, that power arced through the room, thickening.
The sound of a vicious animal rumbled from the Feral's throat. "That hand gets any closer to my shaft and I'll rip your head from your shoulders."
Skye released a sigh. "I don't want to force you."
"Then don't," he snapped.
"You don't understand!" If only she had the time to back off and let him calm beneath her touch for a few days. But Birik had never been a patient man. And she sensed the anger ran deep in this Feral. A few days, or even weeks, might not be enough.
"I understand all I need to," he snarled.
But he didn't. Not at all. She had no choice but to raise the passion between them in whatever way she must. Skye dipped her head to his chest, kissing his warm skin. He smelled of night forests, wild and untamed. Darting her tongue out, she tasted him, as pleased by his taste as by his scent. Everything about him made her want him more.
Moving a step to the side, she pressed her mouth to his abdomen, then to his hip bone, scenting the faint musk of his erection.
She lifted her head and looked at him, her breathing uneven, her eyes growing heavy with desire. "Can I kiss you there?"
"No."
She continued to his broad, rock-hard thigh, kissing, licking.
"Witch." His growl was still one of furious warning, but beneath the anger, passion vibrated.
"I want you inside me, warrior," she said huskily. "Just as you want me. Your body longs to press deep within mine."
"I don't want you. I never want you."
"You wanted me before. In the woods."
"That was before I knew what you were."
She sighed. He'd thought she was human. Birik had given her the ability to hide the copper rings around her irises for just that purpose.
Something had happened when they'd kissed yesterday. A strange sexual energy had passed between them, bonding them in some indefinable way. All night her body had wept for release, a release only he could give her. She'd woken knowing he'd come back to her.
And he had.
Unfortunately, Birik's orders had been as clear and sharp as a piece of cut glass. When the Feral returned, she must capture him.
And she had.
Skye curled her fingers around his leg, caressing his inner thigh as she stood beside the stone where he was pinned, letting her fingers slide almost to his groin. "Let me touch you, warrior."
"No."
Stubborn man. He needed more time. If she forced him now, so violently against his will, his hatred would only grow stronger and more impossible to breach. She'd never calm him, never get him to accept his place here. And he must accept it.
She couldn't give up.
The alternative meant his destruction.
Fury clouded Paenther's mind, rage blurred his vision. His body burned to slake its need on the witch whose soft hands stroked his thigh, whose softer lips laid kisses on his hip, seducing. Tormenting.
He fought the attraction, struggled to feel nothing as he had so many times in the past. But, as in the past, his body had a will of its own.
How many times had Ancreta come to him as he'd lain chained in that cellar? How many times had she taken him into her mouth and sucked him hard? He could still feel the torment of those golden curls tumbling over his hips as he fought the arousal and lost. Every time, he'd lost.
She'd lift those miles of skirts to her waist and straddle him, cruel laughter in her eyes that he'd fought her, and she'd won yet again. He'd buck and try to throw her off, but she'd clamp that surprisingly strong hand around his shaft and squeeze him until he quit bucking, then guide him into her hole, taking him inside.
Hatred ran like blood through his memory. Gregor would invariably join them. As Ancreta rode him, as he fought to withhold his seed, Gregor would grab his head and begin chanting, digging his fingernails into the flesh of his skull until blood ran down his temples and through his hair. And as Paenther lost the battle, coming in a hot rush of pleasure and fury, his mind wrenched open, Gregor would delve into his mind and rip at the animal spirit that had only recently joined him, trying to remove him, to steal him, the pain beyond anything Paenther had ever endured before, or since.
And he hated.
Lost in the memory, he barely distinguished between the blond Ancreta of his nightmares and the dark-haired witch with the blue eyes whose hands even now slid over his body, one over his arm, the other trailing up his hip, the fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his shaft.
A growl rumbled in his throat, his mind a haze of fury and memory. As her soft hand closed around his shaft, he turned feral, his fangs and claws unsheathing. He attacked her in the only way left to him, striking at the arm that had ventured too close to his mouth.
His animal's fangs sank into her forearm, ripping off a thick hunk of her flesh. Warm blood drenched his mouth. Raw satisfaction burned through the haze of his anger as he watched her jerk away, her face ashen. He spit the flesh onto the floor. Witch. If he were loose, he'd kill her. He'd shift into his panther form and rip open her throat, then eat out her heart.
He snarled, waiting for her retribution, tensing for the pain she'd deal, and not caring. But the witch only stumbled backward, holding the wounded arm in front of her, the blood flowing steadily down the front of her dress. She backed up until she reached the far wall, then sank to the floor beside the doe, cradling her injury.
Paenther watched her, searching for pleasure in her pain, and found it frustratingly absent. His fangs and claws retracted. She wasn't Ancreta. This witch was too damned fragile-looking. And she wasn't acting like he'd expected her to. No scream. No tears.
Ancreta would have been beating him by now, with the closest weapon. Stabbing him. Cutting chunks out of his own flesh, her eyes brilliant with vengeance.
Was this witch more controlled than Ancreta? More clever, perhaps, planning her retribution more thoroughly?
As he watched her, the blood stopped running. The flesh grew and knit until, at last, other than the stain on her gown, she was back to normal.
Still, she sat there as the doe nuzzled her cheek, leaning into the animal's touch, her eyes closed, a deep unhappiness in the lines of her body. Finally, she looked up and met his gaze, nothing but sad emotions in her eyes.
With a sigh, she looked up at the ceiling. "They're not full," she said wearily. She met his gaze again with those deep, fathomless eyes. "We have to fill them. I know you hate it, but neither of us has a choice."
She rose and came over to him, climbing onto the stone and settling back on her heels between his parted legs as she had before. He waited for the cruelty of her touch, expecting it. Wanting it. Needing to know he'd broken through that calm facade of hers. But the hands that brushed his thighs were as soft and gentle as before.
She puzzled him. Was there no cruelty in her? A gentle witch? Now, there was an oxymoron if he'd ever heard one.
"How can you touch me softly after I attacked you?" he heard himself ask.
She didn't meet his gaze. "You've done nothing more than any wild creature would do when trapped."
He scowled at her and at the twinge of guilt he felt for hurting her, the evidence of which darkened her dress.
Dammit, I won't feel guilty. Her gentleness, her vulnerability, were just an act. A lie. Maybe even flat-out enchantment. He'd be a fool to trust her in any way. And he'd already been fool enough to last an immortal lifetime.
His successful strike and her silent acceptance of the pain had taken the edge off his fury but done nothing to dampen his desire. As she knelt between his legs, caressing his hips, thighs, and abdomen, touching his shaft with only her heated gaze, he felt the sexual energy roll over his flesh and pound in his blood.
His breathing turned labored as he struggled not to rock his hips, as he fought against the need to demand she take him into her body and bring him to release.
Finally, she lifted her hands and moved to his side, to sit with her back against the curve of the rock shelf. Her face was flushed, her own breathing labored, her chest rising with each harsh breath.
Slowly his body cooled, slowly she quieted, not quite touching him until she laid her palm against his rib cage.
"The animal inside you calms to my touch. I wish you could, too, warrior."
"Never." But the word was without heat.
A gentle witch. Was it possible?
She climbed down off the rock and went to her animals, freeing them. For long minutes, she stroked them, one after the other, whispering to them as they clamored for her attention. Finally, she walked toward the door with a tense unhappiness that pulled at him, her animals pressing around her as they had when she'd first walked in.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
She looked back at him, over her shoulder. "It's almost midnight," she said quietly.
He saw the glisten of tears in her eyes.
Chapter Four
Skye danced, as she did every midnight, her hands high above her head, her body swaying and twisting to the music of the Earth, clad only in the blood of the sacrifices.
The power of her gift rode her flesh as she danced, a harsh tingling that sank into her muscles and bones and tore at her heart. High above her, the orbs tucked in between the stalactites and flickering lightwicks sparkled and spit with energy.
In a loose circle around her, the sorcerers chanted.
"Faster," Birik snapped from the corner of the whitewashed room. His pale hair glowed silver in the cool light, his cold gaze pinned to the power orbs as one of his snakes, a rattler, curled across his shoulder. Beside him stood the doe tied fast to the rock.
Skye's gaze fell to the desperate animal, to her large, frightened eyes. And to the bloody dagger in Birik's hand. Grief threatened to swallow her, and she tore her gaze away and spun faster, her feet sure on the blood-slick stones. She felt as if it were her soul that was being slaughtered.
If only it were Birik's blood drenching her body! But the small flare of dark emotion died as quickly as it rose, snuffed out by the crushing weight of desolation.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. For years and years, the creatures of her heart had died at midnight, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Nothing she could do to change her fate or theirs. The Mother, the goddess, had long ago forsaken them all.
Now she'd been forced to drag a man, a Feral, into this hell. Fear for him cut like broken glass.
She danced, struggling to forget, to block out the raw smell of the blood coating her hair and skin, fighting to crawl into her mind, away from the savagery, away from the cries of the doe struggling to reach her, begging her to save her.
Inside, she cried out her own frustration at the wrongness, at the horror of what she was forced to do. Because she couldn't save her. She couldn't save any of them. The only thing she might possibly be able to do was keep the man, the Feral, from ending like all her other creatures. She must. Her soul would die if she were forced to dance in his blood as well.
As the doe's cries ended abruptly, Skye threw back her head, her chest pierced with a pain she couldn't show, her mind echoing with an anguished, silent scream.
Moments later, she heard Birik approach from behind and closed her eyes as warm blood slid over her scalp and cascaded down her body, spreading fingers of warmth against the chill of the cavern air, carving holes in her heart.
Skye flung her hands into the air above her, pulling the power Birik demanded, desecrating her precious tie to the creatures of the Earth.
