Warrior Untamed

by Shannon Curtis

  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.”