Warrior Untamed

by Shannon Curtis

  It started to unfurl in her gut, a burning rage that turned ice-cold, spreading through her. She raised her arms, readying to pour all her fury into her own destructive spell.

  Hunter’s hands clasped hers in the darkness. “Don’t,” he whispered, stepping closer to her until she could feel his body, so close to hers.

  “Don’t even think about stopping me,” she said, her voice so low, but she knew he heard in the darkness. She tried to free her hands, and he pulled them above her head, bracing them against the wall. This time his body did lean into hers, all heat and muscle and strength. His scent drifted to her. She could feel the delineation of his chest muscles against her breasts, and despite herself she reacted, her nipples tightening against the wall of his chest.

  “Don’t,” he told her, his voice husky but clear in its warning. “You can’t win. My father is up there, and he’s stronger than I am. You try to tickle him with your spells, and he will turn you into ash without a moment’s regret.”

  “Your father?” For a moment, cool reason intruded in on her anger. She’d seen Arthur Armstrong in action. It had taken both Hunter and his brother, Ryder, and Melissa and her own brother, to subdue him, and that was because she and Dave had had the element of surprise on their side.

  She wanted to scream in frustration. The man destroyed lives without any conscience. When she most wanted to, needed to, she couldn’t just go up and bewitch her way out of a problem. Again. Memories of the only other time that had happened to her, and the way that situation had ended, still haunted her. For only the second time in her life, there was someone more powerful than she, and she had to stay her hand.

  And listen to him destroy everything she lived for in the process.

  “If it’s your father, why don’t you just go to him? If this is some attempt for him to save you, he can have you. I’m not holding you back.”

  Hunter stilled next to her. “He can have me?” he repeated. His tone was mild, but she sensed the tightening of his chest muscles, the rigid set to his shoulders.

  “Nobody else needs to be hurt, Hunter. If he’s doing this to get to you, maybe we should just open the door to him and let you go to him.” And maybe stop him from transforming her apothecary into rubble.

  “I’m not sure how your family works, Red, but blowing up a building is not our usual greeting. My father might be pissed at you, but he would be incensed by what I did to him. No pun intended.” Hunter angled his head, his nose brushing her hair aside. “If I go to him, he will kill me. Is that what you want?”

  Melissa frowned at the loaded question. Did she want Hunter dead? Five months ago, she would have said yes. Without hesitation. Five minutes ago, she may have said yes, after the stunt he pulled in her bookstore. But with everything he’d done for Lance, for Lexi—even for her...she didn’t try to sugarcoat it. He’d saved her life. On the one hand, she was very tempted to let the light warriors duke it out.

  But then Hunter might lose. He might...die.

  With her own mother being so politically minded, with every move, every word part of a hidden agenda, and having experienced firsthand the hurt and betrayal from a parent, she didn’t wish that on anyone—although she didn’t think her mother would actually attack her.

  “Wow, you really—”

  “No,” she admitted in a whisper, interrupting him. “That’s not what I want,” she grumbled. There was silence for a moment, then Hunter chuckled, his breath gusting against her neck. “Careful, I might think you actually care.”

  She lifted her chin. She didn’t want him thinking that. “Hardly. My mother would not be happy if anything bad happened to the light warrior within my care—even if it was at the hands of his own family.”

  “You sentimental thing, you.”

  The sounds of destruction got louder, as though they were systematically making their way around the room.

  “This isn’t fair,” she whispered, all the frustration, the desolation and the fury poured into those three little words.

  “What can you do about that door?” Hunter asked, his lips next to her ear. Her eyes narrowed in the darkness, despite the fine tremble his breath caused in her. Did he not understand the true import of what was happening above them? Did he have no sympathy, not even buried deep in some forgotten place? “My father and his mob will find that door eventually, and they’ll come down here. We’ll both be finished. Do you have anything in that pretty little head of yours that will help us?”

  If she tried to attack the Warrior Prime above them, his retaliation would see them both dead. She could at least do something about the door, though. Her lips lifted. Actually, that would be fun.

  She nodded, and for a moment Hunter remained where he was, his chest against hers, his strong hands gently gripping her wrists. He stepped back so slowly it was like an incremental distancing of their bodies.

  She clasped her hands together, calling on her magic. There were no elements down here save for the stone bricks beneath her feet, but even that was not natural. She focused inward, feeling the stirring of her essence. She leaned forward, just a little, until her hand brushed the steel supports of the stairs. Using an old spell her brother had once taught her, she could feel the stairs become thin, wavery, insubstantial within her grip. She sent the magic up the railing, mentally wrapping it around the treads as well, until she sensed the door. Keeping in touch with the railing, she spread the magic over the door, letting it embed within its surface. Then she muttered the final verse of the spell.

  Beneath her fingertips, the railing disappeared. She added a new line to the spell, adding an extra punch line to it, then she drew back.

  “Well?” Hunter asked beside her.

  “I’ve cloaked the door, given it some substance so that even if they do a tap test, it’s going to look, sound and feel like wall from the other side. It’s not completely impenetrable, but they’ll have to be very lucky to find it.”

  “Which means we’d be very unlucky if they do,” muttered Hunter. “Is there another way out of here?”

  Melissa considered the tunnels, and grimaced. “Not really.” She didn’t like it as an option.

  “Not really isn’t a no. What gives?”

  “If we follow that corridor to the end and climb down one level, we can access the tunnels of Old Irondell. We could possibly make our way through the ruins to my brother’s shop.” Dave’s tattoo parlor sat above one of the old caverns, with access to the tunnels, but where she cringed at the underbelly of Irondell’s new Reform society, her brother seemed to revel in it.

  “Great.”

  “No, not great. You don’t know what’s down there.”

  Hunter leaned forward. “As my father’s son, I can tell you it can’t be as bad as what is waiting for us above.”

  “Maybe we should wait. I mean, someone will notice my flaming beacon of a bookstore and come to help.” Maybe her brother, for instance. Or maybe Lance, once he’d safely contained Lexi.

  “Or, considering all the enemies you’ve made over the years, perhaps they’ll bring marshmallows and sing songs around the bonfire,” suggested Hunter.

  Melissa pursed her lips, but didn’t argue. Sadly, each option had an equal chance of fruition. Despite the shields she’d put in place, they could still clearly hear the men above. She didn’t know how long they could wait it out, how long it would take before her mother decided to pay her daughter a visit and negotiate a truce—because Eleanor Carter wouldn’t actually defend her daughter until she’d wrung every ounce of advantage she could out of the situation. And then Melissa would have to listen to her mother’s lecture about it being her own fault.

  “I wonder what thoughts are whirling through your head,” Hunter murmured.

  Melissa sighed. It was the thought of her own mother, more so than Hunter’s father that made her decision for her
. She refused to be beholden to that woman, for anything. If the White Oak Elder Prime had to bring any influence to bear on a situation of her daughter’s creation, then her mother would ensure there was a debt for Melissa to pay.

  “Fine, let’s go.”

  She took a step forward in the corridor and crumpled, hissing in pain. Her ankle was throbbing, but any weight on it was unbearable.

  Hunter was by her side immediately. “What is it?” he asked, his hands moving gently and efficiently over her body. She halted. Did his hands linger on her breasts?

  “My ankle. I think it’s broken.”

  His hands still hesitated at the side of her breasts.

  “That’s not my ankle,” she muttered.

  “I know,” he whispered back, and she saw a flash of white in the dark, and then shuddered when his hands slid around to her front, almost but not quite cupping the mounds. The jerk was laughing. He moved his hands on before she could slap them away, touring down the indent of her waist, the swell of her hips—even there, he paused briefly—and then on to caress her legs through the denim. She heard him sigh.

  “Yeah, it’s broken, but I can’t do anything about it here. My father will sense the light, and then he’ll find that door.” He pulled her arm behind his neck and helped her up. His arm slid around her waist. “Let’s get into Old Irondell first, then I can do something.”

  Chapter 14

  Hunter slid the heavy metal grate across the hole, letting it drop as quietly as possible into place. He snapped his fingers, and a small flame hovered above his hand. He glanced around. They were in a tunnel. A big one. The walls were made of different kinds of brick, and the surface they stood upon was dark and hard. It took Hunter a moment to realize they were in a narrow street, and the wall of bricks was simply different buildings.

  His eyebrows rose. Hot damn. Those old stories were true. Present-day Irondell had been built on the skeletal remains of the old city. He frowned. He wondered if all of the stories had an element of truth in them. Like the Darkken.

  No. Their luck couldn’t be that bad.

  He eyed the gaps between the buildings. It was so dark down here. He turned to face Melissa, infusing the flame with a little more light to see her more clearly.

  Her face was pale and drawn, the lines bracketing her lips deep with strain. He had to remind himself she was still recovering from her wolf attack the night before. He was surprised by a need to take care of her, make her comfortable. It went beyond his usual attention to patients in need. He frowned. It made him feel soft. He didn’t like it.

  “Come on, let’s find some shelter and get you sorted.” Ah, now that had been brusque. Firm. Much better.

  She levered herself away from the wall, her eyes wide and anxious as she glanced around. This was the first time he’d ever seen her skittish. “Relax, Red, there is no bogeyman.”

  “It’s not the bogeyman I’m worried about,” she whispered. He pulled her arm around his shoulders and tugged her close, trying to bear as much of her weight as she’d allow. She hobbled along beside him until they reached the corner, and he pulled her gently across to the wall, using it as cover as he peered around.

  His light force shed a little beam, and he gauged the area. He could hear the drip, drip, drip of water leeching through the bricks from above, could smell the faint scent of rot and decay, and it was blessedly cool—not cold. No breeze stirred the underground. He spied a door in the wall. It was a good ten feet away, but poor Melissa was hurting. He could see the sheen of perspiration dotting her brow, her lip.

  Screw it. He lifted her into his arms, hushing her to quiet her protests, and hurried down the alley. The door was locked. No surprise, he guessed. Nobody had officially lived in this part of the city for a good century or two. He turned until his back was to the door and gave a short, sharp back kick. The door bounced open, and he cringed at the noise. This place was creepy quiet. Too quiet.

  He stepped into the darker interior, flaring his light force to make sure there were no surprises inside. The place was empty. He glanced around. It looked like the place had once been a diner of some sort. The leather booths were torn, the laminate on the tables cracked, dust and grime coating every surface, but it still looked relatively untouched. A veritable time capsule.

  He lay Melissa down on a booth cushion that didn’t look as worn, ripped or filthy as the others, then gingerly cradled her foot. She rubbed her lips together, as though trying to stop any noise from the pain. He met her gaze. After her little temper dance and attempt to blast his father away with her magic, she hadn’t complained. Hadn’t blamed him. Hadn’t bitched, moaned or tried to kill him.

  She must be in considerable pain.

  “It’s okay, I can fix this,” he whispered, and rolled the pant leg of her jeans halfway up her shin. He slid his hand down her leg. For a moment he was distracted by the sensation of her silky smooth skin, the toned muscle, the warmth...and then he felt the heat, the swelling just above her shoe. Even in the dim light, he could see the dark shadow of substantial bruising blooming above the sock line.

  He grasped her ankle gently, and even though he took great care, he still felt her flinch. If they were going to get anywhere close to Melissa’s brother, she needed to walk. If necessary, she needed to run.

  Closing his eyes, he poured his light force into her. This was going to hurt. He couldn’t afford to knock her unconscious—she needed to be alert, but he couldn’t expend that much energy, not without a backup source to recharge with. He filtered energy through her, creating a warmth, a lethargy in her that relaxed her tense muscles enough to aid his healing.

  He focused on the bruised tissue, delving deeper until he found the bone, and started to knit the calcic fibers back together. It took a great deal of concentration, pulling strands together and fusing them, strengthening them so her bone would be as good as new, if not better.

  It took some time, and he could sense her sliding in and out of a daze. Eventually he sagged against the back of the bench seat. Done. He raised his eyelids slowly, battling weariness. Bone reconstruction always took it out of him. First there were the bones, then the damaged blood vessels and tendons...

  He withdrew his warmth from her, and Melissa sat up, blinking. She stared down at her ankle, then flexed it cautiously. Her eyes widened at the movement, and then she rolled the ankle, shaking her head.

  “Those are some mad skills you have there, Doc.” She tilted her head, as though mulling something over, and her brows dipped, just a little. “You healed my broken bone in what, twenty minutes?”

  He shrugged. He’d lost track of the time. He’d been focused on her, not the ticktock of a clock.

  She swung her legs down to make more room for him on the seat, and he shuffled across gratefully. He’d been perched on the corner, and now he could lean properly against the backrest of the booth. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He needed to rest. Just a little.

  “Twenty, schmenty.”

  He could feel her moving, shifting a little in the seat to face him.

  “So why did it take you—what, two days?—to heal Lance?” He opened his eyes and stared at the opposite wall of glass that looked out onto a darkened corner. Uh...damn, he must be tired, he couldn’t come up with a convincing lie fast enough.

  “Uh...” He tilted his head, just a little, to peer at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked genuinely curious.

  “I mean, sure, he had more injuries, but they seemed kind of superficial. Except for the bullet wound,” she added.

  She was too curious for her own good, damn it.

  “Poison,” he muttered, mentally scrambling. He didn’t know how she’d react if she discovered he’d intentionally delayed her friend’s recuperation so that he could find out more about the woman he’d once considered his enemy. He drew his br
ows together. When had he stopped thinking of her as the enemy? “The poison did some damage. Took a while to metabolize it.”

  She eyed him for a moment, before finally nodding, accepting his words at face value. Relief relaxed his shoulders for a moment, but something niggled at him. It took him a moment before he identified it.

  Guilt.

  Good grief. Out of all the lies he’d told in his life—and he’d told a few—why did lying to this woman bother him? He had to get over himself.

  She twisted to face the same direction as him, gazing at the dirty window that looked out on the darkened street. He dimmed his light force, conserving his energy. Hiding behind the mantle of darkness.

  They sat for a moment in silence. He could hear her breath, sense the rise and fall of her breasts, the slide of her hair over her shoulder as she tilted her head against the backrest. Her scent, that same sexy combination of cinnamon and smoke, teased at him.

  “Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?” she whispered into the darkness, and his muscles tightened at the question. He could hear the hesitancy in her voice, the curiosity...the vulnerability.

  It was a raw question, leading to exposure for her, and for him. He swallowed. He was tempted to lie again, make up something believable—he was good at that. For once, though, he didn’t want to go to the energy of creating a lie, of deceiving another. Maybe it was seeing his father in action, the master manipulator... Or maybe he was just tired of trickery and deception.

  “You had a chance to go...”

  He sighed. “You...you kept your promise.”

  “Of course I did. You kept yours.”

  His lips lifted at her statement. As though it was a normal, everyday occurrence. “You were dying.” And with her last burst of energy, she didn’t try to save herself, she’d tried to save him.

  He blinked in the darkness. More than keeping her word, it was that selfless act that had really hit home for him.

  “But what about before?”