Untamed (Dark Moon Shifters #2)

by Bella Jacobs

  “Leave me here,” I say, panic I can’t name churning in my chest. “Leave. You can’t help me. No one can.”

  “There are ways,” Brown Eyes—Dust—says. “My people have had success turning the Devour virus around. We’ll take you with us, and I’ll do everything I can to get you the help you need.” He smiles. “As long as you don’t mind a ridiculously long plane flight. The doctors who take care of my family haven’t left England in a hundred years, and they aren’t about to start now. Not even for a friend.”

  “We don’t know that she’s a friend,” the other man mumbles beneath his breath, earning a hard look from Dust. “No offense,” Golden Hair says, dividing his attention between me, and something over his shoulder. “It’s nothing personal. I’m programmed to be suspicious of everyone these days.”

  “Friend or traitor, it doesn’t matter now,” Dust says, not unkindly. “She’s in no condition to do anyone any damage.”

  For some reason, his words send a chill skittering up my spine on tiny spider feet.

  “Speaking of damage, this place is a fucking wreck,” Golden Hair says. “Clearly the assholes got here before we did. If there’s anything here worth bringing back, I’ll eat my own fist.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, but let’s do a sweep anyway.” Dust reaches out, patting my hand gently. “Hang tight, and we’ll get out of here as soon as possible.”

  “I’m afraid,” I whisper.

  “It’s all right,” Dust says, compassion knitting his features. “We’ll be right back. I promise.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of, I think, but I don’t know why.

  So I don’t say a word. I simply nod and continue to lie in an aching, suffering puddle on the floor, waiting for my heroes to rescue me, though I’m certain I don’t deserve it.

  Not even a little bit.

  Chapter 8

  Wren

  I lie awake until the wee hours of the morning—long after Kite and Luke’s breathing has grown slow and even—listening for the touchdown of a magical creature in the woods. But the night remains still, without even the comforting patter of the rain to break the silence between the cries of night birds and the softer yips and squeaks of the raccoons raiding the dumpster outside.

  I can’t fight the feeling that something is wrong.

  Or that something will go wrong if I drop my guard long enough to get some rest.

  I can feel Atlas closer in these moments, when I’m a whisper away from dreamland. He can’t kill me in my dreams, the way he could if I risked another visit to the shifter spirit world we share, but he can make me suffer. My nightmares are filled with the tortured cries of the people I love, littered with bodies and bloodshed and violence so depraved I can’t bear to talk about it in the morning.

  I know why Dust kept his secret.

  Sometimes the bad things are so bad you can’t bring yourself to share them, even when you know you should.

  Finally, close to four a.m., I drift into a fitful sleep, but this time it isn’t Atlas who waits for me on the other side of consciousness.

  My eyes blink open to daylight—bright and dazzling. I’m standing barefoot on cool spring grass in a field of cherry trees. Their limbs wave back and forth in the breeze, tossing blossoms that drift like fluffy white snowflakes in the air all around me. The sky is a soul-shattering shade of blue, and the air is perfumed with flowers and the occasional waft of fresh-baked pastry drifting from the cottage at the top of the rise, the one with the view of the orchard, the stream, and the forest beyond.

  And all of it’s ours.

  Was ours…

  “And it will be again.” A deep, familiar voice speaks behind me, and I turn to see a dragon with shimmering green scales curled in the back of my dad’s old red truck. It’s so big, it barely fits, but dragons like cozy spaces to curl up in.

  Just like cats.

  The memories of the house and the truck and everything my father taught me about dragons in between rides to the pasture on his always-toasty back come rushing into my heart, as familiar as a favorite song.

  “Daddy,” I whisper, my voice breaking in the middle of the word.

  The dragon smiles, its green eyes, the same color as Scarlett’s, like the purest, palest Jade, wrinkle at the edges, the way they did when he was in his human form. Daddy wasn’t around as much as my mother—he had a big job somewhere that took up a lot of his time—but we were close. Close enough that I don’t hesitate to rush across the orchard and throw my arms around his neck as he leans down to greet me over the side of the truck bed.

  “I love you, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you,” he says, his voice a rumble that vibrates through my chest, my bones, making every breath feel like home. “But I can’t stay long. I don’t have the gift for it your mother does.”

  I pull back, fighting tears as I look up into his fiercely gentle face. “I love you, too. I’m sorry I forgot you for so long.”

  “The Church makes the children forget,” he says, his scales shining brighter in the sun. “There are things Dust won’t remember, either. You need to go deeper than memory, open all the doors to the past, no holding back. You’ll need to life fast.”

  “Life fast,” I repeat, fighting to commit the words to memory.

  “All the beasts of antiquity can guide a life fast,” my father says, the light reflecting off his scales so fierce that I lift a hand to shield my eyes. “Tell him not to be afraid.”

  I blink faster, fighting to keep my eyes open as I’m blinded by the glare.

  I don’t want to shut out the sight of my father, but finally, I can’t help but cringe against the unbearable brightness, my lids squeezing shut.

  When I blink them open again, I’m back in my bed at the hotel.

  I sit, squinting against the light filtering through the curtains someone must have drawn this morning. At four a.m., they’d still been open, granting me a view of the stars spiraling lazily across the sky as the world turned oh-so-slowly.

  Slow, slow, every minute that Creedence and Dust are in danger making me feel knife-edge anxious.

  That’s what “on edge” means, I’ve decided. It’s not about tumbling off the edge of the world the way I once thought. It’s a blade pressed tight to something soft and vulnerable, threatening to transform anxiety into suffering with the flick of a wrist.

  The thought brings it rushing back, that feeling that I’ve misplaced something important. That I’ve left the stove on, the water running, the baby in the bathwater with no one to stand watch to ensure she doesn’t drown.

  Running a hand through my hair, I turn to survey the quiet room.

  Beside me, the bed is empty, nothing but rumpled sheets and a faint whiff of evergreen needles to hint that Kite spent the night here, too. The other bed is equally vacant, and Luke’s pallet is rolled up and tucked into the corner behind the floor lamp, making me wonder how long I’ve been asleep.

  Leaning forward, I catch a glimpse of the clock, pulse leaping when I see the numbers read ten fifteen. Luke and I agreed to meet in the glen at ten-thirty.

  But it isn’t being late that has my heart knocking against my ribs as I vault out of bed, each rapid beat a plea, a prayer that I’ll stumble outside to find all four of the men in my life hunched over coffees at the picnic tables or arguing about how best to fix the tear in our Mustang’s ancient drop-top.

  I scrub my face and teeth, run a quick comb through my hair and pull it into a knot on top of my head before lacing up my tennis shoes and sprinting for the door in my pajamas. This is why I sleep in leggings and a hoodie, so I can be ready to go at a moment’s notice.

  And because I only have three changes of clothes to my name.

  The old me, with her closet full of work, leisure, and special occasion clothes would have found that unthinkable.

  It’s amazing what you can get used to. And how quickly.

  I don’t miss my closet, but I would kill for a pair of waterproof shoes. My sneakers, s
till damp from yesterday’s walk, squish as I pound down the stairs, letting off faint whiffs of funk that warn I’d better get them in a dryer soon.

  Outside, the morning air is still cool, but the sun is up, busily burning away yesterday’s rain, promising today will be Rocky Mountain summer hot. I scan the parking lot and the picnic area, with its crooked grills and swing set so rusty it could give a kid tetanus from looking at it too hard. But aside from a pair of squirrels arguing over an apple core, I’m alone.

  The Mustang is no longer in its parking spot by the dumpster, an absence that sends a whisper of unease shivering across my skin.

  It’s not unusual for someone to make a morning run into town for food, but Luke and I are meeting in a few minutes, and Kite wouldn’t normally leave without jotting a note.

  It makes me wonder if I missed something upstairs, but there isn’t time to run back to the room and check or I’ll be late to meet Luke.

  Luke, who will hopefully know where Kite is, and whether Creedence and Dust made it back last night.

  Fingering the gold coin around my neck and hoping Dust won’t need an enchanted talisman to track me down, I start toward the trailhead. There’s no sign of my trainer, but I’m not surprised Luke started the run without me. He’s insanely fast. Getting off the suppression meds has done wonders for my speed and stamina, but naturally superior shifter genetics will only take a girl so far. I’m going to need hardcore training to get into fighting shape by the end of the summer.

  Too bad that doesn’t make me one iota more excited to start boot camp…

  I’m a lover, not a fighter. Yes, my instincts for self-preservation kick in if I’m threatened, but I’m never going to be the type of person who’s spoiling to get in the ring and throw punches. I’d rather spend the morning getting a root canal.

  Enduring pain, I’m good at. Causing pain in others isn’t my forte.

  I’m deep in thought, questioning for the hundredth time whether Fate made a big mistake when she made me a Fata Morgana, when thick arms band around me from behind, drawing me against a solid wall of flesh. The breath rushes from my chest, and my heart stutters once before pumping into high gear, but to my surprise, I don’t hesitate to act.

  Remembering the self-defense moves Kite taught me yesterday, I jerk both arms high into the air, palms facing the attacker behind me. Curling my fingers, I draw them down hard and fast, hooking the man’s arm and dragging it far enough away from my throat for me to slither from his grip.

  I fall to the ground and roll away before popping up to run back to the hotel. A cry for Kite is on my lips when I get a look at my attacker and my jaw drops.

  “Pretty good,” Luke says, grudging respect in his eyes. “Looks like you might have some instincts after all.”

  “You scared the hell out of me,” I huff, crossing my arms at my chest.

  “Good.” He nods. “Get scared and stay scared. Maybe then you’ll show up to train on time.”

  “I was two minutes late! Not even two minutes. And I—”

  “I don’t want to hear excuses.” He jabs a finger toward the trail. “I want to hear you breathing hard. Two miles. Go. I’ll tell you when you can stop.”

  My lips part, but before I can insist that he promise never to attack me like that again, he barks, “Now, Princess. Waste another minute of my time, and we’ll make it five.”

  “Fine,” I grit out as I spin on my heel and jog into the woods. Thanks to the infuriating man trotting beside me, I’m faster than usual, but by the time we reach the glen Luke’s chosen for our sparring session, my anger has cooled and I’m back to wondering what the hell I’m doing here.

  Proving my successful foray into self-defense was most likely a fluke, for the next hour and a half, I proceed to suck ass at all the things. My reflexes are slow, my dodging instincts are non-existent, and after hundreds of practice jabs at the couch cushion we’re using as a makeshift punching bag, Luke calmly pronounces that I “hit like a princess, too” and tosses the cushion on the grass.

  “What’s that mean?” I prop my hands low on my hips, breathing hard.

  “It means you hit like you’ve never had to fight for anything in your entire life,” Luke says, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of one lightly-furred arm. The temperature has jumped dramatically since we started. I’m down to my tank top, and Luke shed his shirt a few minutes ago, making it even harder to focus on keeping my knees bent while following through with my right hook.

  My gaze keeps drifting to the scars on his chest—shiny streaks of hairless flesh that I’m guessing are knife wounds—and the star-shaped birthmark on his back, the reason he’s here, the mark that pegged him as a potential Fata Morgana mate.

  And then there are his sculpted abs and chiseled chest…

  I don’t want to look at them. I don’t want to be affected by them. But what I want hasn’t meant much lately, and this morning is no different.

  I want to tell Luke to go to hell, yes. But I also want to lick him. All over. Repeatedly.

  “That’s not true.” I lift my chin, working to keep my gaze fixed on his stupid face. “I fought every day. Since I was a kid.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Luke says. “You endured. You kept going, even when it was hard, and that’s good. That’ll make you a better fighter in the long run, but it isn’t going to help if you refuse to show up in the ring.”

  I start to insist that I have shown up—I’m standing right here—but shut my mouth. Because he’s right. I’m here in body, but not in spirit. My heart isn’t in this. At least, not today.

  “I’m worried about Dust and Creedence,” I confess. “And Kite. He didn’t leave a note before he left this morning. I’ll have better focus next time. I promise.”

  Luke nods. “I talked to Kite before he headed out. Said he had an errand to run, but that he’d meet us at the room a little before one.” He glances down at his watch. “Which gives us just enough time to do some strength training. Drop and give me twenty push-ups and then we’ll get you up a tree or two before we head back.”

  I arch a brow. “Up a tree?”

  “Climbing trees is a good workout. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.” Luke smiles, sending a tingling sensation across my skin before he adds, “I need you alive to get across the border, right?” and the tingles go cold.

  “Right.” I hold his gaze for a beat before I sink down on my knees.

  I’m just a meal ticket to Luke, a means to an end, and I would be stupid to forget it.

  So I don’t. Every time he touches me—his fingers at my waist when he lifts me up to reach the first tree branch, his hand on my hip or shoulder as he points out a path upward—I remind myself that this is all business.

  Soon, the tingling sensation fades to a faint fizz that I can almost ignore.

  Almost…

  But when we’re finally done, and Luke helps me down from the last tree, plucking a leaf from my hair with a sigh and murmuring, “We’ve got a lot to do, Princess. A whole lot,” I have to fight the urge to lean into his chest and apologize for being the worst student ever.

  Luke doesn’t want my apologies or my friendship or anything else, a point he drives home by nodding toward the trail and adding a gruff, “Now we run back. Keep pace, or we’ll be late to meet your people.”

  My people, not his or ours. Mine.

  Feeling more alone than I have in days, I grab my sweatshirt from the ground, tie it around my waist, and start back toward civilization, Luke jogging effortlessly beside me while I huff and puff, every dragging breath a reminder that I’m in over my head with no way out in sight.

  Chapter 9

  Wren

  I burst from the woods not far behind Luke, proving I’ve got more stamina than I would have given myself credit for.

  But there’s no time to celebrate baby milestones.

  Not if I’m going to keep Luke from killing my mate.

  The moment I see the woman sitting on the hoo
d of the Mustang beside Kite, I know the shit is going to hit the fan, and Luke, the poster boy for Trust Issues doesn’t disappoint.

  “What the fuck did you do?” Luke growls as he comes to a stop beneath the trees shading the car from the midday sun. “You stupid, fucking kid.”

  Kite stands, shoulders back and his brow furrowed. “Before you fly off the handle, let me explain.”

  “And don’t talk to my brother like that.” Leda stands beside Kite, her hands propped menacingly on her hips. She’s a foot shorter than her younger brother, but what she lacks in size she makes up for in presence. I’m sure that’s helpful in her role as chief of the tribal police, but it won’t hold much weight with an ex-con.

  “You don’t tell me what to do,” Luke snaps back, unpleasantly predictable. “And your brother is an idiot.” He jabs a finger at Kite’s chest, transferring his rage. “What the hell were you thinking? We just had the fucking ‘we can’t trust anyone but each other’ talk and you think that’s a good time to go crying to Big Sissy for help?”

  “She has important news, asshole,” Kite says, his grip on his own temper beginning to slip. “Shit that changes everything.”

  “And I found him, not the other way around,” Leda snaps, dropping her voice as she adds. “And I kept a low profile while I was doing it. If you’d like to continue to not attract attention, I suggest we sit the fuck down and talk like rational people.”

  Luke’s hands ball into fists and his jaw clenches so tight a muscle begins to dance near his temple, but I sense the worst of the storm has passed.

  “Let’s head up to the room.” I motion across the pine-needle strewn picnic grounds. “The maid should be finished by now, so we’ll have privacy.”

  “No, we won’t,” Kite says, his gaze fixed on Luke as he adds, “There’s someone in there.”

  Luke curses. “Great. Why not throw a party and invite this Atlas guy as the guest of honor while you’re at it?”