Gena Showalter - The Darkest Touch

“That’s right. What we all wanted. You pussed out, and I swooped in to the rescue,” Cameron snarled back at Torin. “The girl was seconds away from leveling the forest, which is our only source of protection. I did what was necessary.”

Reasonable—but it wasn’t going to save him from Torin’s wrath. As long as Keeley remained on her feet, pain-free and focused on him, the forest and everything in it could fall. And it had nothing to do with his hard-on for her. Or his need to touch her, all of her. Hard at first. Then soft. To pinch and to knead. To discover whether her skin was as cold as it appeared—or if it was white-hot. But because she deserved the right to punish Mari’s killer. Or at least to try.

Torin balled his fist, his rage redoubling.

“Strike my brother again,” Winter said, her quiet tone laced with menace. “See what happens.”

Irish crossed his arms over his massive chest, claws glinting in the light. A silent but deadly challenge.

Anticipation. Eagerness. Can’t engage. Must protect the Red Queen.

“The Curator is off-limits to you,” he said. “To each of you.”

The trio might as well have run their feet through the grass. They were that ready to charge him.

He spread his arms. By now they should know the drill. “What are you going to do about it, huh? Come on. Try something. Please.”

He wouldn’t have to worry about these three becoming carriers. He would touch them, yes, and they would sicken. But afterward, before they could ever come into contact with an innocent, he would kill them.

“You don’t want me as your enemy,” Cameron said, spitting at his feet.

“I see you haven’t gotten the memo.” Torin pegged him with a hard stare. “We’re already enemies.” After what the guy had done to Keeley, that wasn’t going to change. Ever.

Crackling silence.

“She’s a parasite,” Winter said. “She’ll destroy you and everything you love.”

“A chance I’m willing to take,” he said, surprising even himself. What’s happening to me?

“Mistake,” Cameron said. “Big mistake.”

“Won’t be my first.”

“Come on. Let’s go.” Winter pulled her brother away. “He’ll see the truth soon enough.”

Because she planned to make him see?

Irish stood there for a moment longer, rubbing his thumb across his jaw as he considered his options. Then he, too, backed away.

The three disappeared in the foliage.

They would be back, certainly. But they would just receive more of the same.

Torin crouched beside Keeley and carefully eased her to her back. A cut on her temple had left a crimson slash across her brow. The shadows cast by her lashes couldn’t mask the bruise on the sweet rise of her cheek.

Should have killed Cameron while I had the chance. Torin reached out but fisted his fingers before they could brush against Keeley’s delicate skin.

Wearing gloves, remember? Won’t hurt her.

He snorted. The voice of temptation was always oh, so sweet. And this time, it just happened to be right. He could touch her, and he could learn the contours of her exquisite face. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not like this.

An ache flourished in his chest, so strong he couldn’t stop his groan.

But he shouldn’t touch her. He would only want to do it again...and again...until his already-frayed resistance unraveled the rest of the way and like an addict, he went for skin-to-skin contact.

He scanned the area. Trees all around. No real clearing to allow him to see the enemy coming. He would have to—

Keeley kicked out her leg, swiping his feet out from under him. He fell, landing with a hard thump as she rolled with her momentum and ended up in a crouch of her own, right knee and left foot on the ground. One hand braced to hold her weight while the other aimed the crossbow Irish had cut from the tail of a manticore—she must have stolen it—an arrow cocked and ready.

* * *

“WELL, WELL,” KEELEY said. I’m gloating. I shouldn’t gloat. “Our audience is gone, and any potential alliance you had with the three doucheketeers has been severed. I believe I have you in what’s known as a pickle.”

A vein bulged in his forehead, a testament to his rising anger. “Feel free to eat my pickle, princess. Anytime.”

Was that anger directed at her? Or himself?

“Was that a penis joke? And I told you. I’m not a lowly princess.” She’d earned her title the hard way, thank you.

Suddenly, memories she’d locked inside a Time Out box fought for freedom. No! No, no, no. Not here, not now. She needed to concentrate on Torin, on their battle. But...it was too late, the tide too powerful. The past spilled forth and consumed her.

During her sixteenth summer, she attended a royal gala. Like every other girl in attendance, she spent the majority of her time drooling over the prince of the Curators. He flirted with her, even asked her to dance—which was when his father, the king, took notice of her.

Because she was an innocent of the upper class, the king was unable to have her without wedding her. Rules were rules, even for royalty. So he did it. He killed his current spouse and wed Keeley. Despite the fact that she refused his proposal.

But then the choice had never really been hers. What King Mandriael wanted, he received. Always. Might equaled right, and he’d been the strongest among them. Not by fate, but by force. All Curators were given a small ward at birth—except the king. That way the citizens were never stronger than their ruler.

Forcing her to say her vows had been so easy for him. A simple bolt of his power, paining her, and she’d blurted out a desperate “Yes!”

For years he’d controlled her every action, punishing her whenever she displeased him. She would have given anything to leave him, to sneak away and never return, but on the day of their wedding, a bond had formed between them. She’d hated him, but still she’d needed him.

And for all my suffering, I was not crowned queen during his rule. He’d refused. He’d also killed his heirs, including the handsome prince, so that no one would have any claim to his throne.

Against Mandriael’s knowledge, Keeley had taken measures to prevent pregnancy—her one rebellion; none of the slain children had been hers.

No, her title had come after the king stripped her nude and whipped her. In public. For daring to look him in the eye while speaking to him. Agonized and bloody, desperate, she’d cut away her ward— just wanted a taste of power. But an ocean of energy had filled her up and exploded from her—exploding the king.

Got what he deserved.

Mere hours after her coronation, however, the people she’d planned to liberate had revolted.

Queen for less than a day.

They’d ambushed her, swarming into the throne room to surround her on the royal dais. No one had carried a weapon. But then, they hadn’t needed swords and daggers, not anymore. They, too, had removed their wards and their power had battered against her, a maelstrom. But hers had still been greater, so much greater, and she’d catapulted them into the air, all at once, without any real effort.

There had been whispers among the Curators, claims the king had quashed. Some were supposedly born with the ability to not only wield the energy around them but to connect with it, manipulate it, even control it and stop others from using it. Those claims—prophecies—were written in a book that had vanished decades before, either stolen or destroyed.

She’d wondered if she could do those things...even as her people had hurtled hate-filled obscenities and threats.