Shannon Curtis - Warrior Untamed

She swept through the door at the back of the store, chanting as she scampered down the stairs. The door to her apothecary burst open before her and she stalked across the underground room. The cupboard hiding her fire hose reel caught her eye, and she halted, seething.

Yep, this would do the trick. She yanked open the doors and pulled on the head of the hose, flicking the lever at the base of the hose reel. She turned to face the mural. A flick of her hand, a quick, fiercely muttered incantation, and she unlocked her wards. The painted door flung open. She didn’t stop for the torch. She climbed down the stairwell, tugging the hose along with her. The bare concrete floor felt cold beneath her feet, but she didn’t pause until she came up to the steel door. She used her power to slide the lock and thrust the door open. It made a resounding clang as it snapped back to the wall.

Her prisoner jolted awake, blinking as he pushed himself up from the floor where he lay.

“You need to cool down,” she snapped, and yanked the lever on the hose.

Ice-cold water shot across the room, pummeling the man on the floor. He roared, trying to gain his feet, but she kept the hose trained on him. He slipped, tried to rise again, but the force of the water was too powerful, and he fell back against the wall.

He bellowed as he tried to twist away from the high-pressure blast of water, but she didn’t give him any relief. After a long moment, she shut the hose off.

“Stay the hell out of my head,” she yelled, and whirled around, the door slamming shut behind her, the lock sliding home.

Anger was good. Anger she could hold on to, anger she could use. She pulled it around her like a cloak. Because if she didn’t have anger, all that would be left would be guilt at the fantasy that betrayed her fiancé’s memory, and the shame of betrayal, of giving in to temptation from one of them. She climbed the stairs and locked up, but paused when she entered the bookstore. It looked like a mini-tornado had whirled through, leaving devastation in its wake.

Just like pyro jerk. That dream, that wicked kiss—that had devastated her. She had to get control. Of herself, of her powers...of her reaction to him. She would not give in.

Sniffing, she knelt down to start picking up the scattered items throughout the store, restoring order to the shelves as she calmly restored order to her thoughts.

* * *

Hunter shook the water out of his eyes, then glared at the door as he leaned back against the wall. That cold shower had cooled his desire for the damn woman. He made a fist and hit the floor beside him, and a spray of water hit him in the face. Damn it.

Arousal, tight and unrelenting, gripped his cock, stirred his pulse. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t planned it. His lips tightened as he rubbed at the hard ache. That cold shower had been painful, like ice bullets against his ardor. He swore. He’d meant to lurk, that was all, let her lead the way. He’d sent her a subliminal suggestion. Why did she hate the shadow breeds?

He hadn’t expected her to take him to a Reform society ball. He’d given her a gown straight out of his imagination, one that hugged that siren figure yet had hidden her secrets. Classical yet incredibly sexy. That had not been his intention. Usually he just contented himself with being a mere witness to memories—like the dreams he’d previously walked through as Melissa had slept. His father had often played with suggestion, as had Hunter when first learning his dreamwalking skill. But what had just happened—that wasn’t normal. He couldn’t tell if that scene on the balcony was driven by his subconscious or hers. Whose suppressed desire had shanghaied that dream? Goose bumps rose on his skin as the chill night air caressed the icy water that drenched him, leeching at his desire. She’d surprised him, though. When he’d asked her subconscious to reveal the source of her hatred for shadow breeds, she’d shown him a scene of society’s civility, and instead of following that clue, he’d been distracted. The muscles in his jaw felt so tight he had to consciously relax them. He wished he could blame it on the icy drenching, but he practiced deluding others, not himself. He was painfully horny, damn it. For the bitchy witch.

He shook his head, droplets of water flicking off his head like a shaggy dog. A damn Reform ball.

He’d heard all about them, but had never attended one. He should have—he was the eldest son of a Warrior Prime, and the ball was a social event to gather all the Scions of each Prime family in one spot, as a celebration of Reformation Day. It was also where connections were made, alliances were forged and some strategic pairings were made among the sons and daughters of the Primes. As a Warrior Scion, he had a right to attend. As a light warrior, a shadow breed that kept its very existence secret, though, there was no way his family would ever participate in such an event.

They had other ways of making alliances and wielding power, and it was far more delicate and discreet than the obnoxious gatherings of the Reform elite.

He rubbed his bare arms. He was chilled now. His lips curled. And yet, he was also energized. Strange. Usually when he dreamwalked, it was to find out secrets and implant suggestions, or fake memories—even make people forget... He’d never once thought to use it to entice, to seduce. Light warriors drew energy and power from all sources of light, except for created fluorescence. They were also able to pull power from sexual energy and emotions. He’d always believed there needed to be a physical proximity for that to work, though, not something that could be accomplished through an unconscious connection. Apparently he was wrong.

He’d connected with the witch, and with just one dreamy kiss she’d revitalized some of his stores. Totally worth a cold shower. He idly wondered what a real kiss with the woman would be like, then shook his head. He didn’t think her reaction would stop at just an uncomfortable, near-Arctic dousing.

* * *

Two days later, Melissa stared at her pale features in the mirror of the store’s bathroom. She pinched her cheeks, blinking her eyes open wide as she tried to wake up. She glanced at her watch. One hour. One hour before she could close the shop. Part of her wanted to curl up under the counter and sleep for a hundred years. Another part of her wanted to inject caffeine and never close her eyes again.

She was going to kill him. Sure, her mother would be disappointed, but she’d be able to sleep, damn it. He was tormenting her, and no matter what spell she conjured up, he managed to get past her defenses and dance through her dreamscapes.

She turned the tap and splashed cold water on her face. Last night had been bad. Over and over again, she’d relived the night her father had left. She eyed herself in the mirror, the haunted memories surfacing so easily now, as though her mind no longer obeyed her command to bury it.

She and her brother, Dave, had crept out from their rooms, eyeing each other warily in the darkened upstairs hallway as their parents had argued downstairs. It was the eve of Melissa’s sixteenth birthday, when she would graduate from adolescent to Initiate and attend her first Reform ball.

“She’s too young, Eleanor, and you know it.”

“She’s the Daughter-Scion, Phillip, and she has to start behaving like one.”

“She’s sixteen. She’s our daughter. You can’t marry her off, not yet.”

“She doesn’t have the luxury of just being our daughter, and you know it. We have to form that alliance. I don’t want to be at the mercy of the Armstrongs, or the Marchettas, or any other Reform family. We need to ensure our witches have strong representation within the Senate, and this merger will ensure that. You know we can’t use David, but we can at least use Melissa as an asset.”