Ecstasy Untamed (Feral Warriors #6)

Ecstasy Untamed (Feral Warriors #6) Page 15

Her expressive eyes widened, and he couldn't turn away. She fascinated him, pulled at him like a dangerous drug. He knew he should leave. He told himself to go. But if there was one thing he was lacking these days, it was self-control. "You're genuinely interested in the Civil War?"

"Is that so surprising?" A glimmer of laughter lit her expression, but her eyes didn't sparkle the way he remembered. Was that his doing? The thought hurt.

He shrugged. "I don't think I've ever run into a woman, a Therian woman, who cared one way or another about human history."

"Human history is the history of the world. We might not play a direct part in it most of the time, but that doesn't mean it's not relevant."

He smiled, impressed. "Exactly. You sound like a student of more than just the American Civil War."

"I am." She sat down, curling once more into his reading chair, tucking her legs up beside her. He'd never again see that chair, or sit in it, he suspected, that he wouldn't think of her. "Honestly, I'm interested in everything. I adore books and have read anything and everything I can get my hands on, though generally nonfiction. History, philosophy, psychology, the sciences." As she talked, the sparkle briefly reappeared in her eyes. "But I've long been fascinated by the nature of the Civil War. Unlike the European conflicts, it wasn't about conquering another nation. It wasn't about world domination. It was about ideological differences, one side fighting for independence, the other fighting to preserve the whole. It split villages, families."

"I know," he said quietly.

Her mouth dropped open. "You were here. Right in the middle of it."

"The Ferals were. I wasn't."

"You weren't a Feral Warrior, then?"

"No. Not at first. I was in Finland. My father was killed during that conflict, struck by a mortar shell that blew his heart out of his chest. The wrong place at the wrong time."

"Oh, Hawke, I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago. A few weeks later, I was marked to be the next hawk shifter. By the time I returned, the Civil War was nearly over. But I saw the destruction. I saw the hollow eyes of the humans, eyes that had once glowed with such fervor, such purpose."

Faith nodded. "I saw the same in Europe. The hollow eyes, at least." Her expressive face turned pensive, shadows of old pain crossing her features.

"You were there, during the world wars?"

"Yes. I was very young during the first war, the Great War. My love of history was born of a need to understand why my village had been attacked and so many killed. I wanted to know who'd ordered the destruction. But I found myself fascinated with the workings of power and greed. And by the strategies of battle." She shrugged. "What doesn't kill you makes you obsessed."

"Were the people in your enclave killed, or simply scattered?"

"Neither." Her mouth gave a wry twist. "I was the only one scattered."

He lowered himself to the chair that sat at right angles to hers, arms on his thighs as he leaned toward her. "What do you mean?"

She sat back, pulling her knees against her chest. All softness fled from her face, replaced by old pain. And anger. "A few hours before the village was attacked, we received a warning. My enclave packed up and left. I didn't." He waited for her to say more. Instead, she shrugged, visibly pushing away the memory. "It was a long time ago. So, have you visited all the nearby battlefields - Manassas, Harpers Ferry, Gettysburg?"

He wanted to press her for more, sensing a deep, open wound. But he'd caused her enough pain. "Yes, numerous times, plus a number of smaller ones. The armies traipsed all over this area at one point or another."

"I'd love to see them." Once more, the sparkle briefly returned to her eyes.

"I'd love to show you." Goddess, that was true. He imagined the two of them walking hand in hand through the old battlefields, her quick mind taking it all in as she fired off questions and observations. None of his brothers had ever had any interest. How he would love to share his own passion for history with someone. With Faith. "One of these days, I'll take you." In a move as natural as breathing, he reached for her, covering her soft hand with his.

Her gaze snapped up to his, her eyes softening, then tightening with a plea he didn't understand. A plea laced with desperation. She leaned toward him, and, for one brilliant moment, he thought she meant to throw herself into his arms.

His hawk screeched with triumph.

But as quickly as the look appeared, it vanished. Her face screwed up with a pain that slew him. She jerked her hand away. "Don't touch me," she whispered, her voice breaking.

He reared back. "Faith."

"I love Maxim!" She leaped from her chair, moving behind it as if to protect herself from him. Her eyes had turned wild, unfocused. The eyes of a stranger.

What the hell? Was everyone going crazy, or was it just him?

"Go." Her face crumpled. Tears began to run down her cheeks. "Just go," she whispered.

Goddess. All he'd done was touch her hand. He stared at her in confusion, every instinct he possessed demanding he go to her, not turn away. But she was crying and he'd caused the tears, him and his damned infatuation.

Walking barefoot over broken glass couldn't hurt any more than turning his back on her as tears skated down her cheeks, but he forced himself to do just that, to leave the room and close the doors behind him. Then he leaned back against the nearest wall, dug his fingers into his scalp, and ached. He'd made her cry.

He had to stay away from her. Until he was himself again, until he was certain he could be polite and nothing more, he couldn't go near her. And never could he allow himself to be alone with her again.

He'd made her cry.

It was too much to ask that he might stop caring about her. It was too late for that. In a few short days, she'd become the light shining in his heart. The music. The life.

But no one could ever know. He had to bury his feelings deep, so deep no one ever saw them again. So deep no one ever knew that he'd fallen in love with the woman destined to become his enemy's mate.

The next afternoon, Faith stood beside Maxim in the foyer, the other wives nearby as Olivia greeted Kieran, the latest of the new Ferals to arrive at Feral House.

"Olivia, you weren't kidding," Delaney said. "He is beautiful."

Kieran grinned and rolled his eyes.

Tighe hooked his arm around his wife's shoulders, pulling her close. "Excuse me?" But his dimples flashed with his own grin, and Delaney laughed. "Not as pretty as you, my tiger."

Tighe growled, but it was a funny growl, a feral You know it.

Kieran was beautiful, Faith couldn't deny it, though she found his beauty a bit too . . . flawless. His face perfectly shaped, his jaw perfectly sculpted, his nose perfectly straight, and his eyes a perfect, crystal blue. His hair, a gorgeous, flawless gold, hung in perfect waves to his broad shoulders. Even his mouth, with its full lower lip, was utterly, perfectly sensual. As eye candy, he was a nonpareil. And, as Olivia had promised, he seemed to take it in stride, which made him likable as well. But Kieran's face lacked the character of Hawke's, and while he seemed to be nice enough, his eyes lacked that endless well of patience and kindness that belonged to Hawke alone.

Belatedly, she realized it should be Maxim she compared Kieran to, not Hawke. She hadn't even seen Hawke since he'd walked into the library early yesterday morning. When she'd started crying and ordered him out.

Her scalp tingled with remembered shame. He hadn't deserved that, not at all. She'd been so glad to see him. Her pulse had quickened at the sight of him in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, his golden armband winking beneath the cuff of his shirt, circling one muscular arm. He'd stolen her breath as he'd towered over her, his eyes gleaming with warmth, with friendliness and kindness and an emotion not nearly so gentle. One that had made her flesh heat, her body grow restless, and her heart thud with reckless excitement.

She'd wanted him there. As they'd talked of his books and war, she'd watched the movement of his beautifully shaped lips and fallen deeply into those dark eyes. She'd wanted him to stay there with her, desperately. And then he'd reached for her hand, touched her, and she'd gone a little insane, demanding he leave her, and he had. She hadn't seen him since.

Her gaze flicked to one of the hallways that led off the foyer, then the other, but she saw no sign of him. Where was he?

"Told you he was beautiful," Olivia said with a grin, giving Kieran a big kiss on the cheek. "He's a god, aren't you, Kieran, my love?"

The big blond grinned, his smile as movie-star perfect as the rest of him. "I'm a god." But his expression was deadpan, his voice, lightly dusted with an Irish brogue, ironic, the laughter in his eyes pointed clearly at himself.

"Adonis in the flesh." Olivia moved to his side and introduced him to Lyon first. Once the men had slapped forearms, she took Kieran by the elbow and turned him to Jag, then slipped from his side to Jag's, sliding her arms tight around Jag's waist. "This is my mate."

Faith tensed, certain she was about to witness another explosion of male pride and jealousy, certain the two big men were about to go feral. But Kieran grabbed Jag's hand and shook it hard, his expression close to awe.

"I never thought I'd see the day that Olivia took a mate. A thousand men have tried to win her, and failed. You must be one hell of a man."

Jag snorted. "I might decide I like you, Pretty Boy."

Kieran laughed, the sound as beautiful as the rest of him. "One of these days, you'll have to tell me your secret."

Jag cut his eyes at Olivia, his tone turning soft and loving. "That story's not mine to tell."

Kieran nodded with approval. "I just might decide I like you, too, boyo."

Jag clapped the newest Feral on the shoulder, and the three started for the living room and the third welcome reception in as many days. Three new Ferals in addition to Maxim, and another five on the way. So far.

As everyone started toward the living room, Kara slipped through the crowd to join Faith, eyeing her curiously. "How are you?"

"I'm fine."

Kara's gaze flicked to Maxim and back again. "Good. I'm glad. Jag, Olivia, and I are going shopping later. We need more sheets and towels. Most of the rooms on the third floor have never been used, but if new Ferals keep arriving, we're going to be filling them all. Would you like to come shopping with us?"

Oh, she would! She'd love to see something of America other than the airport and Feral House. Going on a shopping adventure with Kara and Olivia would be wonderful. But before she could open her mouth to say yes, something clicked in her mind. I belong with Maxim. She found herself shaking her head. "I'm going to stay with Maxim."

Kara gave her a curious look, then smiled. "Okay. Maybe another time."

As Kara turned away, Maxim took Faith by the arm and steered her toward the stairs. Toward his bedchamber. A stab of fear bolted through her mind, her pulse beginning to race, her skin growing damp. What was wrong with her? They were only going upstairs. Clearly, Maxim didn't feel like suffering through another social gathering.

Her feet dragged, her gaze darting back to the foyer, seeking Hawke. The need to see him welled up so thick and so suddenly that her eyes began to sting. The litany in her mind continued. I belong to Maxim. I belong to Maxim.

But her heart cried out for Hawke.

Chapter Eight

Four days later, Hawke stood with Lyon and Kougar in the doorway of the media room, observing - babysitting - six of the newly marked Feral Warriors, who sprawled across the room, cheering on one team or the other, leaping, shouting, and shoving one another. So far, no blood had been spilled, but the soccer match was only twenty minutes old. Since they'd started showing up five days ago, there had been nearly constant fights, constant arguments, the testosterone thick as tar. If the past five days were anything to go by, the blood would start spilling soon enough. They'd already destroyed all the televisions in the media room and two of the sofas. Kara had forced a couple of them to accompany her and Wulfe in hunting down replacements at local yard sales.

"There's no sense in bringing in new ones when they'll only wind up at the dump in a couple of days," she'd said reasonably.

The walls were a mess, holes in the plaster the size of fists, of heads, and occasionally of entire bodies.

"I've seen new Ferals arrive in groups before," Lyon muttered, "but I've never seen it this bad."

"It may be the spirit trap," Hawke said. "I heard the animals in there, their cries of pain. Centuries of that has to be screwing with them. And, in turn, the men they've marked."

Kougar grunted, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. "Every one of you arrived at Feral House raging with testosterone. Paenther nearly dug Lyon's heart out. Jag didn't want to be here. Both Lyon and Wulfe went feral on anyone who looked at them sideways." He glanced at Hawke, his eyes narrowing. "You kept it bottled better than most, but it was there. Raw anger tempered by raging grief." He shook his head. "I was concerned about you, worried you were going to erupt before it was over, but you got it under control."

Hawke nodded. "Then." He sure as hell wasn't in control, now.

Kougar leaned closer until their shoulders touched. "You'll do it again. I have no doubt you'll come through this as you did the other, Wings. No doubt at all."

"That makes one of us." Everyone had tried to help him with no success - the healer Esmeria, the Shaman, Skye with her enchantress's gifts, and over and over again, Kara. The second time Kara had given him radiance after his thirty-seven-hour free flight, he'd felt flat-out pain, like he'd touched something electrical that he shouldn't have. It had been all he could do to hang on and not reveal his weakness. But like the last time, it hadn't gotten any better. And he'd declined radiance ever since.