Feral warrior 4- Rapture Untamed Page 5

  What she craved and needed was life energy. She couldn’t get away from Jag soon enough.

  She’d decided Niall would be the one to partner him. Niall was by far the more even-tempered of her two men and far less likely to let Jag’s antagonistic remarks draw him into a fight. And while her instincts told her Jag would never intentionally kill one of their own, a Feral with his claws and fangs drawn could be deadly to mortals and immortals alike. No Therian would ever win against a Feral. Not unless the Feral let him.

  Or, in her case, unless she had an unfair advantage.

  She had confidence that Niall would be able to handle Jag for a few days, and that should be all they needed to find and kill the Daemons.

  The sound of male footsteps and the low sound of voices beyond the dining-room door warned her she was about to get company. A moment later, Ewan and Niall walked into the room in uniform, dressed in black pants and boots much like hers, and dark red T-shirts.

  A bear of a man, Ewan possessed fair coloring and a neck as thick as her upper thigh. Niall, on the other hand, stood lean and wiry, as dark as Ewan was fair. Of the two, Niall’s eyes were by far the softer. At least when they looked at her.

  Both men followed her without question, or they wouldn’t be under her command. But she and Niall had known one another for more than three hundred years and had been intimate on and off during most of that time. And while that wasn’t unusual, she knew Niall wanted more from her. A relationship. Commitment. Neither of which she would ever give him.

  To his credit, he didn’t push. She’d have him reassigned if he did, and he knew it.

  She didn’t hear Jag enter, but knew the instant he did. The Feral, even in his human form, walked as silently as his animal counterpart. Jag wore a black T-shirt over a different pair of army green cargo pants. As Niall and Ewan took the seats on either side of her, Jag claimed the chair directly across from her. Naturally.

  She braced for more carnal remarks, longing to ignore him, but if she’d learned anything by now, it was that he’d only take her feigned indifference as more of a challenge. As if she hadn’t presented him with enough of one already.

  She met his gaze with a simple nod, but the flash of devilish fire that lit his eyes had her groaning silently.

  Here we go again.

  Jag served himself from the platter piled high with thick slices of rare roast beef, a smile playing at his mouth as he considered the best way to force Olivia’s hand, to make her partner with him instead of tossing him one of her men, as she wanted to. And he had no doubt she wanted to.

  His sex talk in the war room yesterday had clearly riled her pair of bodyguards, though they’d been good little soldiers and stood down when Olivia’s slender hand shot out to stop them. What would it take to push them too far?

  Ah, wouldn’t it be fun to find out.

  His gaze skimmed over Olivia’s pretty face, dipping to her shoulders and lower, before returning to her eyes. “Did you dream about me, Sugar?”

  “And why would I dream about you, Jag? You’d have to cross my mind first.”

  He smiled with true enjoyment. Matching wits with this one was the most fun he’d had in…he couldn’t remember how long. “Why, Sugar, I dreamed about you. The feel of you beneath my hands, your sexy little cries as you rose toward release.”

  Niall’s mouth tightened, but he made no other indication he’d heard. Ewan didn’t seem to care at all, but really, why should they? The two men probably just assumed he’d coaxed Olivia into his bed.

  Pity that wasn’t the truth.

  To hell with the truth. He needed something more.

  Mouth twisting unpleasantly, he leaned forward. “In my dream it wasn’t my fingers I shoved inside your wet heat when I trapped you in the media room early this morning, Red, it was my cock.”

  Deep inside him, his animal growled with disapproval, the damned beast. Everyone was a critic.

  Olivia jerked, staring at him in shock at the blatant lie.

  Niall and Ewan lunged to their feet as one, their hunting knives in their hands.

  And looky here. His little ploy had worked like a charm.

  “He’s lying,” Olivia snapped.

  Jag just grinned at her. “My fingers are still throbbing from the squeeze of your tight, wet little sheath, Red.”

  Niall started around the table as if he intended to defend her honor. But the daggers in Olivia’s eyes had Jag wondering if she wouldn’t slice him and dice him herself.

  Olivia shot to her feet. “Niall, stand down!”

  Lies or not, Jag’s words reeked of disrespect, and her men weren’t having it. Olivia fisted her hands on the table. She appreciated their loyalty, she really did. But dammit! A fight could only end in disaster. Instigator or not, Jag belonged here, and they didn’t. If there was trouble, she had no doubt who’d be out on their asses.

  The Therians.

  And she was not ready to lose this one chance to work with the Ferals.

  Damn Jag!

  He rose lazily to his feet, the muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt.

  Olivia glared at him. “You are one messed-up fuck.”

  The jackass winked at her. Winked! But there was nothing lazy about his stance, or his eyes, as he followed Niall’s progress around the table. Every line of his body said he was itching for this fight.

  “Niall, stand down.” When he didn’t respond, she slammed her fists onto the table, sending the china hopping. “Now!”

  The last of Olivia’s hopes of escaping Jag sank like a rowboat in a storm.

  A deep, rumbling growl came from the doorway, and Olivia turned to find Lyon and Kara walking in, Tighe and Delaney close behind. Lyon’s gaze slid from Niall, now standing stock-still three feet from Jag, his knife gripped tight in his hand, to Jag. Lyon’s face turned dark as a draden cloud.

  Niall sheathed his knife and quickly retreated to his seat, as if that warning had been directed at him. Olivia felt certain it hadn’t been. Lyon had no illusions about the troublemaking nature of his jaguar Feral.

  The frustration and resignation clouding Lyon’s eyes as his gaze met Jag’s confirmed it. She commiserated with the Feral leader. How did you manage a man like Jag? A man so adept at antagonizing others. A man you were forced to keep on your team through circumstances far beyond your control. Only eight Feral Warriors currently existed in the world. Eight with the strength and power needed to fight the Mage, who sought to free Satanan and his horde. And if one of those eight happened to be a trouble-causing asshole, what choice had you but to deal with it?

  Just as she had no choice but to partner the jackass. Sending either of her men with him would only end in disaster. Niall might be the more even-tempered of the two, but not when it came to her. As he’d gone after Jag, his feelings for her had shone from his face as clearly as a beacon on a clear night. And Jag had seen them. She was sure of it.

  If she tried to pair either Niall or Ewan with Jag, he’d goad them into attacking him, she had little doubt. Which could well prove fatal. And not to Jag.

  Dammit, I am going to have to partner Jag myself.

  Olivia sighed. Such was the price of leadership. Though her situation was considerably more complicated than merely dealing with a surly warrior.

  Jag was a danger to her in a way he was to no one else. Because he could feel her feed. Which meant she was going to have to find a way to escape him on a regular basis. Either that, or they’d end up spending hours a day trying to keep food in her, which would only raise his suspicions as well.

  As the others joined them, Tighe met her gaze across the table. “I’d like for you to accompany Delaney and me, Olivia, if that meets with your approval.”

  Olivia glanced at Jag, unable to help herself. The gleam in his eyes laughed at her. He knew he’d backed her into a corner. That was exactly what he’d meant to do.

  “I’ll be sending Ewan with you, Tighe. I’ll be partnering Jag.”

  She felt the sharp disappr
oval of her men, but neither showed disrespect by undermining her position out loud.

  Tighe looked at her askance. “Are you sure? He’s an ass.”

  Olivia’s surprised gaze slid to Delaney, beside him, and they shared a moment’s amusement. Tighe wasn’t averse to calling it as he saw it.

  “I’m aware of that, Tighe. I can handle him.”

  She glanced at Jag, daring him to make one more inappropriate comment.

  But for once the shifter remained silent, satisfaction written all over his face. He’d gotten just what he wanted.

  “Niall will partner with Hawke,” Olivia continued, turning her gaze back to Tighe.

  The tiger shifter nodded, his eyes holding a mix of concern and respect. And no small amount of speculation. Did he believe her interested in the jaguar? Did any woman have so little self-respect that she willingly sought such crass dominance in a male? It didn’t please her that he might think she was such a female.

  Then again, what did it matter what anyone thought so long as her reasons were sound? And they were.

  Tighe nodded. “All right, then. As soon as we eat, we’ll head out.”

  Jag smiled a thoroughly self-satisfied smile as she took her seat again. “I’ll make all your dreams come true, Sugar.”

  Beside her, Niall growled low in his throat.

  “I suspect you’re right, Jag,” Olivia said coolly. “Since my dreams all involve knives. And blood.”

  Several of the Ferals snorted, someone chuckled.

  “She’s got your number, Cat,” Wulfe drawled.

  Olivia had expected to draw a glimmer of anger from Jag at the reminder of what had really happened early that morning, but he disappointed her. The smile that lifted his mouth was hard-edged, but genuine.

  “Bring it on.”

  Jag glanced over at Olivia, sitting in the front passenger seat of his Hummer as he drove to Harpers Ferry a short while later. She’d donned a leather jacket over the tank and black pants—not a prissy, tailored little jacket, but one that had clearly seen its share of battle. She might still be the haughty ice princess, but she looked the part of a warrior now.

  Goddess, she turned him on.

  They’d left the crowded D.C. suburbs quickly enough and now drove along the narrow roads winding through tiny towns and across farms and vineyards.

  “Why does a pretty little girl like you want to get her hands dirty fighting draden? That’s what I can’t figure out.”

  Though she barely moved a muscle, he felt her annoyance at the little-girl crack. He enjoyed annoying her, enjoyed watching the anger snap in her eyes.

  Unfortunately, the crack failed to get a rise out of her.

  “What’s with the Scottish accent? Your words and phrasing are all American.”

  Again, she didn’t answer, and he figured she’d decided simply to freeze him out. He wasn’t sure why he wanted her talking to him, but he did.

  “I’m an ass, Olivia. We both know it. But I’d like to know a little more about you.”

  She cut him a look, assessing. Contemplative. Then slowly turned to the front again. “I was born in Scotland and lived there for several hundred years. But I spent half the nineteenth century and all of the twentieth in the New England enclaves, mostly Boston and New York. Six years ago I was promoted to the rank of team leader and reassigned to the British Guard.”

  Her voice had a depth to it, a feminine richness that slid over his skin like satin. The brogue added just the right touch of texture and warmth.

  “And now you’re back.”

  “I am.”

  “Why did you join the Guard?” He found himself genuinely interested in her. Not just her body, even though that interest continued to erupt like fireworks in his blood, but in the person. Olivia. She intrigued him more than any woman had in a long, long time.

  But again, she was silent so long he didn’t think she intended to answer. When she finally did, her words surprised him.

  “My mother was killed by draden when I was seven. You might say I have a score to settle.”

  “If you’ve been doing this for centuries, I’m thinking that score’s been settled a few hundred times over.”

  “You’re wrong, Feral. That score will never be settled so long as draden continue to exist on this Earth.”

  He heard the conviction of her words, felt it all the way to his bones, where it resonated deeply.

  “I’m good at what I do,” she said simply. “And I enjoy it.”

  “I get that. I feel the same,” he added, surprising himself with his honesty.

  Surprising them both. Her brows rose as she shot him a curious look. “You like being a Feral Warrior? You have an odd way of showing it, Jag.”

  Wasn’t that the truth. But yeah, he liked being a Feral, liked fighting draden and Mage. It was the only thing that gave his life purpose. But he’d never tell her that. Touchy-feely pillow talk sure as hell wasn’t his thing.

  “It gets me laid, Sugar. All the girls want to fuck a Feral, you know that.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Everything goes back to sex with you, doesn’t it?”

  “You ever order your men to go down on you, Red? I can’t stop wondering if you have freckles down there, swimming in the cream.”

  He expected her to turn away in disgust, ignoring him again. Or maybe, if he was lucky, she’d lose her temper and slug him a good one. Instead, she turned toward him, shoulders and all, but remained silent.

  He glanced at her, thinking she was giving him the evil eye or something, but she was studying him as if she’d shoved him under a microscope.

  “What?” he snapped. He was starting to feel twitchy under that cool, intense regard.

  “Do you even know why you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Annoy the hell out of everyone?”

  Jag shrugged. “It’s just who I am, Sugar. Like I said, I’m not a nice guy.”

  “See, I don’t believe that.”

  Tearing his gaze from the road, he gave her an incredulous look.

  She leaned her shoulder more firmly against the seat as if settling in for a nice long discussion. Hell. His gaze returned to the road.

  “I saw you with Pink in the war room, Jag. She was by far the most vulnerable person in there, the easiest target, yet you defended her. Violently. And she hadn’t even been attacked, not outright. You wouldn’t allow anyone to so much as hurt her feelings.”

  Jag scowled. “Pink’s had a rough go of it.”

  “That’s my point. She’d be the easiest of targets if your aim was to hurt, but it’s not. And you never aimed your barbs at Kara or Skye, either. Only at Delaney and me, but you can’t hurt either of us with them, and I think you know that.”

  She was starting to piss him off. “I’m not looking to hurt you, Red. Just fuck your brains out.”

  “You use sex talk as a defense, do you know that?”

  “You can shut up now, Sigmund Freud.”

  Olivia didn’t bat an eye. Nor did she shut up, dammit.

  “You don’t hurt the vulnerable, Jag. What you do is make people mad at you—the other Ferals, my men. Me. You want us mad. You need us mad at you. Do you know why?”

  He gripped the steering wheel hard, throwing her a glower that would have had men three times her size quaking in their boots. And he knew it wouldn’t make an ounce of difference. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  To his surprise, she turned forward again, tilting her head back until it rested against the seat behind her. For several moments, she was silent, and he thought maybe she was through with him after all. But when she began to speak, he felt transported—to a place he didn’t want to go.

  “Years ago, something happened for which I blamed myself bitterly, Jag. I hated myself and everything about me.” Her voice was low, her words devoid of emotion. But the emotion was there, buried so deep he felt it tugging at the hole in his chest where his heart used to be. “I let others hurt me. I practical
ly begged them to hurt me. At the time, I didn’t understand why. It wasn’t until years later that I finally figured out that my own self-hatred had sought out the punishment. It almost destroyed me. The thing is, after living with that kind of guilt and darkness, after suffering it myself, I’ve come to recognize it in others.”

  She turned back to face him. “I see it in you.”

  Goddess, he didn’t need this shit. “I like myself just fine, Olivia.”

  “Do you?” She let the question hang in the air, her tone telling him clearly she didn’t believe him. Damn little prissy psychoanalyst.

  “The way I see it, you can’t stand for anyone to like you. You need them to hate you as much as you hate yourself. So you antagonize and annoy them as your own personal form of self-punishment. Deep down, you’re a decent guy, Jag. You don’t actually hurt anyone—you don’t break their things, you don’t kill their pets. You don’t even punch them in the face. Instead, you heckle them until they’re the ones punching you. Until all you see in their eyes is the same deep, raw dislike you feel for yourself.”

  He scoffed. “You’ve known me how long? How the fuck do you know I don’t break the other kids’ toys or twist the heads off their hamsters?”

  “I know.”

  Goddess, her know-it-all attitude was pissing him off.

  Okay, maybe he didn’t do those things, but she was wrong about the rest of it. Totally off. He wasn’t a decent guy. And he wasn’t some fucked-up self-hating loser. He was just who he was.

  “A pretty little theory, Sugar. But I’m tired of hearing you talk.”

  He snatched her arm, curling his hand around her wrist and pressing his palm hard against her skin, willing his hand to heat, filling her with sensual fire.

  Olivia gasped, trying to jerk her arm free even as her breasts rose, her back arching in an intoxicatingly passionate move. Her head tilted back, and he knew she was feeling the pleasure, the warm, throbbing heat all the way down.

  “Now I want to hear you scream. Come for me, Red.”