Taken

Chapter 20

It wasn’t much, just a two-story fake Tudor on a quiet, depressed street, but Eric was visibly proud of himself for scrambling a rental on short notice. “It’s good,” Zach said, and hoped Sophie would catch the hint. She’d been quiet since the bar, the kind of quiet he was beginning to think spelled trouble.

And he didn’t want to break the news that all the trouble might’ve been wasted if they had to get her out of town because the upir here were getting too big for their britches.

“It’s nice.” She stood in the empty living room, looking at the fake fireplace; the gas wouldn’t be turned on until Brun or Eric could get down to pay a deposit, but there was electricity, the place came with a fridge and a stove, and Julia had already hung up her clothes in one of the bedrooms—not the biggest one, for once.

That one belonged to the shaman. And, not so incidentally, to Zach. But he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

Assuming they stayed here.

“It’s really nice,” she said, pushing her hair back. A thin thread of her musk reached him. She even smelled pleased, and Eric drew himself up a little straighter, grinning. “You did all this just in a few hours?”

His leather jacket creaked as he shrugged. Was he actually blushing? Wonders never ceased. “The hardest part was finding mattresses. But we’re champion scroungers.”

She was actually smiling, her eyes damn near sparkling and the corners of her mouth pulling up. The smile did something funny to Zach’s head, even though he thought he was pretty prepared for how goddamn attractive she was.

That smile made him want to do something, anything, to keep it on her face. Maybe make her laugh. She didn’t just smell good, she was smart and capable and soft in all the right places, and—

The smile waned. She gave the living room another critical glance, and slid her purse off her shoulder. “We might not be here for long, though. We found some things out.”

Which brought Eric’s eyes around to rest on him, speculatively, and he found himself wondering if his cousin was having second thoughts.

There was going to be a short, sharp fight if that was happening.

“Like what?” Eric made a restless movement, the pale stripe in his hair gleaming under the ceiling fixture’s flood of gold.

Zach kept his hands loose with an effort. “Like why the upir are after our shaman. What’s for dinner?”

“Julia and Brun are at the store, should be back in a little while. Julia said she’d do steaks.” Eric studied Zach’s face, his forehead wrinkling. He looked younger when he did that, a ghost of the gangly kid he used to be. “What’s up?”

“Steak? Wow.” Sophie looked relieved. That smile peeped out again, a shadow of its former self.

Still, he almost lost track of what he needed to say, looking at that shadow. “Seems like our shaman’s ex-husband wants her as a sacrifice. And the upir in these parts are getting uppity, in bed with the police and the local gentry. Met a shaman of the Bear Tribe who doesn’t think anyone will stand up to them.”

“So it’s simple.” Eric folded his arms, his leather jacket creaking. “We slap them around a bit, show them who’s boss, crack ’em like a nut, and be home in time for breakfast. Right?”

If something so simple can fix it, I’ll be relieved. “It’s up to the shaman.” Zach clumped over to the window, his boots squelching. He’d be lucky if she didn’t catch a cold after being dragged around through the rain all day. No wonder the Tribes were so hard to find in this city, if they were lying low, scared of upir.

Scared of upir. What next? They were dangerous, true, but Tribe—especially Carcajou—were well-equipped to handle them. Right?

Unless there’s so many of them they can swarm a Family and take out a shaman. It was an uncomfortable thought. Cullen said they’d already lost two. Are pigs gonna start flying next? Jesus.

The street lay under a heavy gray pall, night already mostly fallen. Streetlamps struggled into life, pale yellow dots on the canvas of winter dusk. The house was full of disused stale air, but the musk was already beginning to seep in and make it smell like home.

“What are we going to do?” Eric sounded as young as Brun, and for a moment Zach was glad nobody was asking him. He was having a difficult time keeping his temper down, thinking of upir stalking a helpless woman.

Stalking this helpless woman.

“I don’t know.” There was a sound of movement, and a sudden drift of her almost-perfume. “You’re angry.” Soft, tentative.

He forced himself to stand still. “Of course I’m angry.” They’re threatening our shaman. My mate. But you don’t have a clue, do you?

“Well, what should we do?” Still, that cautious tone, as if she wasn’t sure if he was going to explode.

He just might. Even the ice and moonlight hanging on her wasn’t enough to smooth his nerves. “What I want to do is go find this motherfucker and tear his spleen out. Because I can smell how afraid you are every time you think about him. Then I want to find his happy little handler, this Armitage, and tear him apart, too. And all their little helpers.”

The touch startled him. She had her hand on his shoulder, a light pressure through his damp jacket. Both of them had been rained on all day, and for what? To find out the upir had a lock on this town so tight the other Tribes were afraid instead of proud.

“Why are they afraid of Carcajou?” She pronounced the name slightly wrong, but he thought he detected a little bit of high-school French. “And what does that mean, anyway?”

“They’re afraid of us because that’s our specialization, hunting upir. And because we don’t back down—that’s why there’re so few of us. We breed slow and we fight hard.” Our Family was an exception, but Dad had three mates. The first left him after two stillborn, the second had me and died giving birth to Kyle. Then the shaman threw twins, and that was a Big Event. Every Tribe Dad knew came to pay their regards.

His hands had turned into fists. He felt more than heard Eric withdrawing, probably spooked by the high-level bloodlust pouring out of his glands.

“Well. That answers that.” Did she sound amused? Did she not have any idea what was going on?

He glanced down at her. Yes, that was her hand on his shoulder. Yes, she was smiling. It was an odd, wry smile, and her glasses glinted wickedly at him. She’d unbuttoned Kyle’s jacket, and the rain had slid in, plastering a triangle of shirt to her chest.

Yup. Curves to make a racetrack die of envy, and she was standing right next to him, the closest she’d ever willingly been. Close enough that he could feel the heat from her, even through her soaked clothing.

What the hell?

“I guess you saved my life.” She was looking at the window, not at him. “Though we’re going to have to talk about that kidnapping thing.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” The growl rattled the window, and he fought to keep the anger down.

“I know. I said we’d talk about it. Just calm down.”

He could smell the fear on her, but she stayed right where she was. He wondered what it cost her, and how much practice she’d had. “It’s hard to be calm when you smell frightened, shaman.” You don’t know how hard.

“I can’t remember not being scared. Isn’t that funny?” Her expression suggested she didn’t find anything amusing about it. “I know I must’ve been, maybe before I married Mark. But not anymore.”

Jesus. “I’m sorry.” And I’m something you should be afraid of, too. Dammit. Of all the things to happen.

“I was terrified when I left him. I was scared nobody would believe me, or he’d find me and drag me back, or the outside world really was too huge for me to handle on my own. That he was right somehow, you know? That I was weak and he was justified every time he…” Maddeningly, she stopped.

Every time he hurt you. “But you did it, anyway, right?”

“I did.” Her hand fell away from his shoulder, but she didn’t move away from him. “Just like I’m scared of you and your family, but I’m going to stay with you, anyway. Being frightened isn’t a reason not to do something. Lucy always tried to tell me that.”

Lucy? Her friend. “I’m sorry about her.” And sorry about Kyle. And sorry about you, too. Sorry I’ve frightened you. Why couldn’t this have been easier?

“Me, too. I just…Why would Mark want her dead, too? I can’t figure it out.”

You can’t guess? But of course she couldn’t. It was utterly alien to her, probably, the things some men were capable of. And they call us beasts. “I’d bet it was because she helped you get away. Didn’t she?”

Because when that type of man thinks he owns something, he’ll kill everything around it just to prove he does.

She was silent for a long span of moments, staring out the window. When he looked closer, he found out her cheeks were wet, not just with the endless, stupid rain. Big gemlike tears made her pretty eyes sparkle, and she was biting her lower lip gently, worrying at it.

“Then it is my fault,” she finally whispered. “It should’ve been me.”

“Oh, Christ.” He had her shoulders before he realized it, restrained himself from shaking her only by sheer willpower. “Don’t. It’s not your fault and not hers, either. It’s him. He’s the—”

She reached up, awkward because his hands were around her upper arms, and pulled his head down, gently but irresistibly. His mouth met hers, and he forgot everything but the taste of her, flavored with the ghost of spearmint gum, her lips opening shyly. His body pushed against hers, searching for resistance, and found none until her back met the living-room wall near the dead fireplace. His hands slid down to describe her waist, those hips he’d been longing to touch unreeling just like a roller coaster.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss, but he tried to make it gentler. He pressed himself against her, seeking comfort and trying to give it all at once. His hands found the edge of her shirt and slid under, and her skin was so warm and smooth underneath wet cloth that he made a low sound of approval deep in his throat. The sound transformed halfway into an inquiry, because he was describing the cathedral arches of her ribs with his fingers and aching to touch more—like the soft hot underside of her breasts, just made for cupping his hands around.

She broke away, gasping in a short deep breath. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, even the wet edge of her jaw, flavored with salt and rain. And a part of him wanted to drag her down to the floor right there, get rid of all the irritating sodden cloth in the way, and show her just how much he appreciated each curving inch of her softness.

And how much closer he wanted to get to her.

“Stop,” she whispered, and he was almost out of his mind enough not to care. Her hands were on his shoulders now, pushing ineffectually, and he went rigid for a long moment, almost trembling with the urge to kiss her again so she couldn’t repeat it. “Please.”

He let her push him away, slowly. Arousal was a lead bar with roots sunk in his belly, and the animal in him was not satisfied with just rubbing his scent all over her and a tiny bit of foreplay. It wanted a few hours to mark her thoroughly as his, and a few more hours to begin learning how to enjoy her.

And for once, he and his animal wanted the same thing. But it wasn’t time yet, and he wasn’t a savage. He was Carcajou, and she was drawing in deep flaring breaths, staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

“You stopped.” Her hair was tangled, a glory of damp sandalwood curls. He wanted to bury his face in it and inhale, and let his hands discover that beautiful little curve below her ribs and above her hips, just made for his fingers to do a little skimming and skating on.

No shit. “You told me to.” He swallowed dryly, imposed control. “I’m not going to force you, Sophie.” You’ve been forced enough.

“Just kidnap me?” But she smiled when she said it, a private little curve of her pretty lips, and he about lost all his good sense right there. High color bloomed on her cheeks.

“I’ll kidnap you as many times as you like,” his mouth said, independently of his brain. Shit. Dammit. What’s wrong with me?

Amazingly, her smile broadened. She actually looked amused. “Did you just make a joke? I think that’s the first one I’ve heard.”

“Step a little closer. Or let me go back to what I was doing about thirty seconds ago.” What was it about her that could make him smart off like a teenager? Maybe it was the way she was blushing, or the way she tipped her head down and looked over the top of those cute little steel-rimmed glasses. It made her mouth look nice and soft, and it gave him all sorts of ideas about getting her to take them off and—

The front door rattled and he whirled, his head coming up and new tension snapping through him. Sophie sucked in a breath at the sound.

But it was only the twins. “Raining buckets out there,” Julia announced. “What? Oh. Whoops.”

The air was full of musk, his and the shaman’s. Good thing she was completely triggered, or he might not have had any luck stopping. He relaxed and swung back to face her.

The smile had dropped from Sophie’s face. She hugged herself, cupping her elbows in her palms. Her eyes were huge, and he smelled the instant jump of fear, her pulse turned hard and hammering.

Even a door opening did that to her. Jesus.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Zach ignoring Julia’s snigger and Brun’s low whispering. There was a crackle of plastic—grocery bags. Both of the young ones smelled like rain and high healthy spirits. They were both more relaxed now, and she’d officially been their shaman for less than a day. She was theirs. The longer she spent with them, the more she would grow into them. No other Tribe could take her away now.

Not unless she went willingly, and was willing to undergo the discomfort of getting used to another Tribe. It didn’t happen often.

Then why am I so afraid she might vanish?

Sophie inhaled, closing her eyes. The fear from her glands didn’t recede entirely, but she did manage to mute it. She raised her chin a little, her shoulders coming up, too, and finally looked at him. “Is that better?” The words trembled just a little.

He wondered what it cost her to struggle with that fear, to live with it just under the surface of every day. “It’s just fine.” The idea of doing something, anything, to lift that burden sounded equally ridiculous and irresistible. “Look, Sophie—”

She was past him so fast he almost suspected superhuman speed, except a shaman couldn’t use it. “I’m going to help,” she said over her shoulder, and left him standing there in the living room, frustrated as a kitten tied up with a yarn snarl and aching with the need to hold her. Just hold her, instead of pinning her to a wall and sucking half her face off.

But she’d initiated it, hadn’t she?

Conflicting desires caught the animal living inside him, made it snarl, and turned it into a serious ache below the belt.

“Damn.” It was the only thing he could say. How the hell could a man have wanted to hit her instead of holding her?

And how could a man get a volcanic kiss like that without wanting more?