Beastly Passions (16 page)

Taras didn’t disagree with the assessment and closed the distance between himself and his wife instead. She flinched away from the palm pressed to her lower back.

“More than a graze, I think,” he noted as she looked up at him with her brows slightly arched as sweat beaded on her forehead.

“I’ll be fine,” she argued.

He quickly shook his head. “Leaving the bullet will force flesh to attempt pushing it out. There is chance that healing rate will cause skin to close over it before it is released completely. You need it removed now or you risk infection.”

Asha smirked. “Know a lot about being shot, do you?”

Taras’ lips twitched. “Enough to know that you will want heavy drink of vodka and several stitches for what this entails.”

Her mouth turned down at the mention of medical attention and she blew out a harsh exhale. “Fine. If you think it needed.”

“I do.”

She gestured forward. “Lead the way.”

It was the haughty tone that almost drew a smile from him. He bit it back and replied, “I would not recommend that you continue walking.”

“Oh?” The haughty tone only seemed to grow. “And what is it that you
would
recommend, dear husband?”

“The loving cradle of strong arms?”

Asha’s jaw worked while she looked him over in annoyance. “Should this
loving cradle,”—
and yes, she used insulting air quotes with those words—“turn into a lascivious groping, you will lose not only what little trust I am currently offering to you, but also your ability to breathe because I will risk being dropped on my ass for the opportunity to break your windpipe. Are we clear?”

Taras hoped that his slow blink conveyed the innocence he was trying so hard to express. “Very.”

She gave a slight nod. “All right then, I am ready.”

He bent at the waist to gently lift her and queried, “Not so hard is it?” as he made the slow walk back to their home, savoring every moment of his skin pressed to hers. The satin strands of her hair falling over his chest and bicep. That sweet signature scent.

“Quiet, beast,” she grumbled.

And he was. But only because he’d received what he wanted.

Ten

Asha gritted
her teeth against the burning sensation skewering through her side.

“Five more minutes and it will all be over,” came a soothing voice, accented just as the rest of Taras’ pride but with something the majority of them lacked—warmth.

She glanced at the petite tigress that made her slight size look large in comparison. “Thank you.”

Magdalena halted her task of sewing Asha’s wound shut. “For?”

“Doing this,” she answered. “I know it can’t be your favorite task.”

The older woman chuckled and continued her work. “I have seen worse. Most of it due to your husband.”

Ahh, yes. Her husband. A man who claimed he didn’t do soft. He didn’t do gentle or tender. But he had been all of these things with her on their journey back to the sprawling house on his property. Painfully so even. For every moment that Asha dared to lift her eyes to his face, all she saw—all she could weigh—was the loss of harsh lines around his mouth and jaw. Instead his expression was tentative, his hold on her mindful as though he were afraid that if he moved wrong she would shatter. It was jarring to see such a transformation in such an unyielding man.

It didn’t hurt that he was built like a god.
Muscle. Everywhere. There was no part of him that hadn’t been developed to its full potential. However, there was also no part of him that hadn’t been scarred. There were so many. Some darkened with age and others fresh. Each one told of fights that Asha didn’t want to be made privy to. And the bear claw rakes on his torso…

He was grimly beautiful if there ever was such a thing and she was ashamed to admit that she enjoyed every moment of his touch. He’d even refused to let her out of his sight as Magdalena had taken sterilized tools from a cabinet in a barren and hygienic room that Asha had been placed in. She could only guess that it had served the purpose of medical treatment on more than one occasion considering how prepared they seemed for this sort of thing. His concern was…sweet, but slightly excessive since her injury could be regarded as minor for one of their kind.

The bullet had actually grazed her after all. It was just that it had done so in such a way, that a split was left behind that extended the length of her hip. It would take several stitches to close and even more days to heal but she would be just fine. Asha found herself grateful that it had been her hip and not her skull.

If she hadn’t shifted to the side the moment she heard the trigger snap back on that handgun, those hunters would have achieved their original goal. But she didn’t find herself contemplating the man who’d run, uncaring that his counterparts would soon be cold and lifeless in the dirt. She didn’t think about how she’d nearly separated a limb from another human being with ease. She didn’t even hear the screams anymore. All she scrutinized now was the off-putting swell of pride that had welled within her breasts when Taras had come
charging out of the underbrush, positioned at the ready in opposition to any threat ahead of her. The stark white of his coat, beautifully lined with coal black markings, stood on end as a growl rolled up from his barrel chest and stirred a stronger note of dread from the hunters.

The very minute he’d turned his stare to her, as if to ensure that she was all right first, she’d felt nothing aside from an overwhelming sense of pleasure. Her beast had been thoroughly enamored with the aggressive display and fascinated by the power it witnessed, leaving her unable to misplace the reaction. Animalistic impulse and careful action warred as soon as one of the men chose to fire a shot at him after he’d been distracted with the brit running off. Her husband had been in danger and she hadn’t hesitated to cut down the person responsible for it. She’d moved to act without thought.

That he’d listened to her list of contingencies despite his own reservations without her having to beg him to see things differently had cooled a great deal of her ire at his raging. Closer examination told her he’d only been concerned for her safety. That alone warmed some part of her that she didn’t risk peering at.

“How much worse?” she ventured.

Magdalena seemed to hesitate. “More than any child or man should suffer.”

Asha’s curiosity retreated at the ominous response. Just as she’d thought, there were obviously some things she didn’t want to be made privy to.

“I know there are things about him you do not understand,” the other tigress told her. “There are things even I do not understand where it concerns him. But under exterior, under harshness is boy who only wants what should have been given years ago.”

She contemplated the words for a moment before prodding, “And that is?”

“To have hand held. To be spoken to like he has heart. To have hair stroked and face kissed. He will not admit this, I know. He will never voice desire to be seen as something other than monster he was made into.” Magdalena finished her work and slipped off her gloves to dispose of them before she stepped around to stand in front of Asha. “He is truly a child beneath hard shell; one who has lost until he was dried inside. Yet, he still gives. Everything he does, even what seems to be the most barbaric of acts, has purpose. You cannot know the things he has protected me from,”—she placed a hand to her chest—“the things he has protected my own cubs from. He fights, constantly, without rest.” That hand went to Asha’s shoulder in a gentle squeeze. “I would hope one day you can believe he fights for you too.”

She absorbed each word, taken by the solemnity in Magdalena’s tone. Reaching up, she took her hand and clasped it momentarily. “I will try to remain aware of that.”

Magdalena petted her face. “This is all I ask.”

They shared a smile as Taras returned, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt that molded to his chest. He was barefoot and held a small glass with clear liquid filling a quarter of it. A sniff told Asha that he had indeed brought her vodka. Her lips pulled up on one side.

“I thought you were simply expressing yourself with the same dry humor you seem prone to.”

He snorted and approached, holding the glass out. “I do not joke about vodka. Is too important of a subject.”

She tucked in her lips and she swirled the contents of the glass around. “Could you be more Russian?”

“Could sing the national anthem of my—”

“
No,”
both she and Magdalena cut in before he could finish the suggestion.

His eyes took on this alarming twinkle and he nodded to the tumbler. “Go on. Will help soothe some of irritation in hip.”

She gave him a cursory glance. “This miniscule amount is that strong?”

“One glass full and I sing songs I learned as a boy. Two glasses and I do so with poor dancing. Three glasses and I sing and dance…naked.”

Asha blinked. “Do I want to ask how you found this out?”

He quickly shook his head and gave her a firm, “No” in his own language.

Shrugging, she lifted the glass to her lips and tossed back the alcohol, observing the delicious burn that followed. Warmth settled in her belly and within minutes, Asha’s injury was a distant memory. “Well…that is nice.”

Taras pushed out his chest. “If nothing else, my people get this one thing right.”

And it was then that Asha saw that little boy. Perhaps it was the strength in the drink or the slow loss of adrenaline from her adventure, but under the light, she glimpsed something that gave her pause. His face…it was open, hopeful even. For once the granite hard set of his lips had lessened into something that could have been a smile if he stopped fighting it so hard. His hair, usually combed away and groomed into submission, had escaped the usual stringent rule of perfection for a few locks to fall over his brow.
 
Also, she found herself more and more appreciative of each opportunity she received to see him in something other than a suit made and tailored by gifted hands willing to work to ensure he looked both devastating and commanding to anyone in his presence. She liked these things. More than she cared to confess.

Unable to stop herself, she reached forward and swiped the unruly pieces of hair back into place. Her husband tensed as though shocked by her action and she found herself withdrawing. However, Taras grasped her hand before she could completely pull away and held it in his. His thumb swiped over the darkened lines of her palm and goose pimples lit down her arms.

“I suppose I should begin dinner now,” Magdalena suddenly announced, making the pair aware of her nearness.

Finally, Taras released Asha from his hold and stepped backwards, nodding at the woman. “If you do not mind. As always we can—”

“You speak of food from outside these walls, made in some establishment that I would set fire to rather than eat from and I will smack your face, child.”

Asha tucked in her lips and swallowed down the laugh bubbling in her throat. Who among them could get away with
that?

Sighing, her husband lifted his hands in surrender. “No smacking. Last time there was ringing in ears for days.”

“But what did we learn from this?” Magdalena questioned, looking to him expectantly.

Taras’ shoulders slumped much in the same a wayward cub’s would, and he murmured as his cheeks reddened, “No dragging half dead owls into home.”

“Or?”

“Or I run risk of being beaten with broom.”

“Because?”

“Because I am already perceived as deranged tyrant by others and playing with partially alive things only heightens horrible self-image while making you re-evaluate mental state.”

Magdalena sniffed in disgust. “Exactly.” She then eyed the pair while Asha valiantly tried to cover her own amusement. Clearly his people
did
do vodka right. Everything was funny! “Eating on terrace again?”

“I’m going to bathe before I dare to sit at anyone’s table,” Asha answered.

“Considering that you still have dried blood around mouth…”

She cut her eyes at Taras. “Would you like me to add a fresh coat with some of yours?”

He looked her over and murmured, “Need I remind you bloodletting is only seen as foreplay to our kind?”

Deciding to ignore him, she gave her attention back to Magdalena. “I’m only leaving this room now so that you won’t be forced to sew up more injuries.”
 

Having watched with clear amusement in her eyes, Magdalena waved her off. “All right, just be careful with stitches.”

She nodded and began to climb off of the table, but Taras’ hands halted her. “Be still.”

“Taras—”

“No,” he cut in. “No walking. No flouncing. Not until wound is healed.”

“I do
not
flounce.”

“You do,” he argued, gingerly lifting her and starting out of the room. “You seem incapable of stomping off in normal outrage as everyone else does. But it is okay because you have balanced this by proving to be brutal limb ripper.”

Asha thought about those words for all of a minute, disturbed to find that she was still more annoyed about being told that she flounced.