Blood Moons (13 page)

by Alianne Donnelly

Tristan frowned and looked at his palm.
"I had holes
almost clean through my hands four days ago."
There was a frustrated sort of wonder in his mind-voice when he said it.

"Never mind.
But they were there."

"And, let me guess,"
she said, leaning back against the wall.
"You did it to yourself."

"Exactly. I changed while I slept ... somehow ... and my
own nails made holes in my hands!"

"Oh-kay." She drummed her fingers on her thighs a few times, then laid back down.
"So, what, you healed in three
days, without a mark?"

"Forget it."

"No, no, keep going. It's a good story; I'm waiting for the
punch line."
It was a strange feeling to be teasing a man as potentially dangerous as Tristan Hunt, especially when he was so obviously on the edge. But the fact that he still refused to acknowledge what happened between them that night was making her crazy, and she wasn't above taking it out on him.

As off balance as she was in this place, he was making it a hundred times worse.

Tristan still looked at her as if he'd like nothing better than to rip her clothes off and make her his own personal playground. Whenever he did, Dara tensed, waiting for him to do it, wanting him to. And every time he got that frustrated jaw twitch and turned away instead.

He'd been spending a lot of time in the bathroom corner.

And where did that leave her? Tormented by dreams so erotic they woke her every night on the verge of an orgasm she couldn't allow herself, because Tristan would know. He 116

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knew already and chose to do nothing. Bastard. It was all his fault they were doing some elaborate dance around each other—in a room that barely allowed them to breathe without getting in each other's way!

Now she was hot and bothered, and out for revenge. It was somewhat cruel and maybe a little evil, seeing how he seemed to be genuinely upset right now, but there was no avoiding the truth.

He deserved it.

As a matter of fact, she was starting to appreciate her own power to drive
him
mad. A well-timed word or look and she could simply watch steam rise from his skull. If his voice now was anything to go by, Tristan was very close to spontaneously combusting. In no time he would be running frantic circles around the cell with his hair on fire.

Dara managed not to laugh at that thought, but she couldn't keep from grinning. A vivid imagination was a godsend in this place.

"I would think that when a person spends so much time
with her head up in the clouds, she wouldn't be so quick to
label something as impossible,"
he said tightly. He must have glimpsed the images in her mind. And in true Tristan fashion, decided to ignore the important stuff and focus only on the burning hair.

"That is weak, Hunt,"
she retorted. Since he wouldn't let her broach the subject either, she had no choice but to play along. For now.
"I may be a dreamer but I'm not stupid. And
you can't prove anything, so —"

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"I can prove it, but not without getting myself permanently
installed in a man-sized rat maze."
He hopped down from his bunk to pace.
"Do you realize how much trust I am showing
by telling you this? How about you trust
me
a little in return?"

That was true. He'd just about handed her a weapon without knowing whether she would run with it or turn around and shoot him. She propped herself up on one elbow to watch him. He looked trapped, like a cornered beast. Something told her that the smallest provocation might make him snap and do something stupid. Like hurl himself at the force field he was contemplating so intently. She didn't like seeing him like that. It didn't bode well for either of them. Without him to watch her back, she was a sitting duck, and what if someone else got assigned to her cell?

To distract him and draw his gaze away from the damned force field, she racked her brain for some conversation thread.
"You said your senses are heightened,"
she tried.

"Can you control
that
?"

"Yes,"
he said without pausing his step.

"Do you just see and hear everything all the time?"
If so, she didn't know how he could stand it. Add telepathy into the mix and the result was understandably a man on the edge.

Talk about sensory overload!

"No. I can control it easily enough when I'm calm."

"And when you're not?"

A silence. Then,
"I don't know. Worst it's ever been, I grew
fangs and claws and my hair changed color. Oh, and I could
see in the dark and hear your heartbeat from ten steps away
like a drum right next to my ear."
He stopped to look at his 118

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hands once more.
"I don't know what causes it to get worse.

Most of the time I can bring myself back under control and it's
only my senses that go berserk and I get ... stronger. But I
felt the animal inside me. It's strong. Maybe stronger than I
am. If I ever lose it..."
He started pacing again.

That
she could believe. She'd felt him grow stronger before; felt his struggle to control himself.
"It probably works
like telepathy, then,"
she guessed, trying her best to sound matter-of-fact about it.

"You just have to practice."

"Will you stop that? You're making me seasick." But it was the idea of him losing control that was making her sick. She didn't exactly believe he was able to turn into an animal, but what if someone provoked him and he unleashed that strength? Telepathy posed a threat to its bearer more than anyone else, but physical strength?

And what if he couldn't stop himself?

"Practice has to help. Practice control. If you can manage
to get a hold of the small changes, like the sensory overload,
the bigger ones should become easier to deal with."

He stopped and turned on her.
"Practice ... You of all
people tell me this?"

Dara shrugged.
"It's what you always tell me, isn't it?

Practice. Push. Control your mind or it will control you."

"It's not that simple."

Another double standard? Was he kidding?
"Oh, please
explain to me how it magically happens that when I don't
want to do something, you make me. But when it comes to
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you,
all of a sudden there is a logical and compelling reason
why you can't."
She couldn't wait to hear this.

He raked his hands through his hair and made a sound like some sort of animal.
"Woman, every time I'm near you I..."

Dara held her breath.
"You what?"
Would he say it? Would he finally admit to something?

Tristan looked at her and his eyes flickered.
"I don't know
up from down. No, that's not ... I don't
care
which way is up.

I look at you and ... God, I can see your pulse throbbing in
your neck. I can hear your heart beating faster. I could track
you anywhere by just your scent. And you have no idea what
that does to me."

Dara blinked. Or tried to, anyway. She watched his chest rise and fall; he breathed as if he'd just run a mile, and the growling noises that rumbled from his chest made her shiver.

She was mesmerized both by what she saw, by what he told her, and all she could come up with as a response was an inane,
"I smell?"

Tristan's mouth twitched with a small smile. He sent her a brief impression, a dizzying feeling, like getting drunk off fumes. It was disorienting, but at the same time, she knew exactly where to find the source—and she wanted to find it so badly that it hurt to keep still.
"That is maybe a fraction of
what I feel,"
he said.
"Is that what you want me to practice?"

She couldn't answer. It felt as if she'd just gotten a shot of aphrodisiac straight into her veins. Her body clenched, aching. Her nipples throbbed to be suckled; her hands curled into the blanket, wanting to touch. The man she knew could ease her was standing not two feet from her and she was too 120

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far gone already to even try getting off the bunk to go to him.

Dara had never felt something so powerful and instantaneous.

The shock of it left her breathless, hot in her clothes. She licked her lips to bring some moisture to them, but that wasn't what she needed.

She needed friction.

Two steps brought Tristan to her bunk and he dropped into a crouch to bring their faces level.
"Here's practice for you,
then,"
he said, looking her steadily in the eye.

Dara had to stop herself from reaching out to him. So close she could feel the heat his body exuded, and she craved it. She remained tense and unmoving as she watched his eyes start to change. Their color faded gradually from green to gold and his pupils elongated like a cat's. In the dim light, his eyes glowed and she stared without blinking. It was the most amazing thing she'd ever seen.

Tristan's mouth quirked and this time he gave a wry smile.

"Breathe, Dara."

She didn't.
"What can you see?"
Could he see what that little glimpse had done to her? What it was still doing to her?

Dara felt completely drugged, but although the intensity of it was staggering, the feeling was nothing new. Tristan hadn't
made
her want him. He'd just made it impossible to ignore any longer.

"Everything,"
came the answer.
"I hear everything too.

Breathe. Your heart is beating too fast."

"I-is it just your sight and hearing that's affected?"

Tristan's fingers curled around the edges of her mattress.

All his senses were affected. His clothes abraded him so much 121

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he thought he would rip them off just to find some relief. His own hair brushing his neck was almost too much to bear.

Dara's scent was everywhere around him and he could almost taste it. Her arousal made him desperate to sate her
. "No,"
he told her.

He was losing control. Reason retreated, giving instinct free rein, but this time he didn't feel claws lengthen. Instead his fingers itched to touch. To feel. Everything.

Dara reached out; then, her fingers brushing his brow, his temple, down to his cheek.
"Your face is changing,"
he heard her say.
"Does it hurt?"

He heard his own growl, a purely animal sound no human vocal cords could produce. Did it hurt?
Christ, yes
. He was in agony just keeping still under her touch. Her fingers brushed into his hair, sifting through it, and he almost purred. Was his sight changing again? She hadn't been so close to him before.

But it wasn't Dara who'd moved. Without meaning to, he slid his hand forward to just beside her hip and shifted his weight on it in a slow, fluid motion, leaning closer to her. He never blinked as he watched her face. He could hear her heartbeat quicken and she was breathing in little gasps. Her pupils went wide, her cheeks became rosy, and her lips ... Ah, it was a beautiful sight to behold them plumping the slightest bit and parting just a little.

He'd dreamed of this. Seeing her like this. Feeling her tremble beneath his touch. He'd imagined the feel of those lush lips on him so many times he'd lost count. In his dreams, he'd had her on all fours before him as he slammed into her and bit her shoulder in a frenzy. He'd seen her riding his cock 122

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in complete abandon, as wild as he felt. Tristan had felt her go down on him in his mind so many times he could almost believe it had really happened.

Dara thought he was trying to forget their kiss. She had no idea.

But this wasn't a dream. This was real.

And then he was tasting her. He knew she would welcome him if he pressed, but he stayed himself, remaining half-poised over her where she leaned back against the wall. For now, he was content to be kissing her. It felt like nothing he'd ever experienced before. His entire being hummed with energy but it was somehow different. Aggressive, yet gentle at the same time. Persistent, but patient. He was fully in control of his strength, though his senses were running amok, and he instinctively knew he would never harm her, no matter how much he changed or how much control he lost.

The beast in him had free rein now, banishing reason completely, and yet it did not rule him. At least for the moment, beast and man were one and the same, equally intent on one thing—Dara.

He touched her hair and it slid like so much silk through his fingers. But it didn't compare to the feel of her skin.

Tristan felt her slender arms encircle his neck and another growl fought its way up his throat. Tristan had tried like hell to do the honorable thing and keep his distance as much as this cell allowed—and she hadn't made it easy. Just watching her get up in the morning, tousled and sleep warmed, was enough to foul his mood for the rest of the day. Dara was his 123

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most private torment and trying to resist her was becoming a futile effort.

He had no chance fighting his instincts now that he had her like this again.

With an impatient tug he got her lying beneath him, stretched length for length on the narrow bunk. He kissed her deeply, searching for every single taste of her to commit to memory.

Dara moaned, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He tore it off in an instant, eager for her touch.
Yes!
she cried in her mind, and her knees rose off the mattress to create a cradle for him. He did not take the invitation, keeping that part of himself away, though he wanted nothing more than to thrust into her and let her peace seep into him.