Wulfe Untamed (21 page)

He kissed her hair. “Do you know something I don’t?” His voice almost teased. Almost.

“No, but it’s the only acceptable outcome.” Slowly, she pulled back and gazed up into his beautiful, beloved face. “We’re going to beat Satanan and Inir, Wulfe. We’re going to win because I know you. Your soul is too honorable, too filled with light for darkness to ever cling there for long. Satanan will never control you. You’re going to beat him.”

The look he gave her was at once filled with wonder and doubt. “I wish I could be so sure.”

“I wish you could be, too. But I’m certain. No matter what happens, you won’t hurt me. Evil won’t take you. It won’t win.”

The wonder flared in his eyes. “You’re a miracle.” Tenderness drenched his liquid gaze. His lashes swept down, his hands falling from her shoulders to her hips. Strong fingers encircled her waist, gripping her flesh, kneading her hips with what, from another man, would indicate rising passion. He pulled her closer, tight against his hips and the thick protrusion in his jeans.

“Wulfe?” She stared at him, remembering the desire she’d imagined seeing in his eyes just before he lost it.

His lashes swept up, revealing dark eyes ablaze with a wondrous heat. Her heart began to pound, her body melting in response.

“What happened?” she breathed.

His hand rose, his warm palm cupping her throat and sliding slowly downward until it rested firmly against her upper chest. His pulse, quick and unsteady, pounded so hard in that hand that she could feel it.

He wanted her.
And her own body flushed with answering desire.

“You,” he breathed, sliding his hand up to her jaw. “You happened.” His head dipped, and he kissed her with all the fierce need, all the tender passion she could have dreamed of. His lips brushed hers, warm and firm, his tongue traced her lower lip. She opened for him and he dove inside, his tongue stroking hers, twining with hers, sending a fireball of heat exploding in her chest and rushing lower, a storm of need and sensation, chaos and wonder. He tasted like summer rain and winter forests, clean and fresh and wholly, wonderfully male.

One of his hands slid into her hair, the other down her back to pull her hips tight against his and she felt, again, the very massive evidence of his desire.

As her breath trembled out, she found herself smiling.

He pulled back, looking down at her with passion-drugged eyes and a gleam that made her chest ache with tenderness. “What’s so funny?”

“Not funny. Wonderful. You really do want me.”

His lips brushed her cheek, trailing down to her neck, licking, nipping, making her shiver with delightful longing. Her breasts tingled, her knees weakening as, deep within, her body began to pulse and contract, begging to be filled.

“I want you,” he groaned against her neck. “I want you so badly . . .”

Slowly, he rose again, pulling back, his breath ragged, his gaze hot and troubled.

“Wulfe . . .”

His gaze roamed her face, his eyes incandescent with heat and tenderness. “You are so lovely.” Unsteady fingers slid into her hair, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones.

With her own hands, she stroked his chest, then began yanking his T-shirt out of his jeans, the need to feel his flesh against hers a monstrous thing.

“Make love to me, Wulfe.” Her hands slid under his shirt, against his warm, solid flesh. Electricity arced between them, making her gasp. Between her legs, she began to throb. “
I need you.
”

His big hands rose to her breasts, making her cry out with pleasure and frantic desire. “I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You won’t ever hurt me.” Her fingers moved to his waistband, and she began to unfasten his jeans.

His hands stopped her. “I’m big, Natalie. And you’re human.” His voice shook. His forehead tipped to hers, his breathing ragged. “I’m afraid I’m going to lose control.”

She reached up, gripped his face, and kissed him hard. “I want you to do that, Wulfe. I want that.”

He resisted for all of a second and a half, then he was hauling her tight, kissing her madly, doing precisely what she’d asked him to, at last. In the same fierce, tender manner that Wulfe did everything, he lost control.

Chapter Eighteen

W
ulfe was going to die if he didn’t soon slide inside the woman in his arms, his Natalie, his heart. Fire and beauty and laughter, she was everything to him. Everything.

He tore at her clothes as she tugged at his jeans and T-shirt until they were both breathing hard, both wild with need. They came together in the middle of the room, mouths fusing, her sweet breasts tight against his chest, the skin of her back, her rear, like warm silk beneath his shaking fingertips.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as he kissed her, inhaled her, her tongue rubbing against his with as much desperation as her hips rocked against his thick erection. Never had he known such a violent need to join his body with another’s.

His hands roamed her back, her flesh, her hair. He couldn’t get enough. He would never get enough of her. Swinging her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and tossed her into the middle, tearing a husky laugh from her throat. As she grinned at him, watching him with eyes that gleamed like polished silver, his heart contracted tight and hard. When had he known such exhilaration, such pure joy?

With a low laugh, he followed her down, his mouth finding her neck, her breast, sucking hard as his hand burrowed between her legs. The moment he touched her in that sensitive spot, she cried out and rocked against him as if desperate for his touch. She was open, wet,
ready.

Wonder barreled through him that this woman, this beautiful, marvelous, brilliant woman wanted him.
Him.

He lifted his head from her breast and looked at her, meeting her incandescent gaze.

“You take my breath away.”

“As you take mine.”

His hand fisted gently in her hair, and he kissed her with an urgency that bordered on madness even as he shoved a finger deep inside of her. She moaned into his mouth, then began to whimper with need, rocking against him, kissing him like a wildcat, shattering with the sexiest, throatiest of cries.

She pulled back, desperate, her fingers clawing at his shoulders. “Come inside me. Please.
Now.
”

His body tensed, terrified he’d be too much for her. But she wasn’t a small woman, and maybe, maybe it would be all right. His cock found her moist welcome, and she surged up, swallowing the tip of him with a moan of pure pleasure. Wulfe held back, holding on to his last thread of control, but Natalie was having none of that.

Her hands gripped his head. “
Don’t tease. I need you.
”

Oh, goddess.
With a groan of pure pleasure, he sank deep into her wetness, into her tight, slick channel, amazed when he felt no resistance to his width. He was a tight fit, but she was big enough. And far more importantly, ready for him.

Rocking against him, she swallowed him deeper, and deeper still, until he’d sunk up to his balls. Goddess have mercy, she’d taken all of him. With a growl of pure need, he pulled almost free of her and sank all the way to the hilt again.

Natalie’s back arched, her mouth falling open. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Make love to me, Wulfe. Hard.”

As he drove into her, his vision became bathed in a golden light, a light that seemed to settle inside of him, warm and wonderful.
Love.

Natalie’s eyes widened as if she felt it, too. Then she smiled and threw her head back, moaning with pleasure. “Harder, Wulfe,
harder.
”

He ground his hips into hers until sweat slicked their bodies, until they were both grunting and groaning, racing to the top of the highest peak. And beyond. Far, far beyond. As they approached that far-flung precipice, their gazes met, locked, and Natalie smiled as her orgasm began to roll through her, an arrow straight to his heart.

With her body contracting around him, her low, sexy cries filling his ears, he came with a roar, the beauty of the moment, the
perfection,
beyond words, beyond imagining.

And then she began to laugh, that throaty laugh that shot straight to his groin, as he collapsed, spent, on top of her. Not wanting to crush her, he forced himself to roll, taking her with him, still buried to his balls inside of her. Her golden halo of hair flew around her face as she righted, and she laughed again, then covered his mouth with hers, kissing him as if he’d just given her the world.

His heart swelled until he thought it would burst from his chest.

With his hands tight on her sweet ass, he kept them fused below while their mouths joined above. Goddess, he didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to stay like this, just like this, forever. Or at the very least, for days and days and days.

As one hand gripped her soft, perfect rear, his other slid up and down her slender back, love barreling through him, hard and fast. A golden thread began to weave around his heart, a thread that flowed outward to hers. The beginning of a mating bond.

Deep inside, his wolf howled, Wulfe’s own need echoed in the lonely sound.
Mine.
She was his, dammit.
Theirs.
His and the wolf spirit’s. And they weren’t letting her go.

Unless he couldn’t convince her to stay. The prospect tightened his hold, making his soul cry out. But he would never force her to remain with him against her will. Never. That would be tantamount to holding her captive.

The moment they figured out how to disentangle her from this mess, he’d give her the choice, and if she wanted to return to her world, he’d take her memories, as he had before, and send her back. What she wanted, what would make her happy, was all that mattered.

But the thought of losing her again nearly had him drawing fangs and claws. Burying his face in her hair, he held her tight against his heart, and loved her.

W
ulfe was dressed, Natalie combing out her wet hair after the shower that had become far more play than washing, when he heard the rap on his door. He opened it to find Vhyper.

“Ariana thinks she’s found the ritual you told her to look for. Lyon wants everyone in the ritual room, pronto.”

“Praise the goddess. I’ll be right there.” Wulfe closed the door as Natalie poked her head out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her naked body. In her eyes he saw the same flare of vulnerable hope that he felt. “If the knowledge I stole from Satanan is true, this is the ritual that should reverse the damage done to us by Inir’s dark charm.”

“Thank goodness,” Natalie said fervently.

Wulfe strode to her, cupped her damp head with his hand, and kissed her soundly. “Rest while I go reclaim my immortality. Then I’ll make love to you again.”

A too-wise smile lifted her mouth, but didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The moment you’re all immortal again, you’ll be going after Inir. Just don’t go without saying good-bye.”

He couldn’t deny her words. “I won’t. I promise.” Sliding his fingers through wet hair, he caressed her head. “Do you want me to ask Melisande to keep you company?”

“No. I could use a little time alone.”

He respected that, but he worried, too. “I’ll make sure there’s someone nearby who’ll hear you if you need help. If the pain comes back, yell, sweetheart. Don’t hold it in. Please?”

“Okay.”

He pulled her against him and kissed her again, drinking her in, certain he would never get enough. Certainly not in the few decades they might have together. Or the few days.

Finally, with a kiss to her nose, he left her, locking the door behind him.

After securing the promise of one of Ariana’s Ilinas to hang out in his room where she could hear Natalie if she called, Wulfe followed Vhyper down to the basement, then strode into the cavelike ritual room, a room now lit by half a dozen ritual fires. Circling the edges of the room, the flames cast darting shadows on the ceiling and walls, giving the space an ancient, mystical feel.

Most of the other Ferals were already there, gathered in the middle, stripping off their shirts. Wulfe found his own expectant mood mirrored on the faces of his brothers. Hell, even the smoke from the fires smelled of hope. Inside, his wolf howled, the sound imploring, beseeching, as if the animal spirit begged the goddess for triumph. Or mercy.

Wulfe stripped off his own shirt, turning toward the door as Fox, Jag, and Olivia strolled in, the last to arrive.

“Take your places around the circle,” Ariana commanded. The Queen of the Ilinas was in charge. She met Wulfe’s gaze. “I found the words of the ritual you told me about in my memory banks. I’ll feed them to Kougar through our telepathic link, and he’ll repeat them. Blood is involved, of course.”

“Make the cuts shallow and small,” Lyon warned. “And don’t cut your sword hands.”

If this worked, they’d quickly heal any wound, but Lyon was a cautious leader when it came to the well-being of his troops, and Wulfe appreciated that.

Excitement pulsed in the air, heavily tempered by the failures that had come before. Wulfe knew this ritual would work. How, he wasn’t certain, but deep within his Daemon blood, he knew this was the one. Still, he wouldn’t breathe easily until his friends were back in their animals, their immortality fully restored.

As they took their places around the circle, Kougar lit the last fire, this one in the middle. The light from the flame glittered on their golden armbands, sending their faces into hard relief, revealing granite expressions and rigid jaws as if every male believed this ritual would succeed through the power of his will alone. They were warriors trained to take on any foe with blades and claws, but they’d been fighting an enemy armed with magic, a weapon that had nearly defeated them. They hungered for real battle. If this worked, they’d get it. Finally, they’d be able to descend upon Inir’s fortress and destroy their enemies.

Kougar grabbed the ritual blade, then pulled the bowl—the top of the skull of a long-dead shape-shifter—from its shelf. He handed the blade to Lyon. The Chief of the Ferals made a small slice in his left palm, squeezed his fist, letting the blood run into the bowl, then handed the blade to Paenther, who did the same. One by one, each Feral added his blood to the bowl.

When it was Wulfe’s turn, he made the requisite cut across his palm, the sting of the blade sharp. Squeezing his fist over Kougar’s bowl, he handed the blade to Fox, beside him.

Kougar was the last to add his blood, and when he’d done so, he began to chant in the language of the ancient shifters. Slowly, the rest of them took up the chant, their voices low, then building, as Kougar dipped two fingers into the blood and streaked them across the heart of each male, one after the other.

Their voices grew, the chant turning into a pulsing beat in Wulfe’s blood. Magic rode the air, melding with the growing excitement.

And yet something was wrong, dammit. Something was off. He felt it deep inside.

“Radiance,” the Shaman called out. “You need radiance.”

Lyon’s face turned to stone. He’d been trying to save the last of Kara’s strength to bring a new Feral into his animal, hoping one would be marked that they were sure enough about. But that had yet to happen.

Finally, Lyon nodded, and Delaney and Olivia rose from where they watched against one wall and helped Kara into the circle, setting her on the ground at her mate’s feet.

“Continue the chant!” Ariana ordered, and the males did so.

As Lyon stroked the hair back from Kara’s face, she closed her eyes. But when she should have lit up like a sunbeam, she instead struggled, her face turning red, perspiration dampening her brow as she tried to pull the radiance. Wulfe felt his own muscles bunching as he willed her to succeed, hating that she was so weak, that this was so hard on her.

Finally, after long, gut-wrenching minutes, Kara went radiant. Relief flowed through the room as her soft glow slowly grew brighter and brighter.

“Touch her,” Lyon commanded.

Though Wulfe had felt the life-giving energy slide through his body the moment Kara lit up, when his hand slid around her upper arm, the pure energy of her radiance barreled through him. He threw his head back, drinking in the strength that came directly from the Earth. The chant resumed, the tight knot of Ferals lifting their voices until the words pounded against the walls, hammering in his veins.

“Stand back,” Kougar told them and, one by one, they released Kara to reclaim their places around the circle. As they continued to chant, Kougar poured the remaining blood into the central fire, making the flame flare and spit.

Tossing the bowl aside, Kougar raised both hands high above his head. “Reclaim your animals!”

Deep inside, Wulfe’s animal suddenly howled in pain, a pain Wulfe shared as fire exploded in his head. His animal snarled and growled, howling with agony, with fury. A terrible grief raked at Wulfe’s mind, wrenching a cry from his throat.

“No!”

Then all went silent. His wolf was gone.
Gone.
Wulfe roared, the cry of fury echoing back on him, suddenly the only sound in the room.

Belatedly, he realized that Kara’s glow was out. The chant had gone silent.

“It didn’t work,” Lyon said, his voice like gravel as he knelt to gather Kara into his arms. His gaze swung to Wulfe, devastation in his eyes. “You lost your animal.”

Wulfe nodded through the ice forming in his veins. His mind had turned all but numb like it often did during those first seconds of disbelief after one of his limbs was torn off, before the shock set in and the pain exploded.
Gone.
A shifter no more.

The ritual had failed.

Ariana stared at him, a hint of accusation in her eyes. “That was the ritual you told me to find, Wulfe.”

Every pair of eyes in the room turned on him. Wary eyes, hard eyes filled with devastation.

“I could feel the magic trying to rise,” the Shaman said. “I don’t know why it didn’t work.”

“The words were right,” Wulfe said tonelessly. “They were right.” They’d fucked up in some other way. And suddenly he knew how. “We used the wrong blood.”

“What blood should we have used?” Paenther asked, a thread of barely leashed fury in his words.

“I don’t know.”

Jag let loose a string of invectives. “It was a fucking Daemon ritual! It probably calls for the blood of virgins or firstborn children or baby bunnies or something.”