Taken, Lane L.V. [free novels to read .TXT] 📗

to spend the ride fondling the poor lass. The mere thought of him handling her so has me tempering a growl. Derick’s eyes narrow on Jerry—he has zero tolerance for insubordination at the best of times. A vicious gleam lights his eyes that is a precursor to someone getting cuffed or beaten.

Jerry does not have the sense to see this. He spews complaints while the poor wench sobs and struggles under his cruel grip.

The crossbow shifts until it’s pointing at Jerry and his rebellious charge. “Hand her over to the shifter,” Derick says. “Or I’ll kill the both of you.” There is not a hint of emotion in his voice.

The lass freezes. Jerry finally shuts his mouth, eyeing Derick warily. With stiff steps, he marches the lass to me. I don’t breathe the whole time. Derick is fucking twitchy with the crossbow trained upon the pair of them for the short distance. Jerry, the weak, cretinous bastard that he is, keeps the captured Omega between them.

As she nears me, her scent hits me, and I rock back on my heels. I school my face to mask the reaction, grateful that Derick is still focused upon Jerry.

Jerry thrusts her the final step, and she stumbles into me. Tears and stress have ravaged her pretty face. Dark eyes, otherworldly in their beauty, blink up at me through tear-dampened lashes. She is in shock now, docile, but her body still shudders . . . and her nose twitches, almost like she can scent me.

We have been kept apart for the short time since we left the castle ruin, but she makes no comment on my cuffed hands, doesn’t even seem to notice them, and makes no struggle as I lift her into the saddle before mounting awkwardly behind her. She is so tiny, shivering uncontrollably. I loop my cuffed wrists over her head and gather the reins. Around us, men are mounting. Except for Jerry, who is lying dead upon the ground, a crossbow bolt embedded in his chest.

I care nothing for Jerry. I’d have happily strangled the sick fucker a dozen times since we met. I’d have savored his death for the way he put his hands upon Priya. As I scent the blood leaking from his twitching corpse, I understand now, more than ever, that Derick is not a man to suffer interruption to his plans.

Since I was taken from the dungeon where I awaited a hangman’s death, there have been many testing moments. I endured them with humor and the carelessness of a man who only needed to worry about himself.

Everything changed when they stole Priya from her homelands.

Thankfully my Omega charge is too numb to notice what has happened.

I wish I were as numb, but up close, her heavenly scent is a test to me as a man and an Alpha shifter.

My urges are buried. I’m no weak Alpha who will fall to my basal side no matter how sweet and ripe she smells.

I purr.

Her trembling body softens against me, and I feel like a fucking king giving her this small comfort. She is not for me, I tell myself, for I know she is bound to Hawthorn and his two deputy Alphas. But I’m confused by the fact that her scent remains so potent to me. Turning her face slightly, she buries her cheek against my chest and breathes, seeking my scent or my purr or both.

I study her in wonder, trying to find sense in this when there is clearly none.

The call comes, and we ride through the night. The exhausted, traumatized lass falls into a fitful sleep against me.

We ride all night until the sun rises when the call comes for a break and rest. I should have savored her submission better, for when she awakes, she pushes away in horror and looks at me with murder in her eyes.

Brook

Instinct takes us to the castle ruin. Priya’s scent lingers, but it’s clouded by the odor of unwashed bodies, the filth of Blighten scum. The evidence of a dozen horses has churned up the soft, waterlogged ground. Their departure tracks lead north.

“Darkmouth,” Caden says.

We ride on.

Worry is a hard lump in my gut. It is a cloud following us as we ride. Caden’s face is locked in a permanent grim scowl. He will take the burden for her loss onto himself, although it must sit with all of us mates. We push our horses to their limits, walking only when we must before pushing on once again.

Darkness eclipses the landscape. We slow to a walk, trotting when the moonlight breaks through the trees enough to illuminate the path.

“They are pushing hard,” Caden says. “We could not have been that far behind them. But they are reckless in their haste.”

I agree.

But we, too, are guilty of haste. We have no provisions, and my stomach has long since growled its complaint. The lack of water has forced us to take time at a stream to water the horses and to drink ourselves.

“I want to be reckless, too,” I say. Thoughts of Priya with Blighten scum is only tempered by the knowledge that they are riding and so not raping or hurting her in other ways.

“We cannot be,” Caden says, voice the one that brokers no argument. “They are a dozen, we are two, and they have Priya with them. We cannot blunder into them and hope for the best, not when her life depends upon us. We cannot afford a horse or either of us to suffer injury. We have no spare. We did not think to bring fucking spares.”

He is blaming himself again, although we must both share this burden. He may be a year older than me, but I’m a man now, and I must take responsibility as such.

A growl alerts us to danger, and we draw our horses to a stop. A pack of wolves feast upon a dead horse. They don’t venture to attack us, given they have a bounty in front of them.