The Darkest Touch. Gena Showalter
this. He kicked out his leg, tripping her while she was distracted. She fell backward and would have tumbled into the pit if he hadn’t grabbed her by the center of her dress and spun her. He quickly released her. She stumbled over a tree root, falling to her ass.
“Still think I’ll lose?” he asked, at last allowing his grin to make an appearance.
When her head snapped up, her eyes—those eyes as cold as ice—narrowed to tiny slits. There was a moment of startling connection, man and woman...a moment of visceral desire before her anger took over. He reeled, even as the thunder started up again and the ground beneath him shook. It was what he’d felt just before the prison had come tumbling down. What he’d felt before the Unspoken One had exploded.
“I warned you about my temper, Torin.”
“Aw. Is the little princess mad because she’s getting spanked?”
The shaking intensified. It came from...her?
Because Princess was getting mad?
“I told you. I’m not some lowly princess!” As Keeley pushed to her feet, wind whipped up around her. One branch after another appeared, slapping at him.
What am I waiting for? Act! He could have fought through the attack and punched her in the head. Unconscious, she would be unable to defend herself, and he could do whatever he wanted with her. Like, say, tie her up and—
Not going there.
But he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her physically. Which was freaking inconceivable! When he’d worked for Zeus, he’d been an equal-opportunity torturer and killer. Nothing had stopped him. Now this?
“This all you got?” he said.
The branches vanished as he and Keeley circled each other.
“Oh, don’t worry.” She scowled at him. “I’ve got more.”
Footsteps sounded from the left and from the right. He didn’t have to look to know the cavalry had arrived, and there was no longer any need to stall.
Keeley turned.
Cameron broke through a line of foliage at one side, and Irish and Winter through a line of foliage at the other. Keeley had focused on the duo, allowing Cameron to do what Torin had not and punch her in the side of the head. She slumped to the ground, her eyes closing. The thunder and shaking ceased.
From zero to max in a single second. That’s how quickly unholy rage boiled inside Torin.
“That wasn’t the plan!” Using all of his considerable strength, he slammed his gloved fist into Cameron’s nose. Cartilage didn’t just snap, it shattered. Blood spurted as the warrior stumbled backward. “You don’t hurt her ever.”
Winter and Irish fronted on Torin, not daring to touch him but glaring daggers.
“What are you complaining about, Sickness?” Winter cracked her knuckles. “We’re the proud new owners of a Curator. It’s what we all wanted.”
“That’s right. What we all wanted. You pussed out, and I swooped in to the rescue,” Cameron snarled back at Torin. “The girl was seconds away from leveling the forest, which is our only source of protection. I did what was necessary.”
Reasonable—but it wasn’t going to save him from Torin’s wrath. As long as Keeley remained on her feet, pain-free and focused on him, the forest and everything in it could fall. And it had nothing to do with his hard-on for her. Or his need to touch her, all of her. Hard at first. Then soft. To pinch and to knead. To discover whether her skin was as cold as it appeared—or if it was white-hot. But because she deserved the right to punish Mari’s killer. Or at least to try.
Torin balled his fist, his rage redoubling.
“Strike my brother again,” Winter said, her quiet tone laced with menace. “See what happens.”
Irish crossed his arms over his massive chest, claws glinting in the light. A silent but deadly challenge.
Anticipation. Eagerness. Can’t engage. Must protect the Red Queen.
“The Curator is off-limits to you,” he said. “To each of you.”
The trio might as well have run their feet through the grass. They were that ready to charge him.
He spread his arms. By now they should know the drill. “What are you going to do about it, huh? Come on. Try something. Please.”
He wouldn’t have to worry about these three becoming carriers. He would touch them, yes, and they would sicken. But afterward, before they could ever come into contact with an innocent, he would kill them.
“You don’t want me as your enemy,” Cameron said, spitting at his feet.
“I see you haven’t gotten the memo.” Torin pegged him with a hard stare. “We’re already enemies.” After what the guy had done to Keeley, that wasn’t going to change. Ever.
Crackling silence.
“She’s a parasite,” Winter said. “She’ll destroy you and everything you love.”
“A chance I’m willing to take,” he said, surprising even himself. What’s happening to me?
“Mistake,” Cameron said. “Big mistake.”
“Won’t be my first.”
“Come on. Let’s go.” Winter pulled her brother away. “He’ll see the truth soon enough.”
Because she planned to make him see?
Irish stood there for a moment longer, rubbing his thumb across his jaw as he considered his options. Then he, too, backed away.
The three disappeared in the foliage.
They would be back, certainly. But they would just receive more of the same.
Torin crouched beside Keeley and carefully eased her to her back. A cut on her temple had left a crimson slash across her brow. The shadows cast by her lashes couldn’t mask the bruise on the sweet rise of her cheek.
Should have killed Cameron while I had the chance. Torin reached out but fisted his fingers before they could brush against Keeley’s delicate skin.
Wearing gloves, remember? Won’t hurt her.
He snorted. The voice of temptation was always oh, so sweet. And this time, it just happened to be right. He could touch her, and he could learn the contours of her exquisite face. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not like this.
An ache flourished in his chest, so strong he couldn’t stop his groan.
But he shouldn’t touch her. He would only want to do it again...and again...until his already-frayed resistance unraveled the rest of the way and like an addict, he went for skin-to-skin contact.
He scanned the area. Trees all around. No real clearing to allow him to see the enemy coming. He would have to—
Keeley kicked out her leg, swiping his feet out from under him. He fell, landing with a hard thump as she rolled with her momentum and ended up in a crouch of her own, right knee and left foot on the ground. One hand braced to hold her weight while the other aimed the crossbow Irish had cut from the tail of a manticore—she must have stolen it—an arrow cocked and ready.
* * *
“WELL, WELL,” KEELEY said. I’m gloating. I shouldn’t gloat. “Our audience is gone, and any potential alliance you had with the three doucheketeers has been severed. I believe I have you in what’s known as a pickle.”
A vein bulged in his forehead, a testament to his rising anger. “Feel free to eat my pickle, princess. Anytime.”
Was that anger directed at her? Or himself?