Passion Untamed by Pamela Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

even before the witch stepped into the room. She returned without her animals, her hair wet as if she’d just showered, her eyes hollow. Without a word, without meeting his gaze, she crawled up beside him, between his body and the wall, and lay down, curling against his hip. He could feel her trembling.
    As much as he hated her, he’d always had finely honed protective instincts toward women and children, and they rose now. Something had hurt her. He reminded himself he didn’t care. But as he felt her slowly calm, her breathing evening out in sleep, the tension eased from his own body.
    He wasn’t sure when he’d drifted off, but he woke to the sound of water dripping from the stalactites into the puddles scattered across the room and the feel of the witch’s silken head on his chest. She had one arm wrapped around his waist, theother hand tucked against her neck. That second arm was nearly within reach of his mouth. But he’d lost the desire to hurt her. Her gentle touch and her acceptance of his fury had taken the edge off his need for revenge.
    He blinked, feeling…strange. Almost…relaxed.
    With disbelief he realized what was wrong. Or what was right. The rage, the ever-present rage he struggled to contain day and night, the rage burned into his soul by Ancreta nearly three hundred years ago, had inexplicably left him.
    How? Was this simply more magic?
    Did he care?
    Chained atop this cold stone, deep in the bowels of a second Mage captivity, he felt more at peace than he had in years. Eased. Whole in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries.
    Had she somehow, miraculously healed him? Or was her nearness affecting him in a way he’d never imagined anyone could?
    The implications rocked him. He almost hoped it was just enchantment. Just a lie. Because if it wasn’t, if this easing of the torment he’d lived with for centuries was somehow coming from her…
    A witch.
    Heaven help him. The last thing he wanted was to need her. More than he did already.
     
    Paenther woke to the sound of footsteps moments before the steel door crashed in against the rock. The witch startled awake, rearing up, filling himwith the scent of sleep-warmed violets and the acrid tang of fear.
    In the doorway stood a man with the slim build of a Mage and hair a dozen shades paler than his skin. His face was long, his lips thin, and his copper-ringed eyes blazed with a cold fury.
    Paenther’s muscles tensed for a battle he wouldn’t be able to fight, fury of his own raging through his body as he strained against his shackles until they bit into his flesh. The strange peace he’d felt when he woke during the night had vanished with the woman’s fear.
    “Birik,” the witch breathed, her eyes wide, her voice tight with dread.
    “I warned you,” the Mage said coldly, and started toward them.
    “But…”
    The Mage latched onto her upper arm and yanked her off the rock. As the witch stumbled, he pulled her to the wall, grabbed her shoulders, and slammed her back until her skull collided with stone with a sharp crack.
    Paenther’s body went taut with outrage, but the bastard wasn’t through. He grabbed her face, holding on until the witch’s eyes widened with pain and the smells of burning flesh and blood assailed his sensitive nose.
    Finally, the Mage released her. As the fragile woman sunk to the ground, he leveled several hard kicks to her ribs and one to the side of her head, then strode out of the room without a backward glance.
    Paenther stared at the woman lying on the damp, rocky floor like a broken doll, blood running down her cheek from where the bastard must have cracked her skull. For long moments, the only sound in the room was the drip, drip, drip from the rock daggers and the faint, thready beat of her heart.
    “Witch?” he called softly. But she gave no indication she heard him.
    Minute by minute, her heartbeat strengthened as her immortal body healed the ravages of the assault until, finally, she stirred. Slowly,