Desire Unchained

“I can’t.” And yet, the whip in his hand whispered dark things. The handle burned in his palm as though it was growing roots that sank into his skin and tapped into the most evil part of what made him a demon.

“Hurt me,” she whispered. “Stop holding back. Make me pay.”

His fist clenched around the handle. His bond mark around his neck throbbed, reminding him that a female—his mate—was asking for something. Instinct demanded that he respond even as his mind screamed in protest.

His arm raised. No. No! Sweat poured down his temples with the effort he spent to drop the whip. It clattered to the ground. Clenching his teeth, he endured the agony that came from resisting his nature.

Must. Resist.

But his feet began to move, stiffly, awkwardly, taking him to the wall. He watched in horror as his hand took a flail from its hook, one with braided leather straps that hung like dreadlocks from the handle. At the end of each dread was a tiny, sharp spur made of bone.

“Hurry, Shade.” Runa’s voice was a magnet, pulling him close to her.

Again, his arm raised. His mind screamed and his organs cramped as he brought the flail down as hard as he could.

On his own chest.

Pain tore through him. Sweet, crippling agony.

Runa gasped. “What are you doing? Stop it!”

“I … can’t.” Somehow, the pain lightened his own burden, his own guilt over his failures in his past, and at the same time, he rejoiced in being able to spare Runa. “I will bear this pain for you,” he swore. “If one of us has to bleed, it will be me. It’ll always be me.” There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, he knew that now.

“No,” she cried, reaching for him, but he snapped her wrists into the manacles above her head. “Oh, Shade.” Tears rolled down her face. “I love you. I know it’s not what you want, and I’m sorry. But I can’t help it.”

A wave of warmth flowed out of her like a breeze—the hallmark of freedom. The very air around her felt lighter. She screamed in ecstasy, rocked her hips as the mental and physical release took her. This was what the females he brought here were after, the most intense orgasm of their lives, one that would, in a way, last forever. Nothing felt better than a clean soul free of guilt, regret, and hatred.

And yet, he couldn’t drop the flail. Her darkness and guilt had been lifted, but his remained, and he had no idea how to get rid of it.





Eighteen





Wraith burst out of the Harrowgate into a sweltering jungle. Tracking Shade hadn’t been easy, not until his brother’s agony reached him, savaging Wraith’s mind until finding Shade became as critical as breathing. He’d followed Shade’s trail mostly by instinct and with a sense of urgency.

He wasn’t the only one tracking Shade.

Eidolon had used his Judicia contacts to learn that the Carceris had set their hellhound loose, and no doubt Roag had joined in the hunt as well. Wraith studied the ground, and satisfied that they hadn’t been this way yet, he took off down the lightly worn path leading away from the gate.

The jungle heat embraced Wraith as he shot through the vegetation, his senses tuned to Shade. Ahead. His brother was ahead and he was hurting.

Wraith broke out of the trees and into a small clearing where a waterfall gushed from the cliff above. He might have taken a moment to admire the sight, but he felt as if someone was squeezing his lungs and heart into a pulp, and it was growing increasingly hard to breathe.

Shade.

Wraith moved carefully around the waterfall, to a section of rocks that seemed to fit together a little too well. He searched the area, looking for openings, because although nothing indicated that this was anything but a tranquil oasis in the middle of a jungle, he could feel Shade, and his brother was close.

This had to be a cave of some sort, but he couldn’t find the entrance. There had to be another way.

He looked up at the river of water streaming over shiny, black boulders. Behind the veil of spray, shadowy recesses hinted at some sort of cavern.

He started climbing. The rocks were slick and rough, but he didn’t give a shit that he was tearing up his hands, his jeans, his really cool Hard Rock Café Bucharest T-shirt. Well, he mostly didn’t give a shit. The T-shirt, given to him by a Romanian half-breed waitress he’d fucked to get it, held some hot memories.

Fifty feet up and soaked to the bone from spray, he nearly lost his grip and plummeted to the ground, but he caught himself on some sort of thorny vine that hurt like hell. Wincing, he peeled his palm off it and moved in behind the waterfall.

Paydirt, baby.