Hostage to Pleasure

“Know what?!” Her voice rose. Again, it wasn’t particularly Psy. “Drive, Dorian.”


He thought he heard a plea in those words, told himself he was imagining it. This woman would never unbend enough to beg anyone for anything. “Not until you tell me why we’re going where we are.”

“I don’t know where we’re going,” she said, eyes wild. “I’m just following his voice.”

His cat stilled. “Whose?”

“Keenan’s.” Her own voice was a fierce whisper as she touched her fingertips to the windshield. “My son is screaming for me. If you won’t drive me, I’ll walk.” Her hand went to the door.

He hit the child lock. “You aren’t going anywhere in this condition.” She wasn’t acting like herself. The ice had well and truly cracked, but it hadn’t cracked right. She was unbalanced, not thinking straight, not functioning on all levels.

She slammed a fist against the door without warning. “I have to get to him.”

He scented blood and he realized she’d broken skin with that single hit. Swearing, he reached over and grabbed her hands. “I’ll take you.”

She stared, as if she didn’t believe him. “Then drive.” Another order.

Releasing her hands, he did as directed. He didn’t need her to tell him where to go anymore but she did so anyway, as if she couldn’t control herself. The second they pulled up in front of the ranch-style house, she began to try to open her door. He hit the unlock button and she was out a second later. Even with his changeling speed, she was on the porch by the time he caught up.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. “Wait.”

She twisted. “I need to—”

“You go into a leopard home without invitation, be prepared to get your face torn off.” He forced her to look at him. “There might be cubs in there—their mother will rip you to shreds first and ask questions later.”

Something of his words seemed to get through. “I . . . see.” A battle for rational thought that made her cheekbones cut sharply against her skin. “I need to get inside.”

Continuing to hold her, he pushed open the door, knowing it wouldn’t be locked. Tamsyn wasn’t stupid, but she also knew this home was guarded around the clock by changeling soldiers. They hadn’t challenged Ashaya, but only because he was with her.

The instant they stepped foot inside the house, she elbowed him in the ribs, brought a booted foot down on his own, and took off up the steps. Too late, he remembered that Ashaya Aleine was very good at faking calm.

“Son of a—” Growl building inside his chest, he went after her.

He caught her in his arms in front of an open upstairs bedroom. He could scent Pack, but he could also scent Keenan Aleine. When he glanced inside, it was to meet Tamsyn’s surprised expression as she looked up from her kneeling position beside the boy’s bed. The child was lying on his side in the fetal position, apparently asleep. Tammy’s cubs were nowhere to be seen so they were probably still at their grandparents’ but Kit, one of the older juveniles, knelt on the other side of the bed, a frown on his face.

“Dorian?” Tammy said, her eyes flicking to Ashaya.

The sound seemed to snap her out of her shock. “Let me go!” Another elbow jab but he was already releasing her. Because there was something seriously wrong with Keenan. Dorian could feel it in his chest, a dark knot of dread, a psychic cry for help his changeling brain hadn’t been able to translate into words.

But Ashaya had known.

Now, she ignored everyone to crawl into the bed and take Keenan in her arms. As Dorian watched, stunned by her transformation from logical scientist to this . . . this leopardess with her cub, she gathered the boy into her lap and spoke. “Keenan, stop it.” Her voice was an unsheathed blade, ruthless and cutting.

Tammy sucked in a breath, disapproval apparent in every line of her face. “He’s a child. Tone it down.”

Ashaya didn’t seem to hear her. “Snap out of it right this second. Do it!” Another order, this one frosted over with Psy ice.

When it looked like Tammy was going to physically intervene, Dorian stepped between her and the pair on the bed. “No,” he said, not sure why he was supporting Ashaya, not sure what the hell was happening. All he knew was that Keenan was in deep trouble. “Kit,” he said, when the juvenile moved, “don’t touch her.” Kit froze, caught between a sentinel and a healer, in a situation where rank was unclear.

Aggression rose, filling the air with the promise of violence.





CHAPTER 22


Tammy glared at Dorian. “She’s whipping the boy with that voice.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Dorian asked, his eyes on Ashaya as she rocked back and forth, her son held fiercely tight. “I thought Sascha was staying here.”