But as she stared into his eyes, her thoughts began to scatter, her mind going slowly numb.
"You're mine, Faith. I love you." Maxim forced his fingers to loosen their death grip on her jaw, forced himself to stroke her fragile cheek gently as he willed her to believe the lie. He hadn't understood why she was important to him, not until the Renascence. Now he knew everything. And she would not leave him. Ever. "Tell me you know I love you."
A strange look came over her eyes, like clouds blotting out the sun's bright rays. "I know you love me." Her words sounded odd. Toneless. Robotic.
He eyed her with annoyance, a flash of anger once more tightening his hold on her until his fingers shook with the effort to keep from breaking the fragile bones. Though he loved the sound of breaking bones, that would not do. Not here. There could be no screams here.
"You will be my mate, Faith."
"I will be your mate." Her reply was as toneless as before.
Beneath his fingers, he felt the tension in her jaw and body melting away, her eyes unfocusing as if he'd . . . clouded her mind.
Holy goddess. Such a thing was usually impossible with nonhumans. To his knowledge, no Therian could ensnare the mind of another of their race. Was this one of the legendary powers he'd gained from his animal?
"Put your hands on your head, Faith."
Slowly, she complied, her expression as blank as an imbecile's.
Maxim began to smile as he turned her and pulled her back against him, then covered her mouth with his hand.
"Do not make a sound, Faith." Concentrating, he called to the newfound animal strength within him and drew the claws and fangs without difficulty. Without pain of any kind. No, the pain would be hers. Lifting one finger, he touched the tip of his claw to her cheekbone, then pressed until he punctured the skin, drawing blood. She tried to jerk away, but he held her. "Be still."
She froze. Silent. As he'd commanded.
He grinned. With a quick, downward pull, he raked a bloody furrow in her cheek from cheekbone to jaw. Her body tensed. A glistening tear ran down her cheek, mingling with the blood. But she made no sound, just as he'd commanded. She was his to control.
The smell of her blood, the feel of her pain, even if her screams were necessarily silenced, fed the awful craving inside him. "Finally." Excitement thrummed through his head as he wiped at the blood running down her jaw and neck with his shirtsleeve until the bleeding stopped and her flesh healed. Pulling off his shirt, he cleaned her up, then turned her, staring deeply into her eyes.
"You won't remember I hurt you, Faith. You don't want to go back to Warsaw. You want to stay here and be my mate. You love me. Now wake up, Faith."
The blankness left her expression, and she blinked. "Your shirt . . ."
"It's time to get some sleep."
"I . . ." She shook her head, as if confused.
"I was speaking to you, and you barely seemed to notice. You're asleep on your feet, Faith."
"I must be."
Maxim's pulse was beginning to thrum with excitement. She didn't remember.
"You'll be happy here with me."
Her gaze met his, confusion slowly being pushed aside by certainty. "I know. I love you." The words were monotone, expressionless.
He smiled in silent triumph. "Faith?"
"Yes?"
He took her jaw, staring into her eyes until once more he'd snatched her mind. "Take off your clothes, then go stand in the empty bathtub. You will make no sound, Faith. No matter what I do to you. Afterward, you'll remember none of it. I would never hurt you Faith. I love you. Would I hurt you, Faith?"
"No. You would never hurt me. You love me."
"Now do as I said."
As she slowly stripped and walked toward the bathroom, Maxim watched with distaste. How he hated the feminine form. Unless it was painted with blood. And bowed in pain. Then it was quite beautiful, indeed.
He shifted back into his saber-toothed cat, then padded behind her, speaking to her telepathically. You'll make no sound, Faith. But you'll feel the pain. You'll feel the terror of what I'm about to do to you. Tremble with fear of me, Faith, for your blood will run.
She stepped into the tub, visibly trembling.
On your hands and knees!
When she'd lowered herself as he'd demanded, he opened his cat's mouth wide and moved forward until his massive canines, his saber teeth, were poised over her lower back.
Make no sound.
He slammed his jaw closed, impaling her. As she arched in silent agony, warm blood flowed into his mouth, drenching his throat, filling him with a fierce, vicious joy. Hail Catt, soon to be Chief of the Feral Warriors.
The nine wouldn't even see it coming.
Chapter Seven
Dusk shadowed the sky as Hawke dragged his tired body through the front door of Feral House. He'd come back to himself about ten miles upriver and discovered his cell phone was dead. At any other time, before his plunge into the spirit trap, he'd have simply flown home. But shifting into his bird would have only ripped away his consciousness and his will a second time. So he'd walked.
On the way, he'd been hit with another of those lightning-strike headaches, quickly followed by his hawk's furious retaliation. That ripping torment had lasted longer than ever before, and he'd found himself half-tempted to shift back into his bird simply to escape the agony. Finally, as always, it had faded away.
Lyon saw him come in the door.
"You've been flying all this time?" his chief asked.
"All except the walk home. It's still Thursday?"
Lyon shook his head, his expression grim. "Friday. Thirty-seven hours since you flew off."
Hell. "I thought I was getting better." Clearly not. Each time he shifted, he was lost to the bird for a longer time. An hour, two. Five. Thirty-seven. "I need sleep."
"I want Kara to give you radiance, first." Lyon gripped his arm in the Feral greeting, his other hand clasping Hawke's shoulder as worried eyes embraced him in deep, abiding friendship. "I'm glad to have you back."
"Is everything okay here?" Hawke asked, as Lyon motioned him to follow him. He wanted to ask about Maxim. About Faith. But he remembered too well his decision to back out of their lives. If he'd done it sooner, maybe he wouldn't have just lost thirty-seven hours.
"Well enough. A couple of the new Ferals showed up. Five have made contact so far. It looks like they're going to be a rowdy bunch. You can meet them in the morning."
They found Kara curled up in a chair in the corner of Lyon's office, an open book in her lap. At their entrance, she leaped to her feet, tossed the book carelessly into the chair behind her, and ran to Hawke, throwing her arms around him. "I'm so glad you're back."
Hawke pulled her tight against him, affection for this woman pressing against the walls of his chest.
"He could use some radiance." Lyon's voice was rough, but without a trace of jealousy as his mate embraced his no-longer-missing warrior.
"Of course," Kara said softly, and began to glow.
For the first time since his Renascence, the energy jolting through him brought no pleasure, no feeling of power. Only a dull, tingling ache. He waited for the ache to fade, the power to rush into him, but nothing changed. And when Kara pulled back at last, her light going out, he felt worse than when they'd started.
Hell.
He kissed her forehead. "Thanks, Kara."
Kara smiled sweetly at him as she backed into Lyon's waiting embrace.
Lyon wrapped his arms around her, his worried gaze on Hawke. "Get some sleep, Wings."
Hawke nodded. Minutes later, he pushed through the door to his bedroom, stripped, and collapsed onto his bed. What the hell had just happened in there? It wasn't enough he'd been gone thirty-seven hours . . . thirty-seven. Now radiance wasn't helping him? With a stab of fear, he knew. He remembered all too well the way Kara's radiance had sent Paenther crashing into the wall like a man electrocuted when he'd nearly lost the connection with his animal a few weeks back.
His own connection with his hawk was getting worse. More and more they were acting as separate entities. He feared it was only a matter of time before the connection shattered.
Hawke woke a couple of hours before dawn, went down to the kitchen, and fixed himself a plate, eating alone in a room as dark as his mood. The seventeen animals seemed to be returning after a centuries-long absence, but if they were as rowdy as Lyon suggested, their chief was going to need the original Ferals on their game. And Hawke couldn't be any more off his. He couldn't shift, couldn't fight without risking disappearing for days at a time. Maybe, eventually, forever.
With twenty-five others, maybe it wouldn't matter.
He shoved his chair back, running a hand through his hair. It mattered to him. The only way he could avoid that fate was to keep himself calm. Collected. A near impossibility with Faith and Maxim in the house.
Goddess. If not for his need for radiance, he'd leave and go live at one of the enclaves. Maybe he should consider it anyway.
He wandered into the hall. Television didn't interest him, so he headed for the library, his private sanctuary. The room belonged to everyone, of course, but he was the only one who used it on a regular basis. He loved the smell of books, loved to spend an hour or two every day deeply immersed in the words of another mind and, often, another time. It never failed to settle him, calming his soul. And he needed that calm now. Desperately.
But as he approached the double doors to his sanctuary, he saw light spilling out beneath. He'd found Kara in there a few times, but she was usually asleep this time of night.
He pushed open the door and stopped short. Not Kara.
Faith.
She looked up from where she sat curled in his favorite chair in that holey pair of jeans and a faded blue T-shirt, a huge Civil War tome open on her lap. As their gazes met, he felt like a damned deer caught in the headlights. His rational mind told him to back away. Get the hell out of there. The woman was a danger to his equilibrium, to his sanity, to his very life. If Maxim was in there with her . . . or if he found them together again . . .
Just the thought of that prick had his hands clenching into fists, the anger sparking deep inside him. Yet the ever-present rage dimmed, that calming hand pushing it down. He blinked, understanding washing over him. It was Faith who'd been helping him keep control. Or more accurately, the damned bird's infatuation with her. He could almost hear the hawk's sigh in his head.
But it didn't matter that she calmed him. It didn't change a thing.
Back away, he told himself. Turn around and go downstairs to the gym. It's safer. Far away from temptation and disaster. Far away from Faith.
But before he could force his feet to move, she tucked a lock of blue-tipped hair behind her ear and gave him a soft, sweet smile that arrowed straight into his chest. And he knew he was lost. Instead of backing out of the room, his traitorous feet carried him forward, through the double doors.
"You're back," she said quietly, then closed the book and set it on the table beside her chair. With unstudied grace, she swung her legs down and stood up, taking a couple of steps toward him. "Hawke . . . I'm so sorry."
"It wasn't your fault. Where is he?"
"Draden hunting."
The worst of the tension leached out of him. Maxim wouldn't return for at least an hour. "Are you still on European time?"
"No." A small furrow creased the flesh between her brows. "I've been sleeping a lot the past couple of days. I guess I just needed to catch up. I found this room after Maxim left tonight, and I've been here ever since." Her smile reappeared, brighter than before. "I've never seen so many books."
His chest ached at the sight of her, at the soft curve of her jaw, the slender length of her neck, the sweet fullness of her lips. Goddess how he wanted to taste those lips.
"What are you reading?" he forced through his own instead.
"The Battle of Antietam."
He lifted a brow. "Trying to find something to put you to sleep?"
She smiled, slaying him. He felt that smile penetrate like a sun shot straight into his heart, bursting into brightness inside him, sending brilliant light and perfect warmth radiating into every corner of his body.
"No, I love reading about history and wars." She shrugged self-consciously. "I wish there were books on the Therian-Mage wars, but I didn't see any."
"Therians rarely write anything down."
"Because the humans might find it? They'd just think it was fiction."
"Oral history has always been our way. If you wish to know something, find a Therian who was alive back then and get a firsthand account."
She frowned even as her eyes began to twinkle. "I prefer books."
"Me, too."
His words earned him one of her small, brilliant grins. Every time she smiled, he felt reborn.
Dammit, he'd promised himself to stay away from her.
No, that wasn't true. He'd promised himself to be nothing more to her than a casual friend. They still had to live in the same house, didn't they? And it was friendly to talk to her when he found her alone in the middle of the night. Right? Goddess.
He scrubbed his face with his hands.
"Are you okay?" Faith asked softly.
"Yeah. Just tired." Which was true enough. He was tired deep in his soul.
"Are some of these books yours?" she asked.
He glanced around him, at the wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor stacks broken only by the windows, the double doors, and the big, old-fashioned hearth. "They're pretty much all mine."
