Destiny Forgiven Read online

  Something stopped him. A mark. An etching in the tree trunk sent a cold chill down his spine.

  MB & FV

  Another branch snapped. A rabbit took off across the forest floor. He ran after it, ducking and dodging low branches. In only a few moments, he’d caught the rabbit by the ears. Gun at the ready, he gave it a shake.

  “Shift!”

  The animal morphed quickly. Fuzz turned to skin. Muscle and bone grew thicker and longer. When it was over, Maddox held a small, yellow-haired boy by the scruff of his neck.

  “Ska’linta kai!” The boy trembled as he stared wide-eyed at Maddox’s gun.

  He lowered it but tightened his grip on the child. “I won’t hurt you. Just answer my questions.”

  The boy nodded.

  Before he put the gun back in its holster, he scanned the area, looking for signs of others. “Are you here alone?”

  He nodded again.

  That seemed to be the truth. He didn’t see signs of anyone else. But this child was no older than seven or eight. What was he doing here alone in the woods?

  “Where is your family?”

  “Kalma dead. Kalpa taken. I hide here.” Broken English. The boy probably spoke Shifter Tongue. Recently, the population had gone back to the ancient language as a way to keep sorcerers from knowing their plans. Were they even teaching them English anymore?

  “Taken?” He released the child and stepped back, though he stayed on alert in case he tried to run.

  “Sfeeta,” he spit with a look of disgust. It was a derogatory term for the Sorcerer’s army. The boy looked him over slowly then seemed to come to some conclusion. “You stay with me. You old but Sfeeta take you too.” He pointed to Maddox’s gun. “Use that. Kill Sfeeta.”

  Maddox glared at the child. Old? He didn’t often spend time with young children. Now he knew why.

  Exhaustion swept over him. He sat down on a nearby rock. What the hell was he doing here? Visiting a dried up waterfall that haunted him, talking to a shifter? If the boy lived in the colony, his fate would be sealed in just a few short years. A group of soldiers would steal him as soon as he set foot outside the protection of the colony. They’d bring him to Marwolaeth Du in chains that would suppress his magic – the magic given to him by the gods – then spend months turning him into a fighting machine. The Council’s fighting machine. For a war the sorcerers had begun with the Underworld.

  Funny. It had never seemed wrong before.

  As the boy moved closer, scrunching his nose as he sniffed at Maddox, he was struck with a deep sense of guilt. A boy not much higher than his waist lived alone in the wilderness because of his army? Because of him? He didn’t often think about the other side of things. This was war. Casualties happened. It was the way of the world. But….

  A head full of blond curls was beginning to make him rethink that.

  “You not shifter.” The boy gave him a suspicious look. “How you speak Shifter?”

  “I don’t.”

  Big brown eyes squinted as he cocked his head to the side. “I say ska’linta kai. You say nyet ska’linta kei. I not hurt you.”

  “No. I said that in English.” But as he denied it, the words came back to him. Nyet ska’linta kei. The boy was right. He’d said it. And he knew what it meant too. But that couldn’t be right. He didn’t speak Shifter Tongue.

  Fuck. This was just another piece of a growing puzzle that was becoming his life.

  “What happened to the water?” he asked the boy, scrambling for a topic change.

  He blinked at him in surprise. “Water come back with rain. When sun move under trees.”

  Ah. So it dried up in the summer then filled again in the fall. The season had been especially dry and Maddox was thankful it was coming to an end. Though the temperatures would stay warm, the rainy season was almost upon them. Where would the boy find shelter?

  He rubbed a hand over his face. Why did he care about a shifter child? Resolved not to give it another thought, he stood and took a last look around. The etching in the tree trunk beckoned him to take another look but he turned away. He needed to go back home. Back to the familiar. He needed to clear his fucking head.

  The boy stared up at him with curiosity.

  Maddox pointed to him. “Be careful,” he said in the shifter language. Then he walked away.

  The boy yelled after him but didn’t follow when Maddox ignored him. He let his mind drift with the noise of the motorbike. By the time he returned home, he felt queasy. A stiff drink helped him relax, but later that night, a small shifter boy haunted his dreams.

  It’s not like you to lose hope. You used to say hope is the last defense against evil.

  Felicity to Maddox in a letter, September 2003

  “You lied!”

  The roar startled Felicity out of a deep sleep. She shot up on her cot and came face to face with Maddox heaving angry breaths as he glared at her.

  Crap.

  She figured the lies from the day before would afford her a bit of time to come up with another strategy. But Maddox had her moved to a nicer cell for the night. A cot, blanket, and a full belly made slipping into a dreamless sleep too easy. She hadn’t thought of a plan and now she was staring terror in the face and only managed to mumble a series of incoherent vowels.

  “Uhh,” she said for the fourth time.

  With a growl, he stood and grabbed her by the arm. A squeak escaped her before she could stop it. He yanked her out the door and down the hallway at a pace she could barely keep up with. She tripped and stumbled but he only gripped her harder and kept walking.

  Where was he taking her? Was he going to actually torture her? Flashes of ugly medieval devices rotated in her mind like a sick horror movie. Was she strong enough to take it?

  They made so many twists and turns through the dim hallways there was no way she could find her way back to her cell. Though guards passed them, no one stopped to question him. They went through a door that led to a darker, narrower hallway. He marched onward, slower now, and her stomach dropped with each step. There were no guards here. Just emptiness. Silent horror. She shuddered.

  They stopped in front of what looked like a service elevator. Maddox slammed his hand into the button. The doors opened and he shoved her inside. She cowered against the wall furthest from him then checked herself. What the hell? She wasn’t acting like a proud rebellion leader. When had she turned into chickenshit?

  Maddox fixed his dark gaze on her. He scared her. Probably more than any other sadistic guard or torturer in this prison. The Inkman had turned her into a coward.

  She willed herself to think, to brainstorm, to fucking do something other than tremble and stare. His nostrils flared as he heaved in breaths. The elevator moved.

  They watched each other warily until it stopped and the doors opened. Training kicked in. As she walked by him, she threw an elbow into his chest then ran as fast as she could down the hallway. It didn’t take long for him to catch her. He snagged her arm and threw her against the wall, holding her there with his forearm across her chest. She yelped as her still sore head banged into the wall.

  “You think you can run from me?” he whispered harshly in her ear.

  Too afraid to look into his cold eyes, she stared at the floor.

  “There’s no way out of here even if you did manage to slip away.”

  She winced as he pushed his arm onto her throat.

  “And there are guards who’d do worse to you than I will, girl. You might want to think of that next time you’re considering trying to get away.”

  “I…I’m sorry.” She hoped that would placate him enough to release her.

  A long moment later he let her go and ushered her down the hallway with his hand wrapped tightly around her upper arm.

  It finally registered how different this hallway was from the rest of the prison – or what she’d seen of the prison. The floor was covered in plush carpeting, black but expensive looking. The deep red painted walls made the spa
ce feel smaller than it probably was, but the portraits hanging on the wall said this was someone’s living quarters. Or maybe a luxurious meeting space for the Council.

  A shiver of fear crept up her spine. Was she to be tried in front of the Council? Executed?

  They reached the door at the end of the corridor. Maddox fumbled with a set of keys, still gripping Felicity’s arm. She tested his hold with a little squirm and he pinned her with a dark look. His hand might as well have been a metal cuff attached to a chain. And she didn’t want to risk his wrath if she was going up against the Council. Maybe she could convince them she didn’t have the information they wanted. The idea was laughable. Too late for that game.

  The door opened and Maddox shoved her inside the pitch-black room. She heard it slam then lock behind her. That didn’t bode well. There was a click then the lights came on. She peered around her.

  A bedroom. It looked almost the same as the hallway only a square shape. Nothing hung on these red walls. A bed took up most of the space. Dark wood, four posts, a crisp white quilt tucked so neatly around the mattress it almost looked painted on. Curtains covered what must’ve been the one window in the room. In front of it, a settee surrounded by bookshelves made a cozy little nook. A large desk filled the opposite corner – as tidy as the bed. Overall the room looked rich, neat, and extremely depressing. Like the inhabitant was desperately trying to be happy but failing.

  She drew a deep breath. It smelled like Maddox. Not Inkman. The Maddox she once knew and loved. That did something dangerous inside her. It gave her hope.

  Warmth closed in, making her shiver when she realized how cold she’d been all these days. She turned around. Maddox stood just inches behind her, staring down with a smug expression.

  “Why am I here?” As the words came out, a frightening thought came to mind. A bed, a smug expression, a locked door. Did Maddox plan to rape her?

  A flicker of confusion crossed his face. “I…”

  His expression said everything. He didn’t know why he’d brought her there. Maybe part of him was coming back. Maybe instinct demanded he not harm her. She sighed. Wishful thinking.

  The momentary confusion disappeared, with it that pesky hope, and his lips twisted in anger. “You lied to me. The whole paper was filled with lies.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Maddox, but did you really expect me to give up so soon? You know me better than that.”

  When his face twisted in tortured rage, she knew she’d made a mistake. He reached for her throat before she could dodge him. A second later, she was flattened on the bed.

  “I don’t know you,” he said slowly, his face reddening with each word. Was he trying to convince her, or himself?

  She didn’t fight to get free. Though he pinned her by the throat, his hand was gentle. His face said hatred, violence, but he didn’t hurt her.

  Bravery rose to the surface, along with compassion for his suffering. She stared into his eyes, willing him to remember.

  Please, gods, make him remember!

  She shifted her gaze to his forehead, now bright red with veins throbbing, and thought back to when his eyes wrinkled with laugh lines. His eyes, now black and murky, used to twinkle when he was up to mischief.

  “You know me,” she whispered.

  His nostrils flared as he inhaled. Eyes fluttered closed and he leaned in. Warm breath against her ear, his cheek grazed hers. A tingle ran from that single spot of affectionate touch all the way down to her toes. She exhaled loudly. How she missed this. Soft touches, poetic words…love. Maddox had been love in its purest form.

  A soft growl jerked her from her thoughts. Though he held most of his weight on the one arm resting on the mattress next to her head, his body still crushed her.

  “You make me crazy,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

  Black eyes stared down at her again, this time filled with torment. He adjusted his grip on her neck – moved his hand lower and rested it on her clavicle.

  “You used to say that when I wore sundresses in the summer.”

  His brows drew together but he didn’t speak. She took that as permission to continue.

  “You called them flowy skirts. When I wore them, you’d rub your eyes and say, in a pained voice, ‘Gods, Cee, you make me crazy!’” She chuckled. “It was adorable so of course I wore them as often as I could.”

  The side of his lip curved in an awkward attempt at a smile. “You had the legs for them.”

  She felt her eyes widen and before she threw herself at him in a moment of unrestrained joy, she stamped down the impulse and nodded serenely instead.

  Stay calm. Don’t draw attention to it. Don’t jinx it.

  Voice trembling, she went on. “You’d tell me to spin ‘cause you said it looked pretty when the dress poofed out, but I think you really just wanted to see my underwear.” She smiled.

  A hint of amusement flashed in his eyes then disappeared. He moved his hand from her neck to the mattress. Though she wasn’t pinned by her throat, she still felt trapped.

  His gaze strayed from her face and made a slow trail down her body, lingering on her chest. With a quick nudge of his legs, he opened hers then set his hips between them. She could feel his hardness against her thigh.

  Fear clutched at her throat. She didn't want him – at least not like this – but her body seemed to be taking a break from reason. This smelled like Maddox and…felt like Maddox and, well, sexual repression did crazy fucking things to a person.

  He smirked when she let out a frustrated sigh then positioned his hips so his erection pressed near her clit. With a gasp, she grabbed his shoulders – to pull him closer or push him away, she didn’t know.

  She wriggled against him. For survival, she told herself. To make him remember. She tried to ignore the rising warmth between her legs, the needy feeling that went with sexual frustration. Her legs locked around his calves and she pushed harder against him. A little closer…

  “Fuck!” He pushed away and crossed the room.

  Shit. She stared up at the ceiling, panting and cursing herself. Had she actually rubbed herself against him like a slut with a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Thank the gods he’d stopped them when he did. Fucking her tormentor was low, even for her.

  With a sigh, she propped herself up and watched him pace as he rubbed his face and mumbled irritably. He’d starved her, scared her, hurt her, but she didn’t have a single drop of hatred for him. Compassion overrode everything. And right now, he looked like a lost little boy. Muscular, tattooed, hardened, but full of insecurity and fear. She’d turned his neat little disciplined world upside down. And she didn’t plan to stop.

  “You were a good kisser.”

  “Shut up,” he mumbled, halfheartedly.

  “You were. Comes with being a cocky little shit.” She chuckled. “About kissing anyway. In every other way you were…” Trailing off, she stared at the floor. He was happy and funny and had a laugh that could cheer her up on the worst of days.

  “Yes?”

  She looked up at him. He stood still, waiting for an answer.

  “Pretty damn near perfect.”

  His jaw tightened and she scooted back on the bed, preparing herself for another snap. He took a few steps closer. “Why can I speak Shifter Tongue?”

  She blinked in surprise. He remembered that?

  “Why?” he yelled, stalking toward her.

  “Because I taught you.” She moved backward on the bed, trying to put space between them.

  His fists clenched. “Shut up!”

  “You asked!” She watched his hands, waiting for him to swing one at her.

  Instead, he reached out and grabbed her ankle then dragged her across the bed. “Shut up!”

  “Kai veetna kei.”

  “Shut up!” He fisted his hand in her hair. “Or I’ll make you shut up!”

  “Kai veetna kei,” she cried and squeezed her eyes shut. “When the time is right, I’ll find you.
It was the last thing you said to me. Please remember!”

  His hand tightened in her hair and her scalp ached. She kept her eyes closed and waited for more pain. Hard lips pressed down on hers, taking her breath. A punishing kiss. He moved against her mouth desperately, as if he were trying to hurt her with passion. All she could do was take it. But when she felt like she couldn’t breathe, she squirmed and tried to pull away. He didn’t let her go but he relaxed his mouth and she finally took a breath.

  To her surprise, she initiated kissing the second time. She coaxed him to soften by using her tongue to lick at his lips. When he started pushing down too hard, she nipped at him and he gentled. Then he started to play. He teased her with his tongue then bit softly at her lips. When she tried to suck on his lip or pull his tongue into her mouth, he’d shift just out of reach.

  She gave a frustrated moan and his chest rumbled in what could’ve passed for a small chuckle. Gasping, he broke free. They stared at each other a long moment. Studying the curve of his top lip, she remembered when they’d first kissed so many years ago. He’d worn the same shocked but lustful look as he was wearing right now.

  Unable to stop herself, she ran her fingers up his arms where he held himself over her. Again she felt trapped, but she couldn’t keep cowering. Her only chance with him lay in being bold and forcing him to remember. And though she was still afraid of him, hope kept a firm hold on her.

  “You used to say you’d die for me,” she whispered, letting her hands continue exploring him. He had died. In a way.

  Checking his reaction, she looked into his eyes. His forehead crinkled and his mouth hung half-open as if he were still recovering from the kiss.

  He swallowed hard and gave his head a shake. “That’s a stupid thing to say. Dying for someone doesn’t make you a hero.”

  “I said the same thing.” Vaguely, she registered scar tissue in a crisscross pattern running the length of his arms. Deep marks that told a tale of suffering. She tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach. “Because…well,” she cleared her throat, “if the one person you loved most in this world died for you, what kind of life would it be without them?” She dared a glance at his scarred arms and she was thankful for the tattoos. Her voice felt shaky but she continued. “So you said, ‘let’s make a pact that we’ll never die.’”