Chapter Twenty-three
FRANKIE
Amurmur of voices rouses me from a restless slumber. My head pounds, and a nagging sensation that I’m forgetting something important lingers like a dull throb at the back of my mind. My body is stiff, and I groan when I try to stretch in the cramped space.
No more sleeping in the car.
Only when I stretch, arms tighten around me.
I jolt upright, suddenly wide awake. It’s only quick, shifter reflexes that prevent me from headbutting Garth. His blue eyes shimmer as he gazes down at me, their intensity making me suck in a sharp breath. Disoriented by his nearness, I peer around the room to gain my bearings.
At the sight of our cell, the events of the day come rushing back.
I shove out of Garth’s arms, a flush filling my cheeks at how much I enjoyed his embrace.
A grumble of protest rumbles in his chest, his arms tightening before he reluctantly releases me.
I stumble to my feet on unsteady legs, battling the urge to crawl back into his lap, where it was warm and safe.
I run my hands down my clothes, feeling rumpled and flustered. Voices fall silent, and I realize the guys were talking to the other occupants of the cellar. Some people gaze at me with awe, others with speculation, and a few with hatred.
The rest refuse to look at me altogether, likely for fear of drawing my attention. This prison might as well have been the gates of hell, the majority having abandoned all hope long ago.
My skin crawls at the attention, and it’s all I can do not to hide behind one of the men. Unfortunately, hiding isn’t going to get us out of this mess. The men are counting on me to rescue them.
No pressure or anything.
Tyler stirs with a groan. When he shuffles to his feet, my shoulders relax, and the anxiety twisting my insides eases at seeing that the majority of his injuries have healed.
My wolf is still pissed that they would dare touch him, and my hands curl into fists, claws gouging into my palms as my wolf demands retribution.
Deep breath.
In.
Out.
The only thing that calms my wolf is seeing Tyler awake and relatively unharmed. The moist scent of soil and dust clogs my throat, and I grimace when the ominous atmosphere seeps into my lungs.
Though smudged with dirt, the men appear unscathed.
Any prior injuries have healed while I was asleep—if you can call it sleep, when I don’t feel any more rested.
The guys are more than ready to leave, and I’m actually surprised they waited.
I would almost expect them to have broken open the cell door by now.
Pleasure warms me that they didn’t abandon me while I was unconscious, and I mentally cringe at how low a bar I have for males.
I don’t know if that says more about them or me.
Uncomfortable under their regard, I shuffle my feet but refuse to drop my gaze like an obedient female. While I trust them to a certain extent, I was raised to be suspicious of everyone. My phobias are too ingrained to vanish overnight. “How long was I out?”
I bite back a yawn, needing a few more hours of rest, but I’m adjusting to life on the run. Unsurprisingly, it’s very similar to life in Kyperian—sleep lightly, trust no one, always be prepared for an attack.
Yet I would take this new life in a heartbeat if given a choice.
The sweet taste of freedom is intoxicating.
I won’t go back, not without a fight.
“You rested for less than an hour,” Garth says with a scowl, and I don’t know if he’s annoyed I fell asleep draped over him and wasted precious time or…is he concerned about me?
It’s such a foreign concept that I fall mute.
Suddenly bashful, I clear my throat awkwardly and glance at the cell door. Magic crackles along the metal, and I tilt my head as I study it, grateful for the distraction. When I lift my hand to test the strength and weakness of the spells woven into the bars, Dante grabs my wrist.
He is so big, so masculine, that his fingers overlap a good bit.
Shifters are larger than life, and he’s no different.
The way he looks at me makes me feel special.
Feminine.
Even covered in dirt and reeking from the stench of the dungeon, I feel sexy. I peer up at him from under my lashes, my senses sharper and more alive than ever, similar to when facing off against a worthy opponent.
Dante appears flustered all of a sudden, wearing a deer in the headlights look. It’s barely there for a second before it’s replaced by his normally constipated expression. “Are you sure you should be doing that so soon?”
His gruff tone almost sounds like he cares…until he opens his big, fat mouth. “If you drop unconscious again, you’ll only slow us down.”
Asshole.
I easily twist my arm out of his hold, annoyed that I thought for even a fraction of a second that he might be a decent guy. I wave my hand toward the door and smirk at the dickwad. “If you want to be the one to open the door, be my guest.”
A beat of silence follows, then I dismiss him as irrelevant. “Exactly. I suggest you step back and allow me to work.”
When I step up to the bars this time, silence reigns behind me.
The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I’m very conscious of the predators practically breathing down my nape.
It goes against my training to give them my back, and I grimace at the vulnerable sensation, waiting with bated breath for them to slip a blade between my ribs.
The spell woven into the bars isn’t as strong as the chains, but it does contain a hefty kick. I can rip it down, but it’s going to hurt like a bitch. I gently nudge my wolf, hating to put her through the abuse every time I touch magic.
She rises, stretches out her spine, then shakes out her fur with a toothy smile. Blowing out a heavy breath, I flex my fingers to work up my courage, then I settle them over the bars. Silver hums against my skin like I touched a live wire, and I grit my teeth, praying I don’t lose a layer of flesh.
Ignoring the ominous hum of magic, I focus on locating the source of the spell. The instant I find it, my wolf turns feral. She lunges, her teeth and claws ripping it apart like it’s her mortal enemy.
That’s when I notice something odd.
While she’s unravelling the spells, she’s actually inhaling a small wisp of magic and consuming it.
Concern threatens to strangle me, and I carefully probe her for any signs of distress. The spell nips at her in retaliation, fighting to remain whole, but the magic itself remains inert…until she eats it.
My heart thuds in panic at what effect raw magic will have on her, then I swear her eyes shimmer and brighten. She stands up straighter…or did she just grow an inch taller? She shakes out her fur, and I would bet my soul that her white coat is bigger and fluffier.
Holy shit.
She’s consuming magic!
Then a horrifying realization slams into me a second later—I’ve been starving my wolf for her whole life. I’ve randomly absorbed a few spells over the years, but only minuscule amounts that no one would notice.
I’m distracted from my ruminations when the magic suddenly leaves the metal.
My wolf yawns, then curls into a contented ball and falls into a blissful sleep.
She’s not exhausted, she’s just full. While it takes a lot of energy to dismantle spells, each time is faster and easier, kind of similar to training a muscle that I didn’t use until now.
The ramifications of my abilities slap me across the face, and my ears ring, my breathing growing ragged. If people discover what I can do, I would be considered an even a bigger threat.
They would kill me on sight.
No one likes to feel powerless, especially power-hungry witches and mages.
It’s more imperative than ever that I remain out of the council’s clutches.
I need to train.
I need to plot and plan.
I refuse to be defenseless again.
“Frankie?” Tyler touches my arm hesitantly. “Are you okay?”
I blink away my chaotic thoughts, then grimace when tiny tendrils of smoke rise from where my palms remain wrapped around the bars. When I yank my hands away, I expect to see burns across my palms. Instead, my skin is pristine. It’s the bars that are burning, like my touch was corrosive.
Okay, that’s new.
Every day, I’m learning more about myself.
That should be a good thing… If only I knew what the fuck it meant.
Am I growing into my powers, or am I evolving into something more?
Both scenarios are equally dangerous.
Survival instincts are truly an amazing thing…and terrifying.
I wish I had an owner’s manual for this shit…or someone I could ask who wouldn’t try to kill me outright.
Tyler tugs me away from the bars when I don’t answer, the fox bristling, like he fears the bars might reach out and stab me at any moment.
I lean against his arm, watching his shoulders ease slightly at my touch.
He doesn’t let down his guard, but he does shuffle closer and snuggle against me like a fox seeking reassurance.
My stomach flutters, the sensation weirdly weightless, and I’m not sure I like it.
So I do the mature thing—I fucking ignore it.
“I’m fine,” I say, quickly shuffling away. The longer I’m near the men, the more they touch me, the more they seem to be working their way under my skin, distracting me when we can’t afford to be sidetracked.
The giddiness fades, and I breathe a sigh of relief…and disappointment. Not wanting to dwell on the contrary emotions, I push open the door to avoid any further conversation, snapping the locks with ease.
The metal hinges creak, echoing loudly in the inky darkness. I wince, my eyes flashing toward the entrance, bracing myself for a couple of goons to burst from the shadows. When nothing happens, I should be relieved, but it only sends a shiver of unease down my spine.
They’re planning something.
It takes a physical effort to turn my back to the darkness…and I find myself at the center of attention of dozens of people locked in their own cages. When I reach for the first kennel, Bellamy adroitly steps in my path and blocks me.