Dark Lycan (Dark #24)(3)
Author: Christine Feehan

He watched her in the mirror. He’d seen her try a drink each time she came in, one she’d obviously seen someone else drink, and each time she made a horrible face and spit the liquor back into the glass, shook her head and moved away from the bar to the tiny area where she could dance. Again she seemed completely oblivious to those around her, losing herself in the music. Fen was certain she came to the tavern only because she loved the music.

She never spoke, not even to the bartender, and Fen wondered whether or not she could speak. Her skin was porcelain white, as if she never saw the sun. Her hair was beautiful, falling far past her waist, long enough that she probably could sit on it, as if she’d never cut it in her life. She wore it in a braided rope that was as thick as his wrist. The silky fall was a color he couldn’t quite define, but when the light hit it just right, the color seemed to change, although it could just be the way he perceived color.

Her eyes caught at him. He couldn’t stop staring at them, and as she danced, she suddenly lifted her lashes, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. His heart nearly stopped and then began pounding. Women didn’t have that kind of effect on him. His mouth didn’t go dry. His jaw didn’t ache and his canines didn’t grow sharp. He was always-always-in control. And yet . . . He heard thunder roaring in his ears, and breathed deep, calling on centuries of discipline.

Emotions dulled and disappeared in time. What little he felt, he felt as the other, not in this form. Sometimes he forgot what it was like to be in his present form. Yet now, looking into her eyes, he found he couldn’t look away. She mesmerized him. Captivated him. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust his unfamiliar, very strange reaction to her.

A gust of wind hit the tavern hard, blew down the chimney and sent sparks rising in the fireplace. A log fell from the iron grate and rolled toward the opening, coming to an abrupt halt, but flames leapt and danced, while cracks inside the log glowed brightly. Fen swung his head toward the window. The thick mist spun out of the forest, threads of gray, wrapping itself around the tavern, enclosing the entire building in a giant glistening spiderweb.

The woman stopped dancing, drawing his attention back to her. She stared at the fire, as if every bit as mesmerized by it as he was by her. She moved closer and he found himself frowning, watching her closely in the mirror. Her eyes reflected the leaping flames, almost as if the lenses were multifaceted, reminiscent of the cut of a diamond. She stepped closer, too close. The fireplace was open. Mountains of ashes glowed, flames leapt hungrily. Fen slipped off the barstool.

She slowly extended her hand toward the flame. The path would take her palm right into the center of the fire. He moved, using blurring speed, coming up behind her, reaching around and catching her wrist, pulling her hand back away from the flames before the flames could blister her soft skin.

For a moment she stiffened as if she might fight him. He felt a brush, the lightest of touches along his mind, which shocked him. Who was she? What was she? He held his barriers effortlessly and kept his touch gentle, taking care not to convey a threat of any kind. She relaxed and he inhaled the scent of her, his head near her shoulder, so that the thick braid of silky hair brushed his skin and her feminine scent enveloped him. He drew her deep into his lungs. She smelled like sin. Like sex. Like paradise and everything he didn’t-and would never-have.

"It’s hot. Fire will burn you," he said softly, making certain no one else in the tavern would hear.

She was intelligent, he could see that, but something had happened to her and clearly, there were things she’d never experienced and had no knowledge of. Amnesia? Trauma? There was no other explanation. Everyone knew about fire, and her lack of knowledge just made her all the more vulnerable.

She turned her head slowly to look up at him over her shoulder, frowning slightly, a puzzled expression on her face. Up so close, she appeared ethereal, mysterious, her skin silky smooth, touchable. He’d never been so drawn to another being in his life.

"Your skin will burn," he explained patiently. "It would be extremely painful to you."

She continued to look at him, confused. He tried repeating the warning in several languages. She just looked at him, and they were drawing far too much attention. Every time she moved she had the eye of everyone in the tavern and he didn’t want anyone to think she was easy prey because of her lack of knowledge of the most basic necessities such as fire. In the end, there was nothing else to do. He pressed her arm down to her side, stepped around her and extended his hand, palm down, into the flames.

She watched, her eyes widening as his skin blistered and the scent of burning flesh rose. She caught his arm and jerked his hand from the fireplace.

"Do you understand?" he asked, showing her the damage.

She turned his hand over, her palm covering his burned one, not quite touching, yet he still felt her energy vibrating through his skin. Soothing coolness slid over the blisters. She lifted his palm toward her mouth. His breath caught in his lungs, the air trapped there. He couldn’t move or even speak as she bent her head toward his palm. Her tongue touched the blisters, lightly, barely there, a slow brush that actually made his hand tremble and his knees just a little weak. Worse, his body reacted with a hot surge of blood, rushing and pooling in wicked demand.

She let go of his hand slowly, almost reluctantly. He lifted his palm to inspect it, still feeling that soothing coolness, as if she’d spread a healing gel over the blistered skin. The blisters were gone. His palm was no longer burned, nor was it even red.

Fen drew in his breath sharply. He knew what she was. No other species could heal with just their saliva so easily. She had to be Carpathian-a race of beings who called the Carpathian Mountains their home. Few knew of their existence. He frowned, trying to wrap his brain around the idea. In truth, it made no sense. He doubted that a Carpathian female would come to a tavern alone, especially a rough place like the Wild Boar. She would not only have knowledge of fire, but she would be well-schooled in all things. No one lived as long as Carpathians without acquiring a great deal of knowledge along the way. What had happened to her? And why was she unescorted?

He felt the weight of a stare and glanced up to meet Zev’s gaze. Zev was looking at the woman. Instinctively, Fen shifted his body slightly, blocking Zev’s view of her. Her gaze jumped to his face and then she peeked around his broad body to look at Zev and then moved back behind him.

"You aren’t safe here," Fen said, reluctant to admit it. "This crowd is rough."

She smiled at him. Smiled. His heart shifted. His stomach tightened and blood surged hotly in his veins. Her teeth were very white, her lips full, red and the thing of fantasies. He took a breath, knowing it was a mistake, but drawing her into his lungs anyway. He took her deep and left her there, swirling around, twisting up his insides until he knew he could-and would-find her again.