Page 5 of Witch's Moon
Chapter 3
Regan woke to the sound of screaming.
Pain blazed along her nerves, her whole body on fire.
She clamped her mouth closed, and the screams stopped. She lay, eyes screwed shut, panting hard, her heart thundering.
“Thank Christ,” a man’s voice muttered. “At least we know there’s nothing wrong with your lungs.”
The words were a blur. She couldn’t take them in. Searing pain filled her mind, slamming into her, tearing through her. She tried to focus, to control her reaction, but the agony was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She swallowed the scream building up in her throat but couldn’t prevent the whimper that trickled from her sealed lips.
“Shh, hold still, and I’ll give you something for the pain.”
Hard hands held her down, and she panicked then, writhing against the bonds, struggling to escape the pain that rose to a crescendo as she tore the wound in her shoulder.
“Goddamn it, I said hold still. You want me to hit you again?”
Hit heragain?
The words broke through the pain. He had hit her? Curiosity gave her the strength to lie still and open her eyes. She blinked at the bright sunlight filling the room. A man hovered above her, pale skinned and dark haired. She knew she’d never seen him before. Then she stared into his eyes, deep-blue, blazing with something wild. They were beautiful, and she was caught, mesmerized. She remembered another set of eyes, wolf’s eyes that glowed amber, and she threw back her head to scream.
Before the scream could emerge, she felt a sharp stab in her upper arm. She glanced down in shock as he pulled the hypodermic needle free.
“There. Done. You should—”
But his voice faded, and a blessed relief flooded her body. Her lashes fluttered closed as the darkness took her.
When she woke again, the room was in semi-darkness. She lay quiet. The pain was still present but reduced to a dull, throbbing ache.
Her dreams had been of teeth and claws, of savage, bloody carnage under a full moon. Her mind shied away from that. She didn’t want to think of what had happened in the forest and what might come of it. Not yet. She would confront those problems later.
She was lying on a large, soft bed, a light cotton sheet covering her naked body. Pulling herself up, she dragged the sheet with her, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shot through her shoulder. She sat, her back resting against the cool wall behind her.
The curtains were open, and the light from a half moon shone in through the window. From the moon’s phase, she could tell she must have been here at least two days. Had she been unconscious all that time? Was she a prisoner of the werewolf who’d attacked her? But that didn’t make sense—she wasn’t restrained in any way.
She peered around the room, then focused sharply. A man slouched in an armchair across from the bed, his head resting against the back of the chair. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark shadows on his pale cheeks. It was a face full of hard lines and would no doubt appear harsh when he was conscious. Now it was softened by sleep and moonlight, his lips slightly parted, the pulse throbbing in his throat. Her gaze drifted lower. He was big, his long jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, his shoulders massive under a black T-shirt.
Who was he?
It came back to her. He’d been there when she woke before. He’d told her he’d hit her. Then stabbed her with a needle and taken away her pain.
She needed to get away from here. Her sisters would be concerned, and Regan was worried about her hounds. Had they found their own way home? She hoped so but doubted it. They must have been captured themselves; otherwise, they would have died protecting her that night. She had to find them.
First, she needed clothes.
She opened her mouth to speak the spell, and no words came out. Panic flared, and she forced herself to concentrate. She needed to think this through. Then she remembered the witch’s bane and glanced down. She was still wearing the chain that Ethan Stone had placed around her neck. The charm must prevent her from speaking her magic. She studied it closely and realized it wasn’t silver after all, but white gold, which would make sense. Weren’t werewolves sensitive to silver? Couldn’t you kill them with silver bullets?
The truth was, she’d never thought much about werewolves. They existed on the periphery of the supernatural world, and most of the other immortals regarded them as little better than savages. Obviously, with good reason, but now she wished she knew more.
A clear crystal hung on the chain, nestling between her breasts, and radiating a faint hum of power. If she could remove it, maybe her words would return, and she could get out of here, go hunt down that bastard Ethan Stone, and kill him.
She lifted her left hand to tear the chain from around her throat but couldn’t make her fingers to touch it. There must be some sort of compulsion spell built in. She tried again, focusing all her mind, but her hand stopped barely an inch from the chain. Her fingers shook with the strength of her concentration, but she could not make them go closer. She dropped her hand and gritted her teeth.
Across the room, the man shifted in the chair, and Regan glanced over at him. His eyes were half-open, gleaming beneath the heavy fringe of lashes. When he saw Regan watching him, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair.
“You’re awake,” he said. “About bloody time.”
He got to his feet and stretched. The action dragged up his T-shirt and bared his lean belly. The skin was pale, ridged with muscle, sprinkled with a light covering of dark hair. Regan stared, riveted, and a ripple of awareness ran through her. Her eyes narrowed at the unexpected—and unwelcome—response.
