Warrior Untamed. Shannon Curtis

all, let her lead the way. He’d sent her a subliminal suggestion. Why did she hate the shadow breeds?

      He hadn’t expected her to take him to a Reform society ball. He’d given her a gown straight out of his imagination, one that hugged that siren figure yet had hidden her secrets. Classical yet incredibly sexy. That had not been his intention. Usually he just contented himself with being a mere witness to memories—like the dreams he’d previously walked through as Melissa had slept. His father had often played with suggestion, as had Hunter when first learning his dreamwalking skill. But what had just happened—that wasn’t normal. He couldn’t tell if that scene on the balcony was driven by his subconscious or hers. Whose suppressed desire had shanghaied that dream? Goose bumps rose on his skin as the chill night air caressed the icy water that drenched him, leeching at his desire. She’d surprised him, though. When he’d asked her subconscious to reveal the source of her hatred for shadow breeds, she’d shown him a scene of society’s civility, and instead of following that clue, he’d been distracted. The muscles in his jaw felt so tight he had to consciously relax them. He wished he could blame it on the icy drenching, but he practiced deluding others, not himself. He was painfully horny, damn it. For the bitchy witch.

      He shook his head, droplets of water flicking off his head like a shaggy dog. A damn Reform ball.

      He’d heard all about them, but had never attended one. He should have—he was the eldest son of a Warrior Prime, and the ball was a social event to gather all the Scions of each Prime family in one spot, as a celebration of Reformation Day. It was also where connections were made, alliances were forged and some strategic pairings were made among the sons and daughters of the Primes. As a Warrior Scion, he had a right to attend. As a light warrior, a shadow breed that kept its very existence secret, though, there was no way his family would ever participate in such an event.

      They had other ways of making alliances and wielding power, and it was far more delicate and discreet than the obnoxious gatherings of the Reform elite.

      He rubbed his bare arms. He was chilled now. His lips curled. And yet, he was also energized. Strange. Usually when he dreamwalked, it was to find out secrets and implant suggestions, or fake memories—even make people forget... He’d never once thought to use it to entice, to seduce. Light warriors drew energy and power from all sources of light, except for created fluorescence. They were also able to pull power from sexual energy and emotions. He’d always believed there needed to be a physical proximity for that to work, though, not something that could be accomplished through an unconscious connection. Apparently he was wrong.

      He’d connected with the witch, and with just one dreamy kiss she’d revitalized some of his stores. Totally worth a cold shower. He idly wondered what a real kiss with the woman would be like, then shook his head. He didn’t think her reaction would stop at just an uncomfortable, near-Arctic dousing.

      * * *

      Two days later, Melissa stared at her pale features in the mirror of the store’s bathroom. She pinched her cheeks, blinking her eyes open wide as she tried to wake up. She glanced at her watch. One hour. One hour before she could close the shop. Part of her wanted to curl up under the counter and sleep for a hundred years. Another part of her wanted to inject caffeine and never close her eyes again.

      She was going to kill him. Sure, her mother would be disappointed, but she’d be able to sleep, damn it. He was tormenting her, and no matter what spell she conjured up, he managed to get past her defenses and dance through her dreamscapes.

      She turned the tap and splashed cold water on her face. Last night had been bad. Over and over again, she’d relived the night her father had left. She eyed herself in the mirror, the haunted memories surfacing so easily now, as though her mind no longer obeyed her command to bury it.

      She and her brother, Dave, had crept out from their rooms, eyeing each other warily in the darkened upstairs hallway as their parents had argued downstairs. It was the eve of Melissa’s sixteenth birthday, when she would graduate from adolescent to Initiate and attend her first Reform ball.

      “She’s too young, Eleanor, and you know it.”

      “She’s the Daughter-Scion, Phillip, and she has to start behaving like one.”

      “She’s sixteen. She’s our daughter. You can’t marry her off, not yet.”

      “She doesn’t have the luxury of just being our daughter, and you know it. We have to form that alliance. I don’t want to be at the mercy of the Armstrongs, or the Marchettas, or any other Reform family. We need to ensure our witches have strong representation within the Senate, and this merger will ensure that. You know we can’t use David, but we can at least use Melissa as an asset.”

      David pulled her away from the banister and tried to drag her back into her bedroom, but she shook her brother off, her blood chilling at the argument downstairs as she returned to the railing. An asset? That’s how her mother saw her?

      Their parents were in the living room, oblivious to the listening ears upstairs.

      “Why the Hawthorns?” Her father’s question was laced with frustration and exasperation.

      Melissa’s eyes rounded, and she glanced up at her brother. The Hawthorns? They were known to dabble in blood magic. Hadn’t one of their ancestors given in to the blood-craze? She shook her head. No, surely not. Surely her mother wouldn’t ally the House of White Oak with the House of Hawthorn...she turned toward the head of the stairs, but Dave yanked her back, lifting his finger to his lips in caution.

      “The Hawthorns are strong, Phillip, and because of their—proclivities—they count some vampire colonies among their allies.” Her mother’s answer was haughty, as though offended she had to explain herself.

      “Do you hear yourself? Vampires? We don’t want to align with the bloodsuckers, Eleanor.”

      “Why? Are you afraid of them?”

      Melissa frowned at the blatant scorn in her mother’s tone.

      “I am wary of them. I don’t trust them, and neither should you. Anyone slave to the blood thirst will always be an enemy to the humans and witches, Eleanor, and you know it.”

      “Well, I’m not scared of them, Phillip. It’s done. I’ve already discussed it with Marcus Hawthorn. He is willing to formally introduce his son to Melissa at the ball tomorrow night.”

      “So, you’ve gone ahead and done it without discussing it with me.” Her father’s tone brought tears to Melissa’s eyes. It was so brittle, so cold.

      “I do not need, nor seek, your permission, Phillip. I am the Coven Elder, and in this my authority is absolute. Deal with it.”

      “I won’t stand for this, Eleanor.”

      Her mother laughed, a cold little tinkle that sounded like broken glass cascading over stone. “There is nothing you can do, Phillip. It’s already arranged.”

      “I won’t stand by your side and watch this. You’ve gone too far—you should have discussed this with me. We could have come up with an alternative.”

      “You’re my Consort, Phillip, not my confidant.”

      Melissa flinched at the sound of breaking glass, and then her father stormed out of the living room and into the front foyer.

      “Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore, Eleanor. I’m renouncing this farce of a marriage. Do as you will—you always have.” He gave a sharp, cruel bark of laughter. “You’re so worried about your standing among the society, I’m almost interested to see the spin you’ll put on that, but I find I really couldn’t care less.”

      Her father yanked his coat down from the hook behind the door. Melissa broke away from David, tears streaming down her face as she started to walk down the stairs.

      “Daddy, please don’t go.”

      Phillip Carter turned around, and she could see his struggle to contain his anger in front of his children. Finally, he smiled