Warrior Untamed. Shannon Curtis

own daughter.

      * * *

      Hunter held out the remains of his sandwich to the rat. “You better fill up while you can, Steve. Might be a while before we get another feed.”

      He winced as he shuffled back against the wall. His body ached. Everywhere. His burns were almost healed, though. It had taken him a few hours longer than usual to mend—a sign of his low reserves. He grimaced. “Mental note—knock her out, next time. She hits like a...witch.” He tilted his head back against the brick behind him. She hadn’t brought down the evening meal. He supposed he deserved that. He hadn’t intended to start anything with her today. It had just...happened.

      He frowned. Things just happened a lot around him. She’d been right. Her surviving their meeting in her apothecary was purely based on her luck, not his design. He’d had one thought—protect his brother. He hadn’t spared the witch any consideration when he’d obliterated all records of her orders.

      He and Ryder hadn’t been on speaking terms when Jared Gray, Alpha Prime to the Alpine Pack, had died in his brother’s surgery, poisoned by wolfsbane. His first instinct was to slap some sense into his brother for committing a crime that could be so easily traced back to him. His second instinct was to hide any evidence connected to the case. If they couldn’t prove his guilt, they couldn’t convict his brother.

      How was he supposed to know his brother wasn’t the coldhearted murderer Hunter thought he was? Okay, so it didn’t help that his brother had thought the same thing about him. Turns out, they were both wrong. Their father, on the other hand, could account for at least two murders. Hunter didn’t want to think about the probability that there were more. He eyed Steve. The rat held the morsel of the sandwich in his front paws, nibbling at it delicately.

      “Such petite table manners, Steve. You know, I think folks underestimate you rats.” He shifted again, getting a little more comfortable in his stone-and-brick cell. He forced himself to relax. It was night. He wasn’t quite sure what time, but he could sense the sun had set. Over the last few weeks he’d gone dreamwalking. He’d learned quite a lot about his temperamental prison warden as she’d slept. He’d managed to crack the locks on some of the memories she’d tried to shield. She’d been happy, once. A red-haired sprite with a cheeky sense of humor. That had changed, though, the night her father had left. He’d played that one over a few times, just to try to understand it, but it was a garbled mess in there. Her emotions were too jumbled to get much of a read.

      Perhaps tonight he could find out why she hated the shadow breeds so much? If he could find that key, he could use it to his advantage.

      Closing his eyes, he regulated his breathing, allowing himself to slip into slumber, his consciousness drifting away from his body as he started his dreamwalk. It didn’t take long to find her subconscious—he’d made the trip enough times he could find her easily enough.

      * * *

      Melissa carefully picked her way down the steps into the grand ballroom. Oh, wow. She hadn’t been to a Reform society debutante ball since, well, since Theo. Couldn’t quite figure out why she was at one, now. Where was Theo? There was something bothering her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She tried to remember how this had come to be, but each time she tried to recall how she got here, her thoughts danced and flitted, and she couldn’t follow anything down to its source. She sighed. She felt like she should be worried, perhaps even alarmed, but even those thoughts zipped away, as though dancing with the wind.

      She glanced around the opulent ballroom. As a teen, she’d thought it was a romantic event, magical even—a sign of maturity and acceptance. Then she’d discovered what a tedious torture they were, with all the Scions of the Prime classes gathered in some sort of archaic custom of forging alliances among the Reform elite.

      She tripped, bracing a hand against a nearby wall to catch herself. She glanced down. What the...? She gaped. She was wearing an emerald green gown, with a strapless beaded bodice and flowing skirt. She couldn’t see her shoes, and her hair was such a heavy weight on her head, she didn’t want to bend over too much in case she overbalanced. But she could look down enough to see her outfit. She was wearing a bodice that seemed to cover only half her chest. Oh. My. God. She straightened to prevent displaying her full assets. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but the bodice support was gravity-defying.

      She fingered the satin of the skirt. It was quite simply the most beautiful thing she’d ever worn. And the most feminine. She wished Theo could see her in it. But he wouldn’t. Regret bloomed, stiff and uncomfortable. Why wouldn’t he? Again, the flutter of something at the edge of her consciousness teased her. She blinked, and her eyelashes brushed a solid edge. She raised her hands to touch her face. She was wearing a mask. She had no idea what it looked like, but she could feel the crystals on the surface. Her wrist caught her eye. Where was her tattoo? Two years ago her brother had etched it into her skin—painstakingly and way too gleefully, she’d thought at the time. But now, the inside skin of her wrist was smooth and unmarked. Confusion and concern for the missing mark teased at her, like the gossamer wings of a dragonfly, before fluttering away.

      She stepped farther into the ballroom, her gaze flickering from one elegant sight to the next. Waiters bearing crystal flutes filled with champagne—or blood for the vampires. Her lips tightened. She could see them, despite their masks, their alabaster skin a dead giveaway. The lycans, too, were easy to spot, with their longer, thicker hair, the rebellious attitude they all seemed born with—and their obvious antipathy toward the vamps.

      Her fingers curled as she raised them, and she startled when a waiter stepped in front of her, offering her a glass of blush pink champagne. She accepted it, sighing brusquely. Her mother would not like it if she used magic against a fellow Scion. It was encouraged for the offspring of the Prime leaders to get along—at least at the ball. She glanced around the room. An elegant cage full of monsters.

      “What are you looking for?” a deep voice murmured above her right ear. She managed not to flinch, although she couldn’t quite hide the shiver that tingled down her back at the low masculine voice so close to her ear, the whisper of breath across her collarbone.

      “An escape, perhaps?” she commented casually as she slowly turned, raising the glass of champagne to her lips. When she faced him, she forgot to drink.

      He was tall, his black jacket perfectly tailored for his broad shoulders and muscular arms. The dark vest he wore over the white dress shirt emphasized his narrow waist and lean hips, and the black bow tie highlighted the strong column of his throat. He looked like a tall drink of handsome, barely contained strength poured into a dark suit. The mask concealed the upper half of his face, but the strong jawline and sculpted lips she could see were tantalizing, attractive, with an inherent pout that was undeniably sexy—and frustratingly familiar. Recognition—just like the memories of how she wound up here tonight—dipped and danced out of reach. Her gaze lifted. His dark hair was cut short, but still long enough for her to play with—if she’d just reach up and...

      Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. If he was at the ball, he was a Scion. She didn’t play with Scions. That would delight her mother and she made a practice of not delighting her mother. She refused to participate in the woman’s political power plays.

      The dark eyes behind the mask turned assessing, and he tilted his head. “They all seem nice enough,” he commented, inclining his head to the crowd behind her.

      She stared at him. His skin was tanned, a healthy complexion that didn’t suit a vampire, and he didn’t give off a lycan vibe. She was curious, but that in itself was enough of a warning for her. She hadn’t been curious about a guy since Theo. Wasn’t ready to be curious about a guy. Not now, and hopefully not ever. She glanced around the room. Where was Theo? She wanted to go home.

      “It’s just not my kind of scene,” she murmured, and sipped from her glass.

      His gaze flicked to the open French doors and he smiled. “Then why don’t we change the scene?” he suggested, lifting his hand to indicate the terrace outside in a graceful gesture. For a moment she stared at his hand. Long fingers that looked courtly