they ever returned. Most didn’t.
She didn’t need to go into Old Irondell. She had enough problems dealing with the shadow breeds above surface.
She turned back to the door, slid the peephole open and peered through the slot. There he was. Pyro jerk. That mean, homicidal son of a—oh. Wow. She swallowed.
He was doing a handstand. Correction, he was doing push-ups in a handstand position. He was shirtless and the jeans he wore were smeared with dirt, rust and grime. His chest glistened, his muscles rippling with each dip and raise, from the corded strength of his broad shoulders down to the ridged abdomen that showed the control and power of each move. His hair was long, touching the floor when he moved, and the beard that covered his jaw gave him a wild, untamed look. She’d made a point of providing her prisoner with a bucket of water every other day so he could wash, but she’d never seen him actually bathe, or sweat—or glisten. She swallowed again.
He pushed himself up, exhaling in a gust, then slowly lowered his feet to the ground with the grace of a gymnast. He rose from his position, his back to her, and he rolled his shoulders. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Sure, he’d been on a prison diet for the last five months, but still, he didn’t look like he was wasting away. No. He looked....healthy. Very...healthy. The chains that connected his wrists to the bolt in the wall clanked with his movements. She stared at that glorious wall of muscle, his figure an enticing V that narrowed into lean hips and a tight, tantalizing butt. He turned his head from side to side, as though stretching out some kinks, shook out those massive arms and then paused.
His head turned slowly to his right. He didn’t face her, but she could see the corner of his mouth lift up in a sexy little curl.
“Why, hello, Red.”
A sneaky, traitorous warmth flared inside her at his familiarity, quickly squashed by a wave of annoyance. No warmth for him, damn it.
Hunter turned to face the door, refusing to let her presence bother him. She was right on time. He wasn’t sure if his captor’s punctuality was something he appreciated, or whether it irritated the hell out of him. It depended on his mood. He stood there for a moment, assessing his mood, and his stomach growled. Okay, so today it was appreciation. He was hungry, and she’d brought him food.
He raised his hands to his hips and tilted his head back to meet the green-eyed gaze of the witch behind the door. She stared at him for a moment, her gaze full of suspicion and wariness. He wasn’t going to try anything. He’d learned that lesson. Four times. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t try again, he just wasn’t feeling it today.
“Back up against the wall.” Her voice was low, husky and, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, the sound curled inside him, and he hated it as much as he enjoyed it. Five months he’d been trapped in this hole in the wall. Five lonely months. He’d never really been a social kind of guy, but after too many months of his own company, he was beginning to look forward to these too-brief moments of company with the bitchy witch. Crave it, even. Resented it, but craved it.
Yeah, he was a sick bastard. He backed up against the wall as instructed and folded his arms. If he didn’t threaten her, his cold little captor might stay longer.
The key clanked in the lock, and then the heavy steel door swung inward. She stepped into the room, and straightaway, he could smell her, feel her. Cinnamon and smoke. Lazy heat. He didn’t think the smoke could be blamed on him, though. He’d heard the sounds from above, the drilling, banging and clanging. They’d cleaned up that little mess he’d made. No, that scent of smoke was entirely of her own making. He was pretty sure his captor dabbled with fires of her own. As usual, she carried a torch. He hid a smile. She’d done her research. No candles, no flames, no access to sunlight, no fire of any kind...and blue light. But blue light was notoriously difficult to get hold of, so his captor had used a blue slide over the head of the torch. Sure the color of the light was blue, and gave an interesting hue to her skin, making her look otherworldly, but it was still light behind the shade. He could still use the feeble light of a torch to feed his power, if only a little. Yeah, they hadn’t put that little tidbit in the history books. It wasn’t the most efficient way for him to recharge—the light warriors had made sure to keep that one secret, too—but the glow from a torch did help. Each day, she fed him, both in food and energy.
Today she wore some sort of silky green top that flowed about her. It didn’t hug her form, but just hinted at the willowy, lithe frame beneath. Her jeans were tucked into leather boots. Boots with heels he knew from experience that hurt like the dickens if she kicked him.
She crossed to the pulley of chains that hung against the wall, set the brown paper bag and bottle of water on the floor and started to drag down on a length of chain. His jaw tightened as the iron chafed against his skin, and he could feel the sting as the cuff burned him. He thought he’d get used to it—especially with the efforts he’d put into those chains recently, but he hadn’t. Each contact of the metal with his body was like a hot poker to his skin.
Soon his right hand rose with each pull on the chain, and when she was satisfied with the position of his arm, she roped the chain around a hook on the wall. Then she started with the second chain. She did this every time, and he sighed. Damn her caution.
Of course, he’d given her good reason to exercise it whenever she was around him.
She left just enough give in the chain for him to have a limited range of movement with his left arm, then stooped to pick up the brown paper bag. He eyed the silky top as it gaped open with her movement, and he caught a glimpse of the creamy swell of her breasts, the scalloped pattern of black lace. He should be angry at himself. One, for being a pervert, and two, for spying on her. But, no. Five months. No sex. Angry wasn’t the right word for what he was feeling.
She opened the bag and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in plastic. She unwrapped it, then tossed it to him.
He caught it easily, eyeing the distance between them. She was just outside of his reach. Pity. He had fantasies of her stepping too close, of him stepping up and grabbing her, of him...doing wicked things. And then he’d call himself all sorts of a pathetic idiot for thinking anything remotely lustful about his captor and would replace those secret fantasies with something harsher, like forcing her to set him free.
He stared at her for a moment. She had red hair that looked like it had a life of its own, all vibrant curls and shiny locks, and green eyes that were a vivid spark of color, the pale complexion with a faint tinge of pink high on the cheeks was smooth and clear. The woman had the face of an angel, a body built for sin...and the ferocious temperament of a saltwater crocodile at sunset.
He looked down at the sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly. He was heartily sick of that combination, but damn it, he was also hungry. At least she gave him something more substantial in the evenings. Mostly. He tried to lower his other hand to hold the sandwich properly, but the chain clanked against the wall, and he hissed softly at the sting at his wrist. He covered the noise with a tight smile.
“Come on, Red,” he crooned. “How about loosening up the other one?”
She arched an eyebrow and stepped back. “You only need one hand to eat, jerk.”
His lips pulled up at the corners. And there it was, her regular endearment. He gestured toward her. “What, you’re not going to join me? We could swap sandwiches and bitch about our boyfriends.”
She
