It was him.
Hexe had marked her. But if he thought that just because he was King she’d come sauntering down, he was wrong. And King or not, she’d still fight him. He’d be lucky if she didn’t slit his throat at the end of this and leave the throne up for the taking.
The Mark burned bright against her chest and Hexe tilted his head, dark eyes skimming the peaks until his gaze landed on her. He was as bound to her now as she was to him, at least for the two weeks she’d be Marked. Icy and wild, his gaze locked with hers. Steele stiffened under the heat that cool stare brought to her belly, and lower. Damn him. Her fingers curled into the snow along the ledge. He was powerful, handsome. The kind of male any female here would want, or should want. If they were anyone but Steele. A smirk tipped his lips. Steele bared her teeth and hissed into the wind.
She twisted back along the mountainside and slipped into the shadows. She felt the burn of the Mark against her breast again, as clearly as if Hexe was sinking his teeth into her skin, dragging her down. Oh, she was coming. But she’d do it on her own terms.
Out of sight.
***
Hexe watched her hiss at him from the ledge and then disappear into the shadows framed by the mountain, the swirls of snow and gunmetal gray rock sheltering her from view. She wasn’t happy, but then again, he hadn’t expected Steele to be thrilled with his Mark. As much as she was a member of the tribe, she was a distant one.
She came to every gathering, but she always lingered on the outskirts, watching but never participating. The few times someone had tried to lure her in or befriend her, they’d been met with an icy rebuttal. Those who had pushed had been threatened with a knife. She was an enigma. Both seeming to want the company of others, and at the same time, denying it. But she’d always been clear about one thing. She didn’t want a mate and rumor had it, she’d gutted the last male who’d tried to claim her.
He didn’t doubt that she’d try to do the same to him and he knew damn well that his rank wouldn’t save him. Hexe glanced around the gathering as more and more of their kind slipped down from the peaks and met inside the valley. A few cats fought along the edges, angry snarls already beginning to rise. One male raked claws into the hide of another. Blood decorated the snow in splatters.
But no one stepped out of the crowd to challenge him.
A few females edged closer, single. A pretty redhead grinned over at him. He’d danced with her last year amongst the cliffs, playing, testing the waters. He’d left her hoping for a Mark and felt a little guilty now. He wasn’t even sure of her name.
It made him a dick and he knew it.
But he wasn’t the only unmated male here and unlike those skirting around, laughing and lirting, Hexe knew exactly who he wanted. He’d known it for awhile now. He heard the slightest crunch of snow behind him and grinned. Inclining his head slightly, he tipped his chin so he could gaze over his shoulder. Steele stood against the rock, her tribal-etched blade in one hand, her other stuffed in the pocket of her parka.
Hexe flicked his attention briefly to the mountains, the last of his cats now standing on the open ground before him. He gave a low rumbling sound in his throat, like an avalanche building along the range behind him, and silence washed over the tribe—both human and cat alike. He kept one ear trained on the woman behind him, expecting her knife in his back.
Steele didn’t move. Not yet, at least.
“Welcome,” Hexe said, a faint smile touching his lips. He doubted it looked friendly.
One palm extended skyward, he focused on the mountain magick that filled the land around him. Drawing in a deep breath, he pulled it inside him, then on an exhale, he blew it out over his skin. The magick appeared white in the cold air, curling like smoke, and then when it touched his hand it turned blue, floating skyward. The wind took the curl of color and blew it out over his cats.
Wintersong had begun.
Hexe took a powerful step towards his tribe, not tense, but prepared. If anyone fought him here and now, he would be ready. “The throne stands for the taking. Anyone?”
One eyebrow lifted in question, but not a soul in the group stepped forward to challenge him. He turned to Steele, saw the soft smirk on her face, but she made no move for him. Hexe eyed his tribe before him, a few shifters standing ready to resume their earlier battles. Most were here simply to be with the tribe or to find mates, their squabbles nothing more than proving their worth as males.
With a jerk of his head, Hexe dismissed them and watched the cats turn away, the official introduction done. The Marked females stood out easily, a swirl of blue magick lingering against their parkas. It was a half a beat before someone noticed Steele behind him. The male stumbled, eyes a little wide, and Hexe watched as the man flicked his gaze across the group, as if he was trying to see who had the balls to try her.
Hexe turned away from them all, everyone save Steele. They could think what they wanted to think—he had his reasons. Snow crunched under his boots as he strode toward her, her slim body still leaned against the mountainside, one booted foot pressed back against the rock. Lazy, almost. She eyed the knife in her hand before flicking her steel gray gaze up to his. Cool, confident.
He’d have expected nothing less.
But she always bluffed first. Postured first. She gave everyone an out, a chance to retreat. Steele waited now, her eyes on his, body stiff, but he recognized it for what it was. A chance to remove his Mark and pretend this had never happened. Even with everyone watching, she’d let him just walk away.
He wouldn’t.
Hexe had watched her long enough. He’d tried on every occasion he’d had to get to know her, but out here, she was in control. Always, always in control. He needed to find a way to get her off balance, to get her to let him in.
“I hope you have a good reason for this.” Steele’s eyes narrowed and suddenly they looked tinged with frost. “I hate to kill Kings.”
Hexe bit back a smile. There it was. The bluff. But backing down would get him nothing. Nothing would change.
“I have my reasons.” Hexe kept his voice low, the rough baritone dark. He took a step closer to her, watched the muscle in her jaw flex, but there was a flash of confusion in her eyes too. Her thumb slid over the handle of her blade. Her eyes met his and he saw the furious plea. She wanted him to back down. Hexe lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Whether or not you’ll find them ‘good’ is another thing.”
Another step.
“Try me.”
Hexe shook his head. Not now. Not in front of everyone. Not when he could still see the icy resolve around her. She was giving him an out, but she really didn’t care. Then again, it was hard to picture her ever caring, ever relaxing, with her long black hair tugged out of her hip-length braid and hanging loose in waves about her face. He doubted she’d believe him if he told her that was the reason. He needed a Queen, an equal at his side. A partner. But more than that, he wanted to see if the flashes of the softer woman he saw in her eyes, the glimpses of vulnerability and compassion, were real.
There was no denying she was beautiful, strong. A warrior. It was hard to picture her without a knife in her small hand. Yet somehow, when she slipped into his thoughts at night, dark and deadly as sin, he wanted to taste her. To press her back against a rocky wall and slip the zipper on her parka down. He knew she was lean, slender. Toned. Every bit the warrior he was. He doubted she’d be soft and yet, his gaze slipped to the hollow of her throat.
What would she do if he kissed her there?
Hexe took another step and Steele stiffened. Her blade made one last swirl over her palm before her fingers closed confidently over the handle. The tribe had gone quiet behind him, whatever squabbles they had over Marked females, or flirts that had just begun—it had all died away. Hexe hesitated a moment. If there was anyone here that could kill him and strip him from his throne, it was the woman in front of him, her gunmetal gray eyes the color of frost now.
He’d watched her fight once before. She fought clean, fast, and deadly. Every bit as skilled as he was. Hexe let his muscles tense, ready. When he came at her, he couldn’t be soft because Steele wouldn’t give him a second shot.
But he didn’t pull his blade.
She had that advantage. He didn’t want her dead, he just wanted her to be
his
. The muscle in her jaw flexed as he stepped closer again, so obviously doing what she didn’t want him to do. “You’ll be missing a kidney soon, my King.”
Hexe didn’t answer her. He lunged, clearing the last stride between them in a blur. Her knife whirled out and Hexe jerked out of range, air hissing out of his teeth in a sharp whistle. He caught her by her upper arm and flung her around, but Steele kicked out, one booted foot connecting with his knee. He grunted under the pain and jerked her back. Her knife slashed out, deadly, and Hexe leapt away, letting her go.
Steele stood with her back to him, looking over her shoulder. Her fingers played over the handle of her knife, drumming. Calculating. Hexe licked his teeth and waited. She made the first lunge, feinting with a slash of her knife at his gut. He jerked back, just as her foot connected with his side. He stumbled, lashing out when her knife blurred by again. Damn it. Hexe dodged the slash and caught her wrist, jerking Steele sharply forward.
She stumbled, but only enough that she managed to wedge a leg between his and catch him behind the knee. Hexe gave a growl as he crashed down on top of her, but it was the hoarse whoosh of air sliding from her lungs that roused a happy rumble from his chest.
She struggled, twisting the knife around, but he pinned one wrist above her head, snagging the other with his free hand. Her hips pinned under his, he straddled her. He slammed her wrists into the snow over her head. Steele’s lips tightened and she went still.
He didn’t for a second think she’d yielded.
“Drop the blade.” Her jaw tightened and Hexe dug his thumb into the sensitive pulse of her wrist. “Drop it, Steele.”
Pain flashed in her quicksilver gaze, but she didn’t yield until her hand spasmed and the blade tumbled loose of her grip.
She grimaced. “What now?”
He’d won the first round, but Hexe knew better than to think the rest of this would be easy. She would be slow to tame, slow to heat, but he’d seen metal turned molten before and she reminded him so much of her namesake. She’d bend, soften.
“You’re mine for the next two weeks.”
Her lips curved into a sneer and Hexe had to fight not to lean down and steal a kiss.
She knew Wintersong, knew the Marks. She’d known what would happen if she lost. She had hoped to win the fight and deny him. Hexe grinned.
“I’ll play nice.” His gaze drifted to her lips again, “But I won’t be giving you back your blade.”
Her hips flexed slightly under hers, her whole body arching as she tried to reach for it. Hexe held her fast, waiting. With a frustrated sigh, she stilled beneath him again. He pinned both wrists with one hand, and swept the knife up into his free hand. Her gaze sharpened and he didn’t miss the fury that passed through her frost tinged eyes. But he recognized the confusion there too, in the way her eyebrows drew down.
Then she seemed to shake it off and tensed underneath him, her hands curled into fists.
“That’s fine. I’ll steal yours.”
He had no doubt she’d try.
Click to buy Bending Steele by Sadie Hart ($1.99)
###
If you like young adult werewolf romance, try...
Wolfsong (Otherside #1)
by Kodilynn Calhoun
Chapter One
I knew two things for certain: One, the girl with the mesmerizing eyes was staring at me again, and two, I would never have the balls to talk to her.
Still, I couldn’t help but seek her out of the crowd of unruly high school students loitering around the front doors. She didn’t really stand out, not to me at least. She was cheerleader material—five-three with long, platinum blonde hair that danced in the wind around a heart shaped face. I happened to be a sucker for the sort of girl to get muddy playing football with the guys. This girl would probably freak out if she broke a nail.
Then our eyes locked and it was all I could do to remember how to breathe, like all of the oxygen had been sucked from my lungs with one of those turkey basters. Wow. They were an angel’s eyes, blue as oceans, and I knew that one of these days, I’d have to talk to her.
She stood on the curb, giving me an impish smile as she pulled down the hem of her yellow sundress. A smile that promised of things to come, whether I liked it or not, and my stomach twisted.
Maybe tomorrow.
I looked away, trying to fend off the rather demasculinizing blush burning my cheeks, thinking of dead kittens and cold showers. If anyone asked, I could pass it off as windburn. It was cold enough out here.
“Huh. I was beginning to think you fancied boys.” Greyson Meyer’s voice was a fly in my ear, slightly buzzing, his breath a warm reprieve from autumn’s chill. A smile laced through his next words: “I was getting a little excited.”
I gave him a shove with my shoulder, turning away from the blue-eyed girl. Greyson was my best friend—hell, my only friend—and played the part of a well behaved Christian boy. With tousled hair the color of sand and an innocent smile that could fool even God, he got straight-A’s, strived to graduate with honors, and played the trumpet in Rockfell High’s Jazz combo. Most people would never guess he was gay.