He stared down at her, at the beauty nearly obscured beneath the bloody cuts that crisscrossed her face. And he finally accepted what his gut had been telling him from the beginning. This witch was different. She was innocent of the cruelty and treachery he'd suffered from Ancreta.

Innocent.

"We may finally know the purpose of that cantric of hers," the Shaman said behind him.

Paenther glanced at him over his shoulder, taking in the small audience that had followed him down. "What do you mean?"

"I've been wondering why anyone would embed a cantric in a heart, and I've come up with one reason. So the one in whom it was embedded cannot ever be free of it."

"What are you saying?"

"I think it's there to control her. Punishment, she called it. That Mage loaded spells into her cantric to punish her for doing the forbidden, or for failing to do the things he wanted her to do."

Like perform the moon ritual.

"Then he put the cantric where she could never remove it."

"Seems like a drastic measure," Tighe said.

"I agree." The Shaman shook out the lace cuffs of his sleeves. "It makes you wonder just how hard she fought him for him to resort to such a measure."

"Was she a slave, then?" Tighe asked. "To her own people?"

Paenther's hands fisted at his sides. "To one person, I think." Birik. Goddess, he didn't know what she was. He didn't know anything anymore. She'd shown all the signs of a woman abused. But then during that nightmare of a ritual, she'd seemed completely involved in the slaughter and the sex, taking him inside her against his will, and he'd believed what Vhyper had told him, that it was all a ploy to gain his cooperation. But when he thought back on that night, he remembered how tight she'd been even after Birik had attempted to ready her. He'd assumed that proved her interest in him had been faked. Now he was beginning to realize their mating had been as against her will as it had been his own.

Paenther looked down at the ravaged, delicate beauty as if seeing her clearly for the very first time. Eight years old. She'd fought Birik like a panther cub. Why?

But he knew. She'd fought him over the animals.

He looked up at Lyon. "She's an enchantress."

"What's an enchantress?" Kara asked.

The Shaman answered. "The enchantress is one of the truest of the nature spirits the Mage evolved from. There are few left. I've seen them attract birds or butterflies. Occasionally bees. For this one to affect your animals is extraordinary."

"What function did she perform for the Mage, B.P.?" Lyon asked.

"I'm not sure. She called animals from the forest, five or six at a time. Birik sacrificed them, drenching her in their blood while she...performed...a ritual. It was through the power of that ritual that Birik was able to free three wraith Daemons from the blade."

The Shaman frowned. "Sacrifices are used to call forth dark power. Killings like that would go against the very nature of a true enchantress."

Paenther nodded. "Hence the punishments loaded into her cantric." It was suddenly so clear. And yet not clear at all. Just because she hadn't wanted to kill the animals she took from the forest didn't mean she held any love for the Ferals and Therians, the natural enemies of her people.

"Why are our animals reacting to her like they are if she supposedly attracts creatures?" Tighe asked.

The Shaman turned to him thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. They may simply be reacting to your own rampant distrust of what she is. Or they may sense something in her they don't like. Be very careful. There's no telling what else has been loaded into that cantric. She could be a danger to you without ever meaning to be."

Lyon grunted. "You think he could try to use her as a weapon."

"I'm saying anything is possible. Just be very careful."

Paenther looked up at the smaller man. "Is there a way to clear the cantric of its magic?"

"Not as long as the one who wove the spells still lives."

"He lives. For now."

When he was sure the cutting was done, Paenther pulled out a knife and cut the ropes off her wrists. Then he scooped her into his arms and stood.

"Putting her in a different cell?" Lyon asked.

"No. She's staying with me."

Lyon's mouth tightened. "You heard what the Shaman said. Just because she's fought Birik in the past doesn't mean she's not dangerous now."

"I heard. But I owe her this."

"How can you owe her anything? She's a witch, B.P."

He met his chief's gaze. "I haven't forgotten. But she's earned an open mind, and I intend to give it to her."

"You can do it down here."

Paenther shook his head, turned and walked away. Logically, he knew Lyon was right. She was still potentially dangerous, whether or not she meant to be.

But the protectiveness he'd been struggling with since the first time he saw her had gone into hyperdrive.

"B.P...."

"See you in the morning, Roar."

As Paenther carried her into the showers off the gym, he accepted the probability of what his gut had been telling him for some time, now. That she wasn't his enemy. That she had never been his enemy. That she had, in fact, been every bit as much a captive of Birik as he'd been. For so much longer.

Stepping into the open showers, he turned on one of the faucets. When the water ran warm, he tucked Skye's head against his shoulder and stepped under it, fully clothed. For a long time, he stood beneath the warm spray and held her, thinking of all the things she'd told him, all the evidence of abuse he'd seen. And the deep sadness that seemed to be etched into her eyes.

Yet not once had he seen her cower. And while she must have known Birik's fury would be terrible if she freed her Feral captive, she'd done it anyway. He might have saved her from Birik's immediate retribution, but he'd forced her to suffer another.

Her strength in the face of such violent mistreatment had made it possible for him to believe Vhyper's assertion that she'd been a willing and cunning participant in her own beating. Yet deep down, even then, his instincts had balked at the claim. There had always been something innocent about her. Something achingly vulnerable.

Now he thought he understood.

He laid her on the bench across from the shower and peeled her soaked dress off her body. His shocked gaze took in the sight of hundreds of fading cuts. Across her breasts and nipples, through her pubic hair and tracing like latticework across her stomach and thighs. How she'd taken such pain without screaming, he didn't know. Had that been another of Birik's many lessons?

She'd been eight when that bastard implanted the cantric in her heart. Eight.

He stripped off his own torn clothes and scooped her back into his arms. Grabbing a bar of soap, he sat on the tile beneath the spray, his legs crossed in the style of his tribal ancestors, and gathered Skye onto his lap. Carefully and thoroughly, he washed the last traces of blood from her skin as the cuts slowly disappeared.

Once she was clean, he wrapped her in a thick, fluffy towel and wrapped a second around his waist, then carried her up to his bedroom.

He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and dressed her in one of his silk shirts, then tucked her into bed. As he climbed in the other side, she stirred, her dark lashes fluttering up weakly.

As he met that copper-ringed gaze, a sharp memory of other, malicious copper-ringed eyes rose in his mind, and the old hatred flared.

Her lashes swept down.

"Skye..." He reached for her hand, curling his fingers gently around it. "Don't fear me, little one. You're safe tonight."

In answer, she rolled onto her side toward him and reached for him, her palm resting on his chest. The simple expression of need, of comfort, even from the man who'd treated her as his enemy, moved him greatly.

As sleep reclaimed her, her hand slipped away, so he gathered her up and pulled her into his arms. Just as she'd done in the cavern, she curled around his body, her head on his chest. Paenther held her against him, his arm tight around her, as pressure welled in his chest, a terrible tenderness that eased the rage that lived in his soul.

What exactly was he going to do with her? Even if she was, as he was beginning to suspect, nothing like Ancreta, she was still a powerful Mage. A witch controlled by a man without a soul.

If the Shaman was right about her cantric, she could turn on them without meaning to. Could he really risk the Ferals and their mission for her?

No. And yet...

He knew deep down he would never allow anyone to hurt her again.

Chapter Eleven

For a few delicious moments, Skye thought she was dreaming, her body warm and comfortable, a hand rubbing her back with long, gentle strokes. A dream from another time. Another place. But the hand at her back wasn't her mother's. The sound beneath her ear was that of a strong, masculine heartbeat. And the scent that filled her nostrils was lush and male.

Paenther's.

She tensed, her mind scrambling to make sense of her situation. Beneath her cheek, she felt warm flesh, damp from long contact with her own. Clearly, she'd been sleeping on his chest just as she'd done in the caverns, except this time he was holding her.

How could this not be a dream? How was it possible that the dangerous Feral who'd come close to raping her was now rubbing her back with a gentle touch? Even as the notion seemed ridiculous, the feeling of being cared for, even for a moment, was so sweet that it welled up until tears burned in her eyes.

She didn't want it to end. Trying not to move, she fought back the tears, not wanting to weep on his chest and give herself away. The memory of how she got there came back to her slowly. How she'd sat in that prison cell knowing midnight would come, then felt the first invisible blade tear across her cheek. She shivered at the memory of what had come next.

The hand left her back to cup her head gently.

"I know you're awake."

With a sigh, she lifted onto her elbow, swiping away the errant tears, feeling both awkward and wary. Why was he being nice to her now when he'd come so close to hurting her before?

Pushing herself up until she was sitting beside him, she avoided his gaze, instead taking in his long legs encased in soft gray pants, and the hard, muscular planes of his bare chest. She studied the golden armband curling around his arm before finally lifting her gaze to his face.

The moment she did, their gazes locked. Paenther's body tensed, something harsh and ugly flaring in his eyes.

Skye flinched and turned her head against the blow, an instinctive move. Her heart began to thud.

"Skye." His voice was low and pained. "I'm not going to hurt you." But when she felt him move, her heart raced faster. She squeezed her eyes closed, fighting against the instinct Birik had beaten into her, and forced herself to turn back to him.

He was sitting up, now. Too close. But there was no violence in his expression. Of course, there was rarely any in Birik's, either, before he struck her.

With a low sound of self-disgust, Paenther turned away and climbed from the bed, padding to the window with the quick, sinuous grace of a jungle cat. He stared out the glass, his hands fisted on the window frame.

"I saw the copper in your eyes, and for one moment, it took me by surprise, Skye. I've had some bad experiences with Mage eyes. But I'm not going to hurt you."

"Unless you decide I'm your enemy."

Paenther didn't reply to that. He didn't have to. They both knew it was true.

Paenther turned and met Skye's gaze, but remained by the window, giving her space. Inside him, the old rage started to rush back in, a rage he'd thought had been permanently carved into his soul until a delicate Mage witch made it disappear every time she slept curled around his body. It had happened in the cavern and again last night. He'd woken a short while ago feeling almost at peace.

But the respite hadn't lasted last time, and it wasn't lasting this time either. Almost as soon as she sat up, the peace had started to fade. As always, he gathered the fury in an iron grip and bound it within his icy control. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her more.

Even from here, he could hear her heart pounding like it was trying to escape her chest. He'd scared her with the flash of hatred he hadn't even given voice to. A hatred that hadn't been meant for her. And she'd reacted with a look in her eyes like the one she'd had the night Birik had crashed into the room and beaten her half to death.

"Why did he punish you with the cutting?" he asked quietly even though he was certain he knew.

"Because I didn't perform the moon ritual."

"The sacrifice?"

She nodded, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms tight around them as if she could protect herself that way. In the middle of his large bed, dwarfed by his shirt, she looked small and terribly fragile.

"How often does he make you perform that ritual?"

"Every night." Her tone was bleak.

Every night?

"I find the animals during the day, and he kills them at midnight while I raise the power he wants."

He felt his fists tightening and forced himself to loosen his hands. The thought of her riding that white-haired bastard as she'd ridden him made his skin crawl with something akin to jealousy. But the thought of him taking her like that at eight made him crazy.

"Has he always been your...sexual partner?"

Her body jerked. "No. Sex has never been part of that ritual. Not until you came. Usually, I just dance."

The rush of relief nearly weakened his knees. "Thank the goddess."

She looked at him, her gaze probing. Uncertain. "Why?"