Page 65 of Wrongfully Magicked
I tense, but before I can pull away, he drops into a crouch next to me. I jolt at the unexpected move. When I peer up at him, it’s to find him watching me from under his long lashes. Very slowly, giving me time to pull away, he grabs my hand, then gingerly places it on his arm. His grip isn’t tight, allowing me plenty of opportunities to retreat. When I don’t resist, he covers my hand with his own and helps me rise to my feet.
A tiny purr rumbles in his chest, and Stryker stiffens, the sound dying like a gas-guzzling car engine that has run out of fuel. He quickly looks away, but he doesn’t let go or step back.
I’m both bemused and charmed by the courtly gesture. When I leave my hand on his arm, the gentle purr returns, and the stiffness leaves his spine. He shuffles a little closer, monitoring the shadows without looking at me, but I get the impression he’s hyperaware of my presence.
I should be unnerved by my reaction to this man, but all I feel is possessive, and it’s even more important that we get out of this tunnel alive.
The longer we wait, the more the air thickens with danger. The sense of time running out feels like tiny, drunken phoenixes fluttering in my chest, their burning touch like acid.
I glance between the two tunnels, pausing on the left tunnel when the hair on the back of my neck lifts.
“What do you sense?” Stryker asks, stepping so close that he brushes against my back with every breath.
I’m not even sure he’s conscious of his actions.
My skin usually crawls when people get into my space, but I barely resist the urge to lean against him. I purposely don’t look at him, not wanting him to know I’m so affected by his nearness.
I nod down the tunnel, then clear my throat. “Danger.”
He immediately glances at the tunnel, then gently nudges me in the opposite direction. “Then we’ll go this way.”
I take a single step, stop, then shake my head and look in the other direction again. I nibble on my bottom lip before ultimately pointing down the left tunnel. “No, we need to go that way.”
His claws flex once.
Twice.
His growl echoes in the cavern, his fangs flash, and his blue eyes almost glow as he gazes down the left tunnel. I can tell he wants to protest, and it’s taking everything in him not to pick me up and run in the opposite direction.
He sucks in a deep breath, probably praying for patience. The fur on his body fluffs up, most likely from him battling his instincts, then he nudges me to the side, takes the lead, and steps into the left tunnel.
I trail after him, my feet scuffling against the stone, and a flash of movement in front of me catches my attention. A fluffy white tail with large, black spots sways back and forth with his every step, and I have to clench my fingers into fists to resist the urge to reach out and grab it.
My brain demands that I find out if it’s as soft as it looks.
Floofy!
I’m prancing after him, mesmerized by the hypnotic back and forth swish. I’m so distracted that I don’t notice him stopping until my nose is practically buried in his fur, and a muffled, “Oomph,” escapes me.
Blushing furiously, I hastily step back, more than a little disappointed when his tail drops to wrap around his ankle, andI sulk that I missed my chance to cop a feel. Desperate for a distraction, I peer cautiously around him. He glances down at me, putting a clawed fingertip to his lips, then points down the darkened tunnel.
That’s when I see the faint light.
When I lean forward, dark voices and menacing laughter echo down the tunnel, but they are too far away for me to understand what they are saying.
Glancing up at Stryker, I nod in understanding.
He raises a brow, silently asking if I want to go back, but I only shake my head. A small snarl curls his lips, but he nods and moves forward. For such a big man, he’s virtually silent when he moves. I don’t know if it’s something from his beastling side, the pads of his feet muffling the noise, or an instinctual talent.
Whatever it is, I’m jealous, very much feeling like a bumbling toddler as I follow in his wake, trying to mimic his stealthy movements.
The closer we get, the clearer the voices become, and the more my heart sinks. There are at least five guards, but there’s something wrong with them. They are short and lean, their proportions unnatural, like something is off with their bone structure, but I can’t tell if it’s because their limbs are a little too long and sinewy or if their chests are slightly too thick.
It’s like they’ve been inbreeding for decades.
Their eyes are a little off center and slightly too big, and their teeth are crooked and wicked sharp, but it’s their high-pitched laughter that grates along my nerves. Their hair is a mousy brown and patchy in spots, like an entire colony of lice took up residence decades ago and never left. What remains of their fur forms a messy mohawk down the center of their skulls.
Stryker crouches at the edge of the opening, giving me a clear view into the space, and I barely stifle my gasp.
