Page 110 of Untamed

"What a terribly long word that simply means awake," I murmur to my male. "Not dreaming. The opposite of a dream.Opposite; contrasting, dissimilar, irreconcilable."

Soft, warm fingers stroke my hair, my cheek. Loving hands. A soft, very male chuckle vibrates under me, "shh, my cat, wake up now, my luna."

If I wake up, I may have to move my cheek off my male's warm chest. I will have to stand up on shaking limbs. I will have to close my legs, and right now, they're wrapped over Mactiir's thighs, and I just know that everything in my secret place is sore. Too sore to move quite yet. I want to nestle close to the earth and my male. I want to keep dreaming.

Because if I wake up, then Mama will be dead again.

"Willa!"

Mama, I'm waking up, and I'll have to leave you again. I can't stay in dreams with you, and I won't go to the earth without my male. I can't leave him, poor Ogre. I just wish you could be here to see how a male can treat a female.

"My baby female. My Willa. Get himoffof her!"

Silly dream. I'm the one on Mactiir. His body becomes stiff and unyielding under me, and I can feel every bit of him. I won't move, though. He started this, chaining me to him. Now he's stuck with me, and I'm not budging even if his chest rumbles with his low-pitched growl under my sticky cheek. Even if his hands are gripping my hips a touch too hard, I'm on him, and I'm not moving.

"Don't go near them quite yet, Dove," a low male voice rumbles. A shiver of awareness snakes down my spine. I've never heard this voice before. The timbre and authority... like Mactiir, but older.

This can't be a dream.

I lift my head from Mactiir, the sound of flesh unglued from flesh echoed by Mactiir's grunt of displeasure. I meet his walnut-eyes, but he isn't looking at me. Those eyes are filled with wary poison aimed at the voices behind me. I don't like the look in his eyes. Anger. The worst feeling males have. Terrible things happen when males are angry.

"Mactiir," I say softly, rubbing my hand softly on his cheek. Those eyes turn to me, and my stomach does that odd flip again when they soften into warm syrup. My she-wolf sniffs the air, her attention caught by the stench of Mactiir, us, us on him. It's all we can smell.Sexsmells funny.

"Qitsuk," he responds, just as soft. "Your Mama is here. We need to get up, my Bliss."

My heart starts to pound horridly fast. "My Mama died," I whisper. "Father killed her and I... I killed him, Mactiir."

"No. No, my Luna," he strokes my hair from my face, his fingers getting caught in the tangled web. Gently he pulls his hand away, placing it on my back and hugging me close again.

"Please, let her go," comes the sob. The plaintive note in her voice stings with memories that fall like a familiar burden. Father, Mama. Father yelling, Mama pleading.

She needs to be able to protect herself, Anya! She will be hunted.

She can stay in the wild, forever, Thomson. She will never be hurt.

That's not possible, Anya. She won't be hidden forever. Look at how easily a mate turns on his other half! Who will protect her from that pack? She has to defend herself, or she dies.

I force myself to focus on Mactiir, his warm walnut eyes. His thick tree-trunk leg is wrapped around my bottom, the other crooked at the knee, pinning me in place. I remember hearing Father's words as a threat with the ears of a child, but he was right. There are enemies everywhere. So often, I ignored Father's words with the innocence of a pup who doesn't listen when they don't understand. I had my world, my forest, my books, and my Mama. I didn't need to think about anything else.

Mactiir's face blurs in front of me. I blink the tears away. He doesn't have a simple world. He has so many wolves in his pack. So many houses and roads and vehicles. Even his family, the den in the cow-house, has more wolves than I ever thought one home could hold.

"Inuit, let her up," the male, still speaking softly, says from behind us. "She and her Mama need this."

My Mama. Mactiir stands with me in his arms. My toes barely brush the ground, pinned as I am to Mactiir's chest. A good thing because I was right about my legs not working just yet.

"Qitsuk," Mactiir murmurs. Softly his lips brush mine before he slowly lowers me a bit, holding me steady as I sway. "Is she really your Mama, kitten?"

I shudder. My heart is pounding. I press my hand to my chest and look at him. "I'm scared," I confess. My voice trembles, almost silent, as if we're being sneaky.

"I'm right here," comes his response.

Mactiir is the one who turns me around. I can feel his agitation, his reluctance to let go of me. His arms still hold me tight to his chest as my eyes meet familiar ones as blue as the sky.

"Mama," I whisper.

"Willa," she sobs.

I just stare. Mama is here. She's alive. Her blue eyes are crying, and her lips pale with grief. Shadows darken her delicate skin under her eyes. The ugly, mangled flesh across her neck and chest lets me know that she is real. Father nearly killed her. Nearly.

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