Free The Girl With the Iron Touch by Kady Cross Page A

arm went around her waist, pulling her against him.
    Her hands slid up his arms, curving over his hard biceps, over his shoulders and up his neck to tangle in the damp curls of his hair. If he stopped anytime soon she’d break both his arms. Her heart slammed against her ribs while other parts of her tingled and came alive with trembling excitement. Griffin was the first bloke—the only—that had ever made her contemplate doing something rash, scandalous.
    They were alone in his room. This was his house. His aunt Cordelia wasn’t around and nobody cared what they did. When he touched her she wanted…
    If he drew her to his bed she wouldn’t stop him. What did that say about her? Everything she’d ever been taught as a girl insisted that such a feeling was wrong— that only “bad” girls had those sort of thoughts.
    But her heart didn’t care. She didn’t care. She wasn’t like other girls, would never be like other girls.
    He tore his mouth away from hers, even as she tried to pull him back. “Finley, I—”
    She pushed against him and kissed him again. He wasn’t stronger than her, would never be stronger than her, not physically. The lights in his room flickered, reacting to a spike in his Aetheric energy. The Victrola in the corner began to play a recording of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, music that sent a shiver down her spine.
    They were moving. She held his head so he couldn’t even think of ceasing to kiss her, and now they were indeed moving across the floor toward his bed. Wait… her feet weren’t moving. How could she move without her feet?
    There was no floor beneath her feet. They were floating. Griffin’s power wrapped around them like a blanket or a warm breeze, and carried them toward the bed. Finley’s heart quickened. This was it. She refused to think about what could be so wrong with him that he tossed his morals aside, and kissed him as though she might never get a chance to again.
    Her legs nudged the side of the bed. Her stomach fluttered.
    The door flew open with a loud crash. Finley landed in a graceless heap on the bed—better than the floor— and looked up to see Griffin glaring at Sam. She glared at the behemoth, as well.
    Sam didn’t apologize. Didn’t even blush. He took one look at the two of them and didn’t even seem to care that he’d interrupted something important. In fact, he looked terrified.
    “It’s Emily,” he said. “She’s been taken.”

Chapter 6
    Emily woke with a pounding headache.
    Groggily, she put her palms flat on the floor and pushed herself into a sitting position. Her stomach rolled threateningly.
    What was she doing on the floor? And why did it smell like old dirt and machinery?
    She didn’t want to open her eyes. It was going to hurt when the light hit them, she just knew it. But she also knew that the stickiness on her face and temple was probably blood, and that she was probably in trouble.
    She opened her eyes.
    Trouble was right. She was in some sort of cell with a cool, dirt floor and rough stone walls. The door was heavy iron with little more than a square in it for looking in or out. There were no windows, just one dim light—which was the only good thing about this situation. There was a small cot made up in homey quilts that looked surprisingly cozy, and a chamber pot in the far corner.
    Yet she’d been dumped on the floor like an old rug.
    And there were books. Stacks of books, and bits of machinery, as though her captors wanted to keep her entertained. There was also a row of pegs on the wall closest to her, and on those pegs hung several changes of clothing—her own clothing. That wasn’t good. Clothing meant they had taken her intentionally, and that they intended to keep her for a while.
    Slowly, she pushed herself to her bare feet, bracing her hand against the rough wall to keep from falling as her head threatened to explode. What the devil had they coshed her with? An iron bar?
    No. She’d been struck by an arm. A