Free Embrace the Night by Crystal Jordan

stop.
    Sweat slid in cold, sticky rivulets down her skin. It burned her eyes and blurred her vision. Every breath was a torturous rasp of air. Her head lolled on her shoulder, and she hadn’t the energy left to lift it. The metal handcuffs were bronze, an allergy to all witches. They’d scorched her flesh, rubbed her wrists to ragged, bleeding patches of skin, but other than that, she was physically unharmed. It did little to ease the way she ached from the bones out.
    Voices murmured around her, and she was no longer sure if it was Peyton and the Fae woman or the clairaudient voices in her mind. It didn’t matter, but she clung to the question as if it were the key to saving what was left of her sanity. And maybe it was.
    Another spell lanced through her, making her body arch away from the chair, rip against the restraints that bound her. A howl that wasn’t quite human wrenched from deep within her. More pain. Her throat was already raw from all the talking, the begging. The screaming.
    She knew she was losing it when his face appeared before her, the cynical gray eyes, the squared jaw, the lips just a little too full for his chiseled features.
    â€œMerek,” she breathed.
    And then she knew no more.

    They’d muffled the sound of her screams.
    If Merek hadn’t decided to get a better look at the house, he never would have peeked through a gap in the blinds to see her strapped to the chair. Arching, tears flowing down her cheeks, her mouth opened in what looked like a silent shriek.
    He exploded through the door, past the warding spells that had been placed on the building, his rage and terror lending him extra power. The percussive boom of the ruptured spell shield made his ears ring, but his weapon was already up and leveled on the two Magickals looming over his woman.
    The Fae had sweat pouring down her face, her breathing shallow and ragged. No doubt from the energy she’d spent torturing Chloe. His teeth bared, and he squeezed off a shot, aiming for her heart.
    It never touched her.
    Peyton looped his arm around the woman’s waist, spinning her out of the bullet’s path. Chloe’s chair was knocked over, tumbling until it hit a wall. With a leap, the wolf had himself and the woman into the living room. Merek’s next shot caught Peyton in the back, and he stumbled, a howl tearing loose. He hit the front door, ripping it off its hinges. Then he and the woman were gone, the werewolf’s speed making it impossible for Merek to follow.
    He might have attempted it, but it would have meant leaving Chloe alone. He couldn’t do that. Holstering his weapon, he lifted both hands to cast a temporary warding spell over the house. No one less powerful than him could enter, and even then he would know his shield had been breached. His hands were shaking when he dropped them to his sides. A part of him stood back and wondered what the hell had happened to all his steely discipline when the fate of one slender woman could make his hands tremble.
    Turning back toward the kitchen, he found Chloe struggling against her bonds. He stroked a hand down her shoulder. “I’ve got it.”
    â€œThanks,” she grunted, going limp against the awkward position. “I . . . don’t have the energy to cast a spell to get loose.”
    Her wrists were blackened, blistered, and oozing blood around the cuffs, so he knew they were made of bronze. As a warlock—a male witch—he was deathly allergic to the stuff, too. He was careful not to touch as he waved a hand to unlock them. His jaw locked as rage whipped through him. The bastards had used bronze on her.
    The cuffs fell away, clattering against the linoleum. Then she was in his arms, her soft body pressed to his harder planes, and it felt so fine he almost groaned. Burying his face in the curve of her neck, he inhaled the scent of her. She was alive, and she was here. His brain was having trouble absorbing that reality.