Free Master of Smoke by Angela Knight Page B

puberty. He’d never cared about her mother; he’d married the already-pregnant Joelle only because Warlock ordered him to. Joelle had never meant anything to anyone except Miranda.
    A faint, chilly smile quirked Worthington’s lips. “Strip. I won’t tell you again.”
    “I’ve never ...” No. Damned if she’d beg the bastard for mercy.
    “... Had sex?” The smile widened, took on a sadistic edge. “I know.”
    Sickened, Miranda stared into his eyes. The moment she’d dreamed of as something born of love would be an act of violence at the hands of a man who would enjoy her debasement.
    She’d always let her father hold her love for Joelle over her head. Joelle, her sweet and adoring mother, who insisted Gerald knew best. Even when he carried through on his threats and beat her to force Miranda’s cooperation.
    “Goddamn you.” Hands shaking, she reached for her T-shirt and jerked if off over her head. “Damn you to hell.”
    His smile broadened as he reached out grabbing one breast in a rough hand. “Bra, too. I want to see these tits.”
    When she obeyed, he closed a thumb and forefinger over her nipple and gave it a vicious twist. Pain brought tears to her eyes, and Miranda blinked hard, fighting the need to slap him. It would only make matters worse.
    His grin broadened.
    He was so busy enjoying his sadistic pleasure, he didn’t see the conjured knife appear in her hand.
    She drove it through the underside of his chin, ramming it right into his brain. Worthington’s cold eyes widened with astonishment, then turned glassy as blood poured from his mouth. His body swayed and fell as she released the knife. He hit the floor with a meaty thud.
    Werewolves could heal damn near any injury, but not if they died so fast there wasn’t time to transform. And though they were immune to magic, her weapon hadn’t been magical. She’d only used magic to conjure it.
    Dead. Miranda stared at Harold’s twisted body, taking a deep, relieved breath. The bastard’s dead. He wouldn’t rape her now. He’d inflict no more pain on her or anybody else. Someone should give her a medal. She’d be lucky if they didn’t gut her instead.
    The last of her rage collapsed inward, a psychic black hole of weariness. Even this would change nothing. Nothing that mattered, anyway. The Chosen were as set in their collective path as a glacier grinding across a valley.
    The bedroom door banged open, and Joelle rushed in. “What was that crash?” She broke off, staring in horror at Worthington’s corpse. “Merlin’s Cup, what have you done?”
    “Nothing he didn’t have coming.” With a flick of her fingers, she sent a blazing ball of magic at Worthington’s corpse, which burst into flame and vanished.
    Mechanically, Miranda turned toward her walk-in closet and threw the door open, searching for her suitcase. She finally located it behind a box of clothing.
    “Randy, you can’t.” Joelle stepped into her path and tried to take the case from her hand. “This will only make things worse.”
    Miranda pulled away, ignoring her mother’s pleading eyes. Now that the flare of murderous rage was spent, she felt numb. Empty of everything, even the bitter anger of so many years. “At this point, I don’t have a choice.”
    “They won’t kill you, Miranda. You’re too essential to Warlock’s plans. Yes, you’ll have to be punished, but ...”
    “I’ve already been punished.” She flung the suitcase on the bed, then walked over to her dresser and dug out an armload of clothing. “They’ve been making me pay since the day I was born. All I did today was balance the scales.”

FIVE

    There were twelve Dire Wolves, with fur that ranged from coal black to cinnamon red to honey blond, in textures from horsehair to silk. Most were tall and massively built, though a few were as deceptively lean as fencers. Their intelligence varied from brutish to gifted. There was, in fact, only one thing they all had in common.
    Every last