Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] by Captive Page B

impenetrable. Unformed terror gripped her, twisted her guts, sent her stumbling backward.
    Run . Desperately she tried to turn, to flee, but her limbs were paralyzed, rooting her to the spot. She could do nothing but watch as the clouds rolled across the threatening sky, as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance and as a formidable mountain rose from the blackened trees.
    Her heart hammered against her ribs, panicked and painful. A terrible foreboding snaked through her blood, formless yet tangible. Unknown yet terrifyingly familiar. As if she had witnessed what was to occur countless times in the past, and would continue to witness forever into eternity.
    Water splashed her feet and she leaped back, breaking the paralysis, and looked down. A raging river slashed across the land, dividing her from the mountain; a river of murderous intent, tainted with scarlet.
    Lungs contracted, throat closed. She jerked her gaze up and stared at the massive stone ramparts on the far mountain. Had she been here before? Was this real, or a dream? A memory her waking self had forgotten?
    Or a vision of what was to come?
    War cries slithered into her consciousness and her perspective instantly altered. Now she was on the mountain, behind the ramparts, looking down as the hated enemy forded the deadly river. Arrows arched across the sky, an endless torrent, but it meant nothing. Would get them nowhere. She didn’t know how or why the certainty gripped her in a remorseless vise. Only that it did. Only that she needed to escape, that she needed to find someone. That she needed to warn the others .
    She pushed her way through faceless warriors as panic mounted and sweat drenched her clammy skin. Up ahead a familiar figure came into view and relief swamped her, momentarily deadening her limbs and causing her mind to spin.
    “Gawain.”
    He didn’t hear her, continued issuing orders to another. She stumbled over fallen bodies—where had all the dead come from?—pushed others from her path. She had to reach Gawain. Had to warn him.
    But no matter how fast she ran, she could get no closer to him. Always he was beyond her grasp, beyond her vocal range. She watched him briefly embrace another man before turning his back, a show of utmost trust, and fathomless fear coiled around her throat.
    The faceless warrior drew his dagger and it glinted like sunlight caught in a waterfall, before he raised his arm and plunged the deadly blade into Gawain’s back.

Chapter Ten

    Strong arms enfolded her, held her securely against an unyielding expanse of masculine chest. Her heart thundered against her ribs, crushed her lungs, caused air to gasp from parted lips.
    A dream. Just a dream. Her panicked mind repeated the mantra as Gawain fell to his knees, as his blood pooled on the ground, as his assailant vanished into the roaring throng of disoriented warriors.
    And yet, as always, conviction seared her soul that this was more than a figment of her imagination. More than a random, repetitive dream. Gawain was dead, murdered by one he trusted. Murdered by one of their own, even as the enemy advanced.
    A dry sob scraped her throat, and instinctively she clutched at the muscled arm that encircled her waist. “Gawain.” The whisper rasped into the silence of the retreating nightmare, the darkness of the endless night. But the solid body shielding her back didn’t dissolve into the fevered recesses of her mind.
    Heated breath fanned across her nape, causing shivers to race over her vulnerable flesh.
    “You’re safe.” The low voice rumbled against her ear, deep and decadent. “I’ve got you, Morwyn.”
    The lingering terror faded as awareness trickled through her brain. The Gaul held her in an intimate embrace, his hard body meshed to hers, his erection pressed securely against the small of her back.
    Her breath stumbled, heart tripped and then thudded with painful intensity. Without conscious thought her fingers fanned across his forearm, and tremors of