Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night by Kresley Cole Page B

which was no doubt exactly what she’d intended with her glamour. Now her pale skin was stark against the leaves. Her wee ears pointed sharply, beautifully. The small top she wore was wet and nearly transparent against her generous breasts.
    Even dirty and injured, she was so damned striking. . . .
    â€” Yours. —
    When the Instinct whispered soothingly, he closed his eyes. He hadn’t mistaken it earlier, hadn’t imagined it. Gods, how he’d missed it—he wanted to roar with pleasure from its return.
    When he gazed back down at her, for the briefest instant he thought, Keep the bloody spell, keep the Instinct, keep the beauty offered up before me. Why no’?
    He shook his head hard. Guilt set in, and anger began to build. He was actually contemplating becoming a mindless slave to a witch’s will? A witch that had been so savage just moments before? His father must be turning over in his grave right now.
    Bowe removed his pack, dropping it beside her, and easily opened the previously plaguing ties now that he had both hands. Kneeling down, he dug for drink—only two of the bottles hadn’t been crushed. At least the gel packs were intact.
    He looped his arm under her neck and lifted her, buteven unconscious, she feebly resisted him. With repeated attempts, he made her drink half a bottle and swallow some of the gel.
    Satisfied with that for now, he swept his gaze over her body. Hazy recollections of her appearance from before began to crystallize in his mind, and he realized that she didn’t seem to have lost a good deal of weight. Somehow, she hadn’t starved. But his relief was short-lived.
    Had those things gotten ahold of her?
    With his heart in his throat, he laid her back to examine her injuries, washing from her arms and legs the worst of the dirt and blood in the light rain.
    If they’d taken her, he’d expect her shorts to be ripped, but they weren’t. He’d expect to see bruises consistent with the grip of fingers, but he found none at her neck or on her pale thighs.
    After tugging down her shirt, Bowe gazed at her plump breasts, plainly visible through her transparent bra. No bruises marred the creamy flesh there either. There was a chance she’d been protected from the worst attacks of those incubi.
    He tried to turn away then, but her deep pink nipples were growing harder as drops of rain hit her breasts. He hissed an oath. No witch should ever be as fine as this.
    She was perfect and lovely, and his mouth watered to suckle those jutting nipples. Unable to help himself, he brushed the backs of his fingers over one, and she shivered.
    This is madness . He’d just pulled her top back when movement rustled the leaves all around her. Claws bared, his hands shot down, thinking an animal approached, yet then . . . vines began to creep up over her body, twining over her in profusion, as if protectively.
    Eyes wide, he snapped, “Ah, bugger me!” and just prevented himself from lunging back. Magick. Right bloody here. When he reached for her, briars jabbed and tore at his skin. Even with his strength, he couldn’t rip them from her.
    Yet he didn’t sense danger to her.
    Her blowing up the tomb was bad enough, but this eerie, insidious magick unnerved him far more. He stood and paced back and forth, glancing uneasily at her, raking his fingers through his hair.
    There in the cage of greenery, right before his eyes, her skin began to pinken, her lips reddening and plumping once more. As she slept, as natural as if she’d been born there, her scrapes and bruises faded, leaving behind only smooth, porcelain skin. He found her so damned attractive—even as the magick made his stomach roil.
    Was this another charm? Not a healing spell but another enchantment? Was this even what she truly looked like? Bloody hell, he hoped not. To be pitted against both the unnatural spell and her natural beauty?
    He forced himself to