She nodded. "Fox was the one who confused me since he's a new Feral yet not like the others."

"We'll be taking shifts guarding the house and sleeping," Lyon said, when they reached the main floor. "Tighe and Hawke, you two take the first sleep shift." He glanced at Hawke knowingly. "Make sure there's sleep involved? I need you on your game."

Hawke nodded, his gaze sliding to Faith. At the heat that leaped into his eyes, her pulse stuttered. As they started up the stairs, she started to pull back, but Tighe was right behind them. Maybe, once they got to Hawke's room, she'd tell him she wasn't tired. No, those would be the words he'd want to hear. She could tell him she was too tired. Or she had a headache. And how lame was that?

They reached his bedroom door, and he ushered her inside. She'd seen it earlier right after she'd gone Feral, but this time she actually looked around. Bookshelves lined two full walls, shelves filled with every manner of intriguing thing - books, skeletons of small animals, gadgets of every size and shape. The walls were deep tan, the bedspread a dark blue, and on the wall above the bed hung a dozen antique swords and daggers. The only thing she'd noticed last night was the framed letter from Robert E. Lee hanging on the wall above his desk, a letter urging the strong men of Feral House to join the Confederate cause.

Hawke closed the door behind her. Before she could think of the right excuse, she was in his arms, and he was kissing her. Sensation exploded, thought fled in the heat of the fire that flared between them. He tasted of sin and power and safety. And she wanted him with a hot, shuddering desperation that nearly obliterated everything else.

He pressed her back against the door, hands covering, kneading her breasts, and she lifted to his touch, thrusting her fingers into his short, soft hair, arching against the thick ridge pressed against her belly. Moisture dampened her panties, a moan of pure need escaping her throat. In a distant part of her mind, she was aware that if she meant to keep her pants on, this wasn't the way to do it.

His lips moved over hers frantically, his tongue sweeping against hers, hard and desperate. Long fingers dove beneath the hem of her shirt, caressing her bare flesh, pushing aside the lace of her bra to stroke her bare breasts. He thrust his jeans-clad erection against her, and she moaned again as the fire flared higher, hotter.

Sanity fled. She tugged at the T-shirt tucked into his jeans, pulling it out of his waistband, burrowing her hands beneath to slide her palms against the warm flesh covering granite-hard muscle.

Hawke pulled back, yanked his shirt over his head, sending his masculine scent wrapping itself around her, revealing that gorgeous chest to her hungry eyes. She reached for him, sliding her hands over those rock-hard abs and up to flick his nipples lightly with her thumbs. His groan made her smile, and she looked up to meet his gaze.

Her breath caught at the blazing heat and infinite tenderness that filled his eyes. Her chest began to ache with a pressure nearly too great to contain. And the fear that when he knew the truth, he wouldn't look at her this way again.

He reached behind her, fingering her bra, and she knew she'd already let things go too far.

"No, Hawke."

His hands stilled as he watched her, his eyes tightening with disappointment. A disappointment quickly masked by soft regret. He dropped his hands, cupping her waist instead, his need clear in the tension of his fingers.

"I'm sorry, Smiley. I know you're not ready."

She stroked his face, his handsome, dear, beloved face and forced the lie between her lips. "No. I'm not." In truth, she'd never been more ready, her body hot, wet, throbbing with need of him.

He leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on her nose. "I shouldn't have fallen on you like that. Not after all you've been through."

She laughed, the sound strangled. "I . . . understand. After watching Grizz and the Ilina . . ."

His eyes deepened until she thought she'd drown in their dark, steaming depths. "I've been on fire for you since the first time you smiled at me. It's not Grizz and the Ilina. It's you, in my room, no longer tied to another man, that sent me over the edge." He pulled in a deep, shuddering breath and lifted a hand to tenderly brush the hair back from her face. "Every time I touch you, I go a little crazy." His smile was gentle and endearing. "Ironic, isn't it? You make me lose control even as you help me keep it."

A lump that threatened to choke her formed in her throat. He was such a good man, and she was a bad, bad person for lying to him like this. For not telling him, for not telling any of them that they had another new Feral hiding in their midst, another who was likely infected.

Eventually, she'd have to, of course. And when she did, she feared Hawke would never look at her the same way again.

Hawke tried to sleep, but it was impossible, not because he was on the floor - in the right frame of mind he could sleep anywhere - but because his body still burned despite the cold shower. And because Faith lay in the bed a few feet away, tossing and turning, not sleeping any better than he was. But mostly because his instincts kept yelling at him that something was still wrong. That he'd rescued her from Maxim, but she wasn't safe.

He'd given her one of his T-shirts to wear, and he watched as one bare leg slid out from beneath the sheet, curling back over it. Moments later it disappeared beneath the sheet again as Faith rolled over, bunching up the pillow, then flattening it again.

Finally, she sat up, pulling her knees tight against her chest and dropping her forehead in a pose that rang of such misery it made his heart ache. She was like a kid with a secret, he realized. An awful, guilty secret. Barely able to contain it, yet terrified of letting it out. He'd spent two decades tutoring Therian kids before he was marked. He trusted his own instincts. Especially where Faith was concerned.

"You'll sleep better if you get it off your chest," he said quietly.

Her head jerked up, the gaze she turned on him wide-eyed, but she quickly masked her surprise. "What do you mean?"

"You're holding something inside that's become so big it's about to swallow you. You can't even lie still long enough to fall asleep."

Dismay and something else crossed her features. "I'm keeping you awake." She swung her feet over the side. "I'll go somewhere else."

As she stood on the floor, he sat up. "I'd rather you confide in me. You can trust me, you know."

She met his gaze with a pain in her eyes that tore at him, her body coiled tight as a spring. He'd hoped he'd been wrong about the secret, but it was all too clear he'd been right. And he suddenly didn't want to know.

For long moments, she sat there as if frozen with indecision. Then she took the few steps to where he sat on the rug. Never had he seen such a forlorn look in anyone's eyes. Without saying a word, she sat cross-legged in front of him, giving him a heart-stopping glimpse of creamy thigh and pink panty. As he watched, pulse tripping, she lifted one leg, pulling her knee to her shoulder, swinging her foot to the side, giving him a perfect view of the pink silk that covered her enticements. His hand shook to reach for her, to reach beneath that silk and slide his fingers into her waiting heat.

But a quick glance upward revealed a face on the edge of tears, and he knew there was nothing sexual about what she was offering.

"Faith?" He shook his head, not understanding.

"Look, Hawke. Look."

He glanced back down, finally noticing the way her fingers kept stroking the same spot on the thigh just beyond the elastic. Marks. Four . . .

His heart stopped beating. A faint roar started deep in his brain and escalated until his head felt as if it would explode from the noise.

"Feral marks." Though the words came from his mouth, he barely heard them through the pounding in his head. "You've been marked."

She pulled her knees together, gathering herself close in a protective move. "Yes. I'm one of them. I think it's why I was drawn to Maxim."

He read her lips, but only one word leaped out. Yes.

Marked to be a Feral Warrior. Marked wrong. Kougar's words rang in his head. If we want to maximize our chances of defeating Inir and his army, we need the strongest Ferals. Period. The ones marked are the wrong men.

Wrong people.

They were going to want to destroy her. To make way . . .

The fury leaped inside him, the red haze rising.

How do you unmark a Feral Warrior? Death. Only by death.

Barely aware of his movements, he leaped to his feet as the fury battled to rise, needing to fight. To destroy. He could barely see, barely breathe.

A small sound, a sound that cut through him like a well-honed blade, had him turning back. Through the red haze he saw her. Faith. Sitting where he'd left her, tears running unchecked down her cheeks.

In those eyes he saw no fear, only a misery as deep as the sea. Even as he watched, she rose, pressing her fist against her mouth, and walked toward the door as if she'd leave him. As if she thought his anger was directed at her.

The fury roaring in his ears quieted, the tide of it rolling out as his hawk cried in anguish.

As she reached for the door, he took a step toward her. "Smiley."

She hesitated, looking back at him over her shoulder even as she leaned into the door, tipping her head against it. A sob caught in her throat, then another, and before he could reach her, she was doubled over and sliding to the floor.

He strode to her and swept her up, cradling her against his chest as he moved to the reading chair by the window and settled her on his lap. "Faith," he said softly, brushing her hair off her damp cheek, stroking her head. "Don't cry, sweetheart. Don't cry."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, burying her face against the curve of his throat, and his heart began to beat again. He pulled her tight against him, stroking her back, her hair, bleeding with her pain, and his own, as she sobbed.

"It shouldn't have been me," she whispered on a hiccup when the worst of the storm was spent. "I'm the last one who should have ever been marked."

He stroked her back, murmured against her hair. "Not the last, never the last. Maybe it should have been you. Maybe you were the one the animal spirit wanted."

She pulled back, looking at him with disbelief. "You don't believe that."

No, he didn't, but he hated her own certainty. This strong, independent, giving woman who'd spent decades helping street kids, pretending to be little more than a street kid herself in order to win their trust.

Pretending . . .

He shook his head, brushing his cheek against her hair as understanding hit him. Not pretending.

He'd seen glimpses of the lack of self-worth that lay beneath that sunny exterior of hers. The deep vein of hurt. She'd hinted that her enclave had left her behind when she was a kid. He had a bad feeling she'd become a street kid herself that day. A throwaway.

And in some ways, he suspected, she still saw herself as one.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She looked away as another fat tear rolled down her cheek.

He brushed away the tear with his thumb. "You were afraid of what I'd do, weren't you? Not that I'd hurt you. As close as I was to losing it, there was no real fear in your eyes. You were afraid I'd reject you."

The sobs caught her all over again and she turned and pressed her face to his shoulder and he knew he was right.

"Shh, sweetheart. I'll never turn away from you. Never. We'll get through this, and we'll do it together, you and I."

How, he couldn't begin to guess. The decks were so badly stacked against them, their entire lives had turned into one big goat fuck. But she was in his arms. And she'd finally opened up to him, completely this time.

He gathered her tight against him, breathing her in, loving her. He'd won the first battle, the most important. Faith was his.

Now he just had to find a way to keep them both alive.

Chapter Thirteen

Faith snuggled against Hawke's warm, hard chest, her arms tight around his neck as she pressed her cheek to his lightly stubbled jaw. As he held her on his lap by the window in his bedchamber, her chest swelled with gratitude and tenderness, almost too much to bear. From the moment she'd arrived at Feral House, he'd been her anchor, her true north, the one who would stand beside her no matter what. She knew that as clearly as she knew the sun would set and rise again tomorrow. How had she lived over a century without him?

Why had she found him now, so late? Too late.

But she had him now, didn't she? She had him tonight. With the release of tension a good cry had afforded her, her body had gone soft against his. The turmoil in her mind easing, she began to notice other things. The woodsy smell of his neck. The softness of his hair where it curled slightly at the ends. The iron strength of the arms that held her with such gentleness. And the thick ridge against her hip.

Her body heated as if the warmth in her heart overflowed, running through her veins and catching fire. With a tender kiss to his cheek, she pulled back to where she could see his face. He peered at her, his dark eyes aching and warm as a summer day. His hand rose, his thumb stroking her cheek.

She leaned forward, kissing him again, earning a kiss in return, but a restrained kiss, as if he were waiting. Or letting her take the lead. Pulling back, she met his gaze. "Make love to me."

His thumb stilled. His chest froze as if he'd stopped breathing. "You're not ready."

"I wasn't ready for you to find my feral marks."

Understanding dawned, and just like that, the predatory creature who'd nearly devoured her was back. "So you put me through cold-shower hell just to keep your secret?" The growl in his voice was belied by the relief shining in his eyes.