Master of Smoke

snarled denial at both the beast and Worthington. “Burning Moon or no Burning Moon, I choose who I sleep with. You’re twenty years older than I am, for God’s sake. You could be my father!”
    “But I’m not.” He coolly unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a powerful chest covered in a thick mat of black hair. “If I were, I assure you, you’d be a lot better behaved.”
    She curled her hands into claws and glared at him. “I’ll fight you.”
    “And I’ll win.” He folded the shirt and put it aside, then began to unbuckle his belt.
    “Maybe.” Reckless rage curled her lips into a snarl. “And maybe I’ll make you hurt me too bad to give Warlock his grandson.”
    He gave her a supercilious smile that gradually faded as he realized she meant it. Then he snorted and tossed his belt aside. “You’re just a woman. You don’t have the guts.”
    “Try me.” Being Dire Wolf, she could heal virtually anything he did to her. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but she would survive.
    “You’d let an innocent baby die?”
    “That’s almost funny, coming from you. Anyway, it’s not a baby until you get me pregnant. And you’re not going to get me pregnant.” She started to reach for her magic ...
    “If you change, your mother pays.”
    Miranda froze, horror slicing through her fury. “What?”
    Worthington stared at her through eyes like icy slits. “If you fight me, I will beat your mother bloody.”
    She was going to be sick. Swallowing hard, Miranda forced a laugh. “You wouldn’t dare. My stepfather ...”
    “... Will entirely approve, if you have defied Warlock’s wishes.”
    Ice rolled over her from heels to hairline. He was right. Gerald Drake had been holding Joelle hostage for Miranda’s behavior since she’d hit 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