Pursuing Peter

By Amber Kell

Peter Woods had never expected to find a soulmate. After his time spent as a mutant, turning into a wolf had become a painful transformation.
Quain Ilves planned on spending his life alone. As a seer he had no vision of a future partner especially after wizards captured and tortured him.
Two lost souls found each other through the interfering hand of fate. Now it was up to them to grab onto their happy ending and not let wizards, parents or outside forces pull them apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amber Kell
• Release date: Nov 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370722082

Amber Kell

Amber Kell is a dreamer who has been writing stories in her head for as long as she could remember.She lives in Seattle with her husband, two sons, three cats and one very stupid dog. To learn more about her current books or works in progress, check out her blog at http://amberkell.wordpress.com.Her fans can also reach her at [e-mail].

Book preview

Chapter 1

Quain Ilves’s visions had always started the same way. Mist swirled across his dreamscape in silvery waves before sliding aside like curtains on a live theater stage. Years of seeing the future had stolen away the mystical joy of viewing potential events, only to leave behind hard bundles of nervous anticipation. Not all visions were of pretty rainbows and floppy puppies. The ones he had were more along the lines of horror shows with shades of tragedy .

Unfortunately, natural-born gifts weren’t returnable, and he refused to anger the fates by asking for a refund of his time or his sanity. His family had been the sentinels of the unwritten future as far back as they could trace, and the few who had spurned their talents had all come to a bad end.

Quain floated in the soothing world of in between, enjoying his brief vacation from pain. Captivity had scraped away his natural optimism, and days of torture had worn him down bit by bit until hope disappeared like a forgotten memory. The charmed bracelet stuck on his wrist blocked his animal form and added to his depression. Falling into a vision was the best thing to happen to him in days, weeks, months—he didn’t even know any more. The basement where they kept him caged inside had no windows. His discernment of time had fallen to the pattern of his irregular meals.

If he could breathe while in his seer world, he would be letting out a large sigh in sheer relief. The calm environment invigorated him and eliminated a bit of stress. Even if his anxiety returned as soon as he woke, the brief escape kept the rising panic at bay.

Broken bones and shredded skin had no place in his mental arena. Here, he remained whole and undamaged. Too bad injuries and pain awaited his return.

Hello. A tall man with dark hair and bright aquamarine eyes appeared before him.

Quain jerked back at the stranger’s sudden entrance. There had been no fading in. How strange. Never in a lifetime of visions had anyone ever introduced themselves or seen him back. His sight normally worked more as a movie-watching experience, never interactive, until today.

Um, hi. He examined the stranger, trying to remember each and every detail. The sheer anomaly of a conversation with one of his visions had thrown Quain off his game. How did he respond to someone walking around into his brain as if they were measuring the space for furniture placement?

Who are you? The six-foot, denim-and-leather-wrapped sex god asked. He towered easily over Quain’s more petite five-foot-seven frame.

He grinned at the gorgeous intruder. If torture had finally broken his mind, for once, he didn’t care. Insanity had never looked so good.

I’m Quain Ilves. Who are you? In the real world, he would’ve stumbled over his words when addressing a man this stunning. Here, there were no such limitations.

I’m Peter . Where are we? Peter looked around as if searching for a familiar landmark.

In my mind, Quain blurted out. Surprise streaked through him. Only one person should be able to unknowingly breach his mental defenses.

Mate, his inner lynx whispered. Quain smiled. Despite his current captivity, fate had decided to grant him divinity in human form. A giddy wash of joy swept through him, followed by a shadow of worry.

What if his lynx half was wrong? Being suppressed for so long could have ruined his inner animal instincts. His lynx had never claimed anyone before, but to believe his perfect match would just appear in front of him when he needed hope stretched the bounds of possibility into implausibility. None of the seers in his family had ever found their matches. What would make him special enough to be the exception? Would he be the first one to break that tradition? Did he want to be? Before he had had a chance to speak, Peter beat him to it.

How did I get here?

Quain shrugged. There are only a couple of possibilities. You are either my mate, or you have magic and have figured out how to break into my mind. I honestly don’t know any other options.

Peter offered him a crooked smile. Hmm, I don’t have any special magical ability other than being able to turn into a wolf. I think that must make us mates.

Were you looking for a mate? Quain dared to ask. A second later, he winced as pain lanced through him. Someone must be touching him in the real world enough to jar his injuries. Assholes.

What’s wrong?

My captors have returned. They like to keep my wounds fresh. He winced when fury crossed Peter’s face.

Where are you? Peter demanded. Tell me, and I’ll get you out of there.

A shiver of dread went up and down his spine. He didn’t want Peter to get hurt, or worst, captured for experimentation. He didn’t have visions to keep him from permanent harm. I don’t know exactly. Wizards kidnapped me. I was unconscious when I arrived. They keep me in a dark basement. I could be anywhere. He tried to keep the depression out of his tone, but he doubted he did a good job. The idea of dying in the dark basement amidst his own sweat and blood ruined his joy at finding the one person fated to be his.

Which wizards? Do you know their name?

No. Quain curled his fingers into fists as frustration filled his voice. They never give their names or say anything personal. They are very careful.

Why did they capture you? Are there any others there with you? Are they creating mutants?

What? No! Why would you think that? He had heard rumors about mutants but had never seen one. From Peter’s question, it seemed he had run into them before. I’m a seer, and they want to use my abilities. I don’t know if there are other captives somewhere else here, but I’m the only person caged in this basement. No sense in trying to hide the facts, future mate or not. Quain’s family prided themselves on being seers or relatives of seers. Not all lynx had the skill, but the Ilves had a higher percentage than most. He braced himself for rejection. Not all people accepted the possibility of psychics.

Huh. I’ve never met a seer before. Interest lit Peter’s eyes, instead of revulsion.

The tight knot of nerves in Quain’s chest eased. He had expected ridicule, disbelief, or maybe even disgust. Easy acceptance hadn’t been on his list of possible reactions. Well, now you have.

Quain gasped. Before he could warn Peter, he was jerked back into his body.

Damn, he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Still acclimating from returning to reality, Quain took a few gulping breaths, trying to calm his body from the shock of consciousness. There was always a bit of displacement when he returned to the physical world. He screamed out all the oxygen in his lungs when his tormenter stabbed a sharp-nailed finger into one of the open wounds in his side.

Tell me what you saw, he demanded.

Quain blinked back tears. He refused to appear weak or let them think they had the upper hand. His heart fluttered, and shock cooled his skin. Part of him wished to remain with Peter even if only in his mind. After swallowing a few times to make sure his miniscule lunch stayed down, he focused his attention on his torturer.

What? He refused to be nice to people who abused him. He didn’t care if it resulted in further punishment. Eventually, they would give up and either kill him, sell him for ransom, or let him go as too much trouble. He had a morbid fascination in seeing which it would come down to.

What was your vision? Tell me.

No. Quain closed his eyes as reality reassembled itself in his temporarily fractured psyche. After all this time trapped in a cage and struggling to hold onto his sanity, he wouldn’t break during a moment of dissonance. His interrogator must have studied psychics. Only someone familiar with the process would know the fragility of a seer shifting from a vision to reality. More than one psychic had let a prophecy escape while in the state of in between. Not Quain, though. The Ilves were one of the few with more than one seer in their family tree and had strong protections in place over those with foresight. During his kidnapping, Quain had blessed every one of his ancestors for the writings they had handed down. The training he had cursed in his youth had become his main survival tool. If he got out of this, he would apologize to every mentor that had ever had to deal with his teenage angst and fractious temper. Maybe buy them houses in apology.

You will tell me what you saw, or I will make you. The man had moved from persuasion to pain within the first week, while still not giving Quain his name. Apparently their torture sessions didn’t make them best friends. Luckily, he hadn’t experienced many visions during his captivity and the others had learned torture didn’t make him talk. That didn’t stop the more sadistic members from doing it anyway for their own amusement. Those people didn’t return, and Quain never asked what happened to them. He didn’t care.

There are ways to make you talk, his interrogator drawled.

And they will fail too. Unless you are part of my prophecy, I can’t share. He kept his eyes closed so he didn’t see the punch. His head snapped back from the impact. The crunch of his nose breaking didn’t earn his tormentor more than a watery glare. Quain swiped at his face. His hand came away bright red.

Keep in mind that if you don’t have any value, you will be tossed away. We have no use for a seer who won’t share his visions.

Quain refused to cry from the pulsating pain in his face.

I’ll be back. You should reconsider your position.

He remained still and quiet as the wizard marched away. He wished Peter could save him. Never before had he been in the position of needing to be rescued. He tugged at the tight bracelet around his wrist. If they hadn’t placed a magical object on him, blocking his ability to shift, he would have already been out of there. Bastards. They had attached the jewelry while Quain was unconscious, and nothing he did loosened its magical hold. The one time he’d tried to transform, his bones had crackled like shattered glass. It had taken two days before he dared move again. Luckily, they had cast some sort of spell to empty his bowels if they got too full. It was one of the few courtesies they’d offered.

He hoped it would be a while before anyone returned, even if it meant he had to go without eating. He would rather starve than be beaten. Each time they hurt him, it took a little longer to heal. Soon they would learn he couldn’t tell them anything even if he had the best psychic ability in the world.

Even under torture, he couldn’t reveal his visions if they didn’t pertain to the person asking. He closed his eyes, wishing to be anywhere else. He still didn’t know what they had done to his driver, Craig, but he worried they had killed him during Quain’s capture. A tear dripped down his cheek as memories of Craig flashed through his head. The older man had been a kind soul and had taken care of Quain since his teens.

He bit back a sob, not wanting anyone to see him cry. The bastards didn’t deserve his tears. No one had remained in the room where his cage was, but cameras were trained on him from multiple points. His captives weren’t the most trusting of people. Some of the cameras, he suspected, were to spy on the other wizards, to make sure none of them killed him before