Captivated (Talented Saga #3.5) Read online

  Captivated

  Sophie Davis

  Captivated

  Sophie Davis

  Copyright 2013 by Sophie Davis

  Smashwords Edition

  Talented (Talented Saga #1)

  Caged (Talented Saga #2)

  Hunted (Talented Saga #3)

  Captivated (Talented Saga #3.5)

  Created (Talented Saga #4)

  Exiled: Kenly’s Story, A Talented Saga Novel (Kenly Chronicles #1)

  Inescapable (Talented Saga #5)…2015

  Pawn

  Sacrifice…2015

  Checkmate…2015

  Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)

  Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

  Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy #3)…2015

  For all of the Talia and Erik lovers out there

  Talia

  The tension in the arena was palpable; the spectators’ emotions ranged from sheer astonishment to reluctant admiration. Few, if any, of the people watching the trials thought I’d make it this far undefeated. Proving them wrong felt good.

  The four challengers that I’d already faced were decent fighters, but their Talents were no match for mine. Their minds had been easy to control, their wills easy to bend. This final adversary would be the true test of my skill; Mac had promised to save the best for last, after all.

  “Ready?” Mac asked, placing a large hand on my shoulder. The cat-that-ate-the-canary gleam in his steely gray eyes caused my heart to pound. I fisted my hands at my sides to stop my fingers from trembling, not wanting to display my nerves. A pledge position with the Hunters was within my reach, as long as I didn’t screw up. That knowledge should have calmed be, but it had the opposite effect.

  Mac squeezed my shoulder, more of a warning gesture than one of fatherly support. He was reminding me that my future hinged on the outcome of this last match. A win would cement my place among the Hunters. A loss would prove my doubters correct, and give the Placement Committee the ammunition they needed to refuse me a spot with the same.

  “Let’s finish this,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

  Mac signaled to the referee with a wave of his hand, letting him know I was ready to face my final combatant.

  With four wins under my proverbial belt, I should have been confident that the dark-haired guy standing in the middle of the arena was going to be the fifth notch. But his self-assured grin and lackadaisical stance caused my stomach to roil. He exuded poise and determination that I couldn’t match.

  You can do this, I told myself. You have to do this.

  Failure was not an option. Not only did my future career with Toxic hinge on winning this next fight, so did avenging my parents’ deaths. If I never became a Hunter, I would never have the opportunity to find the man who’d made me an orphan.

  I strolled to the center of the mat, head held high, and mind focused. My expression was blank, showing absolutely no emotion. The short walk gave me time to size up my opponent, gleaning every detail possible from his mental projections and filing them away for later use.

  There was nothing exceptional about the guy’s appearance, unless being gorgeous counted – which it didn’t, I reminded myself after staring a little too long at his brilliant turquoise eyes and lop-sided grin. Focus, Talia, I mentally chastised myself. Strangely, the guy chuckled softly at this, almost as though he’d read my thoughts.

  Every eye in the gymnasium followed me as I took my position, the combined weight of several dozen gazes pressed down on me until I felt about two-inches tall. The hum of excitement emanating from the spectators’ brains grew to a dull roar inside my head. My steps faltered. This hadn’t been the case for the previous four rounds. At best, many of the onlookers had projected mild interest, but most casual indifference. They seemed to know something I did not. Sure, this last opponent would be stronger, faster, and all-around better than the others, but those facts hardly warranted the suffocating level of anticipation in the arena.

  While the referee finished conferring with the judging panel, I studied my opponent closer. He was several years older than me, eighteen or nineteen if I had to guess. A green bandana kept shaggy black hair from falling into those beautiful eyes. An adapti-suit – just like mine – covered his entire body, emphasizing his lean, muscular frame. I thought I recognized him. There was something familiar about his lithe, graceful movements, the determined glint in his eyes. Both completely at odds with the amused smile he offered me when we shook hands.

  His palm was warm and dry and I immediately felt the need to apologize that mine was still sweaty from my previous matches. But before I embarrassed myself by doing just that, the referee blew his whistle.

  The shrill noise erased all the lingering questions about who this opponent was, the one everyone was so interested in watching me fight. In truth, it didn’t matter. This kid was my final hurdle in achieving the goal I’d been working towards for years; I had to beat him.

  Seven minutes and my fate would be sealed.

  We began circling each other, each of us waiting patiently for the other to strike first. Ordinarily I would have forced him to make the first move, but I was eager to demonstrate my sparring abilities, and to wipe that smug grin off of his face. I struck out with a well-placed kick to his left side. The blow was deflected with a lazy swat of his hand. Anger caused my blood to boil. Was he toying with me? What, was I not worthy of his full efforts?

  Fueled by my annoyance, I attempted a second hit, this time a jab to his shoulder. Again, the arrogant twit deflected the blow with as much effort as it would take to swat a pesky fly. He wanted to play it that way, fine, I thought indignantly. Hadn’t he been watching my other matches? Didn’t he realize I was not some little girl trying to play with the big boys?

  I reached out with my mind, latching on to his. Well, at least, I tried to latch on to his. His brain waves were unusual, not like any I’d ever encountered. I couldn’t decipher his Talent. He wasn’t a morpher like the others, that much was certain. I cycled through the other Talents, trying to get a handle on his.

  Sensing my distraction, the guy pressed his advantage. A crushing force hit me square in the chest, knocking the wind out of me. I stumbled, using my telekinetic powers to right myself, so I didn’t end up flat on my back.

  The watching crowd cheered and I had to refocus in order to block them out. Once again, my opponent took advantage of the situation, advancing towards me with slow, methodical steps. Unlike me, he was in no hurry; he had nothing riding on the outcome of this fight, save his pride.

  I glanced at the digital clock counting down the time: six minutes, two seconds.

  An uncomfortable thought occurred to me, my opponent hadn’t touched me. The strike to my chest wasn’t the result of physical contact; he was a strong telekinetic. Something about that realization didn’t sit right, though. If he were a telekinetic, then his brain patterns should be familiar. I’d sparred with quite a few during my classes, and none of them projected the strange signals that he currently was.

  “What is your deal?” I thought bitterly.

  My opponent froze, a bewildered expression overtaking the self-satisfied one he’d had plastered on since sauntering to the center starting ring. This time, I took advantage of whatever temporary confusion he was suffering from. Summoning all of my strength, I threw him across the room, watching as he landed on his butt before sliding several feet and coming within inches of hitting the far wall.

  “Now I’ve got you,” I thought, charging after him and hoping that I could reach him before he regained his composure.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” an angry voice responded in my mind.

 
Startled by the mental communication, I lost focus. Next I knew, my feet were yanked out from underneath me as if an invisible rope had wound around my ankles, and been pulled by the wielder. I hit the mat with a thud, my head bouncing on the unforgiving surface. The pounding between my ears dulled his mental voice as he said, “You aren’t the only one who can play mind games.”

  The next instant, he was over top of me, strong hands pinned my shoulders to the ground. I struggled, but the kid was stronger than his lithe build suggested.

  “Get off of me,” I sent, putting all my will into the command.

  For a brief second, his hold slackened, allowing me enough time to wiggle free. I rolled to my right, sweeping my leg out in the process. Either my mental abilities were weakening, or this kid had the strongest will I’d ever come across. He fought the hold I had on his mind, breaking the connection in time to jump out of harm’s way.

  I was on my feet in the blink of an eye. One advantage of my small stature was that it made me agile, and much quicker than my larger opponents. For a third time, I dove into my opponent’s mind. My efforts were wasted; a thin veil shielded his thoughts, making them appear fuzzy and jumbled. I considered pushing past the barrier, but the mental energy that entailed would sap the physical strength that I still possessed. While my other opponents had been fairly easy to defeat, four back-to-back matches had left me fatigued.

  Self-doubt made me careless, and in spite of the inner voice telling me not to, I doubled my mental efforts to take control of his mind, bend him to my will. The harder I pushed the more resistance I met. Soon, the curtain separating our minds was a concrete wall, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t crack his mental armor.

  “Guess you’ll have to beat me for real,” his mental voice chided, that superior smile returning to his full lips.

  Anger, humiliation, and fear warred within me. Four minutes, thirty-six seconds remained on the clock. I needed to gain the upper-hand and I needed to do it now. None of my other matches had gone the full seven minutes. I hadn’t anticipated that this one would either and I wondered whether I would last that long.

  Instead of trying to control him, I let the anger control me. I launched myself at his mid-section, sending both of us crashing to the mats. I rained blows on his chest, his face, sides, anywhere he left unguarded.

  At first, the guy didn’t fight back, favoring protecting his pretty-boy face over returning fire. Unfortunately for me that didn’t last long. Our eyes met briefly, his expression of incredulity matched my own. I may have underestimated his Talents – I still had no clue what they even were – but he’d underestimated my sparring abilities.

  While I continued to inflict as much damage as possible with my fists, he wrapped his hands around my waist and literally threw me backwards. I flew too high, too far for him to have only used his physical strength.

  My own strength was waning, but my resolve was steadfast. Still, I wanted to end the match before I ran out of steam completely. I checked the clock – two and a half minutes. Don’t waste it, I lectured myself.

  I scrambled to my feet, and only partially regained my balance before that invisible rope was back, yanking me to the ground. I used my telekinesis to send him flying before he could get too close. I prayed his head would hit the mat hard enough to render him unconscious. That wasn’t the way I wanted to win, not really. I wanted him to concede the match, but a win was a win and I would take it any way, shape, or form it came in.

  I stood, and searched the room to find where he’d landed. I froze the instant my eyes landed on the gigantic tiger stalking towards me. The animal’s teeth were impossibly large and sharp as razors. It pawed at the mat, a bull about to charge the matador.

  Understanding dawned on me and I began to relax. There was nothing remarkable about my opponent; he was a morpher, just like the last four. Well, maybe a dual Talent, I amended, remembering the way he’d flung me across the room like a ragdoll. I had little time to contemplate this conundrum further, though, since the tiger was steadily gaining speed.

  I stood still as a statue. My muscles clenched, reflexes at the ready, and waited for the animal to lunge. The moment he leapt, I leapt, meeting the attack head-on. We collided in mid-air, his breath hot as it fanned across my face, his claws sharp as they slid down my arms. When gravity brought us back to the mats, we rolled together, both of us fighting for control. The tiger had a hundred pounds on me, but I wasn’t above playing dirty; I grabbed fistfuls of his hair and yanked. A long, loud mew tore loose from the tiger’s throat and next I knew my fingers were tangled in the boy’s silky, black hair.

  “You fight like a girl,” the guy’s voice said in my head.

  I ignored his taunt, it was distracting and I couldn’t afford distraction. We continued to tumble across the arena, trading blows and insults. The fight lacked finesse, both of us abandoned our training in desperate attempts to best the other; there were no perfectly executed kicks or textbook jabs. I clawed his exposed skin with my fingernails, trailing angry red scratches down his cheeks. He wedged an elbow between my ribs and twisted, causing me to curl into myself in pain. Most guys avoided striking my face, and he was no different, but good manners didn’t prevent him from wrapping my ponytail around his hand and slamming my head against the mat.

  “Four out of five isn’t bad,” he sent after managing to pin both of my arms to the floor with his knees. “You might still become a Hunter.”

  The weariness that had settled in my bones vanished with his words. A malicious part of me – the one I normally reserved for thoughts about Ian Crane – wanted to do something truly heinous to the guy holding me down. Something along the lines of filling his head with images of venomous spiders crawling across his arms, legs, and even his rapidly-swelling face. Even if I had the mental energy for that, I didn’t want to win that way. Not with this guy. Simply beating him was no longer good enough for me; I needed his respect.

  Instead of using my Talents, I forced my muscles to go limp as wet noodles. Just as I’d anticipated, he loosened his grip, thinking that I was throwing in the towel. He even started to rise from where he was sitting on my stomach, providing me with enough space to bring my knee up, and make contact with his more sensitive parts.

  “You’re right,” I sent, “I do fight like a girl.”

  He collapsed on top of me, groaning with frustration and agony. After several deep breaths, he was back to full strength and came for me without mercy. The guy was relentless, his pride apparently a strong enough motivator to keep him focused. More grappling, more blows, more painful jabs to my ribcage and the side of my head.

  The room spun, the boy’s face went in and out of focus. My arms became too heavy, causing my punches to miss their mark and land with little impact. Blocking the thoughts of the crowd was a chore; the effort of the task siphoned my dwindling strength.

  I am going to lose, I realized with panic. This annoying, conceited ass was going to ruin everything I’d worked for. All of my training and sacrifice would be worthless.

  With one last ditch effort, I catapulted my opponent off of me. I rolled on to my side, pushed myself to my knees, but failed to stand. Panting with exhaustion and wincing in pain, I collapsed back to the mats face first.

  “Time!” the referee shouted.

  The single word filled me with equal parts relief and dread. While I had no intention of actually conceding the match – that wouldn’t go over well with the Placement Committee – I was fighting a losing battle. And something told me that my opponent would have gone all day if the ref allowed him. On the other hand, the trial was over and I failed to claim victory.

  The adrenaline was quickly subsiding and my legs were nearly too shaky to support my weight. My stomach churned uncomfortably and I wondered how badly vomiting would affect my score. The queasiness deepened when I noticed the graceful ease with which my opponent stood, wiped his sweaty palm on his suit, and offered me his hand. I stared at it with distain. He wanted
to shake? Sure, that was the sportsman-like thing to do, but I wasn’t feeling very sportsman-like. A draw was not the way my trial was supposed to end. A draw wouldn’t impress the Placement Committee. My dream of becoming a Hunter could be over.

  “Good match,” my opponent said, dropping his hand back to his side when I didn’t reciprocate the hand-shaking gesture. “My name is Erik, by the way. Erik Kelley.”

  The dazzling smile he offered me only added to my irritation. He was so smug, so arrogant. Those hypnotic turquoise eyes and perfect features had likely tricked many a girl into trusting him. In fact, I knew they had. Erik Kelley had quite the reputation.

  Spinning on my heel, I marched across the mats without so much as a word to the guy that may have ended my dream of becoming a Hunter.

  “Come on, Tals, that is no way to treat your future teammate,” he sent.

  My future teammate? Absolutely not, I thought. There was no way I would share a cabin with Erik Kelley.

  Erik

  The belt’s buckle was foreign, the metal cold, my fingers too numb to function properly. As the hover craft’s wheels skimmed the landing strip, I forced the pieces apart. The plane landed, jolting me out of my seat now that I was no longer fastened in. I stumbled, reaching for the cargo net hanging over the bench-style seats to steady myself. Henri pursed his lips, concern in his brown eyes but said nothing.

  The pilot’s voice was unnaturally loud as it echoed off the walls of the small cabin. “You are clear to deplane.”

  I was at the back bay door in three strides, Henri a step behind. The slow, metallic whine of the hatch unlocking, followed by the snail’s speed at which it opened, irritated me to no end. I had to see her with my own eyes, had to know she was alive. Captain Alvarez’s assurance that she was going to be fine had been half-hearted at best.