Enslaved by Fear

by Claire Ashgrove

  Table of Contents

  Enslaved by Fear

  Copyright

  Other Titles Available in

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  A word about the author...

  For more in the Inherited Damnation series, you’ll want to read:

  Chapter One

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Enslaved by Fear

  by

  Claire Ashgrove

  Inherited Damnation, Book VII

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Enslaved by Fear

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Valerie M. Hatfield

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2012

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-599-7

  Inherited Damnation, Book VII

  Published in the United States of America

  Other Titles Available in

  the Inherited Damnation Series:

  Cursed to Kill

  Tormented by Darkness

  Destined to Die

  Ensnared by Blood

  Fated for Sacrifice

  Doomed to Torment

  ~

  “Claire Ashgrove... has a unique way with words that always makes a reader believe what she says.”

  ~The Reading Frenzy

  ~*~

  “Authentically researched and convincingly told, with a pleasing mix of magic and lust, dangerous depths and sensuous heights, CURSED TO KILL will thrill you through a long lunch break or a night at home and leave you wanting to believe in magic.”

  ~NightsandWeekends.com

  ~*~

  “Ms. Ashgrove has an amazing talent to make your heart break for the tortured souls in her books, be they an injured soldier or an imprecated half-demon.”

  ~Night Owl Romance Reviews

  Dedication

  To Alice, your friendship spans the miles

  like you’re right next door.

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  Acknowledgements

  Without the support of my family, there would be no books, no novellas, no nothing—thank you from the bottom of my heart for everything. Boys, Mom—I love you!

  Thank you to Heartland Romance Authors and Midwest Romance Writers for your continued support and the "family" you've become. To all my fellow authors at The Wild Rose Press—you're wonderful, and such a fun group of people. You make everything so much more enjoyable.

  Last but not least, thank you Jewelann Cone and Callie Lynn Wolfe for your continued enthusiasm and support.

  Chapter One

  If Brigid McLaine had to spend another day breathing the stale air of her confinement, she’d rip off her guard’s handsome head and serve it to the wolves. It would be a pity really—Micah Nelson’s arrogantly sloping nose serving as a midnight snack. Or his soft sensual lips being used for anything other than the purpose they were made for. And frankly, the thought of those pale blue eyes as an appetizer made Brigid’s stomach churn. But four months of imprisonment within the stone walls of Sgàil na Faileas—supposedly her home—was more than enough. She was going mad, slowly but surely.

  She squinted at the back of Micah’s head, annoyed by the casual way he lounged on the sofa and studied a book of incantations that he would use against her when she managed to override his most current means of binding. His bottled lager sat forgotten on the short table to his left, droplets of water coursing down the paper label to create rings in the finish.

  If she dumped it over his head at least the monotony would lift.

  Brigid sighed and dropped her bowl of crackers on the floor. Pottery shattered, breaking the silence. The sound was loud enough to make her jump, but Micah didn’t do so much as glance over his shoulder.

  “What now, Brigid?” he asked with a touch of indifference.

  She straightened her legs and stood, fully aware of the way Micah watched her in the gilt mirror over her stone hearth. She stretched. Took her time to elongate her arms, arch her back, and push her breasts ever-so-slightly forward. A smirk tugged at the side of her mouth as Micah’s gaze slipped down the length of her body.

  “I’m bored.”

  “You’re bored every day. You aren’t locked up for fun and games.” His gaze dropped to his book.

  No, she was locked up for standing against her brother Fintan who chose to act against their incubus sire, Drandar. A demon Brigid feared more than any spell Micah could ever cast. Not that Micah’s powers were weak. Her father’s were simply horrific. She rolled her eyes, stepped over the shards of pottery, and crossed the room to the couch. Bending over the back, she dipped her mouth to Micah’s shoulder. Close enough he could feel her breath on his exposed neck but not yet touching. “I’m tired of outthinking your magic. Let’s do something…” She dropped her head a fraction more and grazed his skin with her lips. “Else.”

  Something like tangle up the sheets in her bed or find a new use for the ragged old couch. Anything to break the sexual tension that had been building between them for years. Not only had four months of imprisonment grated on her nerves, spending that time with the one man who’d been playing games with her libido ever since she met him, was driving her out of her mind.

  Micah’s body stiffened. The pen he used to jot notes in the book’s margins stilled. His knuckles went white. “Just what did you have in mind?”

  Brigid smiled as she slowly lifted her head. Her gaze locked with his in the mirror. Torturing Micah was surely a better alternative than throwing his head to the wolves. “I don’t know. Chess?” Sarcasm laced her words. She leaned on her elbows and drew a fingernail down the length of Micah’s neck as she lowered her voice to a husky murmur. “What sounds good to you?”

  Micah abruptly leaned away, but made no other outward sign she affected him. “What sounds good to me is finishing this book.”

  Uh-huh. Sure. She didn’t buy it for a minute. When he’d come out of his adjoining room with that book in hand, it had sounded so compelling that he put off reading for small talk until she caught him hungrily appraising her shorts-clad legs. Then he beat a hasty retreat to the couch.

  Where he’d been watching her in the mirror when he thought she wasn’t aware ever since. Problem being, Brigid was aware of every instant Micah’s attention shifted to her. Four months of living together deepened the connection of six years of friendship. Sometimes, she’d swear she could hear his thoughts. More often, her skin prickled like a warm sunshine bath when his thoughts and attention honed in on her.

  She knew he shared the same awar
eness. Oh, he tried to hide it, but Micah might be able to bar her from the outside world, but he couldn’t bar himself from her. He wasn’t as immune as he wanted her to believe.

  She laughed softly and rounded the edge of the couch to fold one leg on the cushion beside him. As she sat, she leaned against his muscular arm. The side of her breast brushed his bicep, and a streak of pleasant fire surged up her spine. “So how many times have you read,”—she paused as she glanced at the book—“page 28? Three?” Deliberately she trailed her hand up his thigh. “Or more?”

  To her delight, Micah’s muscles bunched beneath her palm. A sharp breath hissed through his teeth. Satisfaction thrummed through her. Maybe, just maybe, she could use this to her advantage. Not only might she find some relief from the ever-present ache of wanting him, but if she played him right, he might also neglect to strengthen the wards that kept her from leaving the trio of rooms and opening windows. She could run. Be free of this Scotland castle. Free of her brother Fintan’s happiness.

  Free to follow the dark instincts that ran in her blood.

  “Micah, I can think of better entertainment than that book.” As casually as she could, she dipped her fingers into the crease of his jeans at the juncture of his thigh.

  ****

  Micah ground his teeth together. Christ Almighty, the woman was going to kill him. She might not accomplish it with her dark powers or her vile alignment with the incubus who gave her life. But she sure as hell would flay him open if she kept up this game. It didn’t matter that he knew she attempted to bend him to her wishes for her own designs. It didn’t matter if she represented everything he spent his life trying to banish from earth. His body hadn’t given a damn about Brigid’s demonic blood since he’d laid eyes on her a good six years ago. It wanted her like lightning wanted metal.

  He pushed her hand off and snapped his book shut. “I can too.” Rising to his feet, he returned her sultry smile with one of his own. Two could play this game. She wouldn’t like it, but his job didn’t involve pleasing Brigid, no matter how he might desire her. He leaned in close and brushed his lips across her cheek as he whispered, “I’m going for a walk. See you later.”

  It required every bit of his self control not to laugh when a low growl rumbled in Brigid’s throat. Her amber eyes flared like the fire she so easily manipulated, and her delectable mouth pinched into a hard line. He tossed her a casual wink, strode to his room, and shut the door behind him.

  He leaned against the door, drawing measured breaths to push the tension out of his body. “Damn,” he muttered. If it weren’t for her demonic blood, he would have already given in to the desire that stirred each time he looked at her. One of these days he wasn’t going to be able to walk away. She’d touch him like she had on the couch, put those damnable lips on him again, and he’d forget all the reasons why he should stay clear. Reasons like she was a demon. Like the even deeper desire to extract revenge on him for keeping her confined that she tried to hide.

  Reasons like the dark curse that destined her to kill the man she loved.

  The scent of amber and patchouli wafted from the fibers of his T-shirt to his nose. Micah shoved away from the door, stalked to his dresser, and jerked a clean shirt out. He could walk until the sun refused to rise and he’d never clear his head with Brigid’s perfume clinging to him. And if he happened to cross paths with Fintan and Beth, they’d never believe Micah hadn’t succumbed to Brigid. They expected him to fail. That he’d survived four months was testament to his training and his knowledge of demons.

  He intended to survive another four. By then, maybe the McLaine’s would defeat Drandar and Brigid might escape the fear that imprisoned her far more than Micah’s incantations and spells of warding.

  In the meantime, fresh air would grant him sanity.

  Exiting his room, he took a moment to murmur the memorized words that would strengthen the invisible boundaries that confined Brigid to these three rooms. She shot him a glare from her position near the window, where she picked up the broken pottery. He threw her a sugary smile. “Have fun.”

  Not caring to hear the litany of oaths his jibe would bring, he hurried out the door. Brigid in a fit of temper was a thing to behold. Sexy. Persuasive.

  Dangerous.

  In the hall, he took a deep breath and focused on that harsh truth. No matter how she affected him, he couldn’t forget Brigid was her father’s daughter and every bit as deadly. She’d turned on her own brother. Left Fintan without aid and subject to Drandar’s malicious attack. Proof enough. She wouldn’t hesitate to turn on him if he gave her miniscule opportunity.

  Still, another side of his conscience nagged as he made his way down the winding stone staircase. Brigid might be demonic, but only half. Another part of her was human, and that half was all woman. A woman that played on his mind more often than he cared to admit. He dreamt of her. She stayed with him even when he left her within the confines of her temporary prison. Brigid McLaine managed to do what dozens of other demons had never accomplished—she haunted him.

  In her games he realized her desperation to be free from confinement. In the far away stare she assumed when she looked outside her windows, he recognized her longing for the nature she stemmed from. And in the infrequent touch of her lips he understood passion that burned as deep as his and carried a tenderness Brigid would never admit to.

  He also recognized her fear. Not of what Micah was capable of. Not fear of her brother Fintan and his strength of light. But fear that stemmed from the very being who created her. Drandar.

  Brigid feared her sire more than she feared anything in this world. Micah would stake his life on the gut feeling that terror drove her to the things she did.

  Of course, he wasn’t stupid enough to point that out to her. Still, he hadn’t failed to observe the slight vibrato of faltering courage that rang in her voice when she managed to work around his magical wards and render them useless. Confronting her with that truth, however, would only enrage her.

  And right now, Micah wasn’t strong enough for the inevitable fight with her stubborn pride. His magic could stand up to hers, yes. His strength of will to perform that magic on her—another thing all together. He would if it meant saving his own life, but despite everything she was, everything she represented, he couldn’t bring himself to summon his full strength and physically harm Brigid. He saw too much of the woman inside her hard shell of darkness. Understood her too well.

  Grumbling to himself, he descended the stairs. Sympathizing with a demon was the first step in failure. If he let her get to him, he would indeed succumb. And that was even worse than combating with the fiery redhead he spent his days and nights with.

  Chapter Two

  Micah stepped into the great foyer and the cross-breeze that the open front doors created. Warm summer air rushed across the stone, heralding the arrival of June. On that breeze rode rising power. Energy that the approaching sabot of Litha brought. Litha, the Summer Solstice, the time of year when light carried the peak of power. When Nyamah, Brigid’s mother, reigned.

  Her strength enveloped Micah, prickling his skin in a discomfiting way that was oddly comfortable all the same. But the looming sabot also foretold of another trial. The last six had thrown the McLaine siblings into a fight to destroy their vile sire. Each desired Drandar’s end, except for the remaining two—Brigid and Taran. Micah felt it in his bones one of the two would be subjected next.

  Fintan’s open office door beckoned, and Micah strode toward less-threatening companionship. He rapped on the heavy wood as he poked his head inside.

  “Hey!” Fintan greeted with a warm smile. He beckoned to the wingback leather chair opposing his desk. “Coming down from the dungeon for a bit?”

  Micah dropped into the chair with a chuckle. “Needed some fresh air.”

  “Is she getting to you?”

  Of all the people in creation, Fintan knew his sister’s guiles better than any. He’d lived with her for five hundred years. Thi
nking about Brigid, however, only aroused Micah’s vivid memory of her perfume and the delectable taunt of her hand against his groin. He changed the subject. “Where’s Beth?”

  “At the studio. She has a commissioned water color due this week. She’d sleep there if I let her.”

  Micah couldn’t help but smirk. “Somehow I doubt that.” The two could barely keep their hands off one another. That Fintan wasn’t with her in the village said whatever the stack of papers on his desk were, they were important. He gestured at the leather-bound journal near Fintan’s elbow. “New genealogical records?”

  Fintan eyed him for a long moment before pressing his palm to the aged hide binding and shaking his head. “I wish.”

  “You wish?” Something about the tone of Fintan’s voice sent a finger of foreboding down Micah’s spine. He leaned forward to get a better look at the cracked cover.

  Fintan turned it around so Micah could see it clearly, revealing deeply carved runes across the face. A faint aura of iridescent blue, purple and gold seeped from the closed pages. Magical residue.

  “I found it on my desk this morning.”

  Micah’s stomach balled into a knot. He reached across the desk and ran his hand over the journal’s pitted face. Power rolled beneath his fingertips. Inviting strength that beckoned him to open the pages and read the magic contained within.

  He needed no one to tell him what Fintan possessed. Nyamah’s spellbook. The seventh ritual designed to eradicate Drandar.

  His fingers clenched around the spine. “Brigid is marked as next.”

  Apprehension lurked behind Fintan’s quiet stare as it connected with Micah’s. “She’ll kill you if she knows you possess this.”

  Doubtful. But it would infuriate her. She’d have to choose—courage or fear.

  Micah swept the journal into his hands and thumbed through the pages. Intricate hand-drawn runes covered each wax-covered sheaf of thin tree bark. Each inkblot radiated the strength of Fintan’s Celt ancestry. Micah closed his eyes, allowing that timeless energy to filter into his bloodstream. Over the years, he’d become accustomed to magical devices—amulets, spellbooks, crystals that could bind a demon to a different plane. Yet nothing like this tiny journal ever carried such raw, unfettered power.