Hell Hound's Revenge (Fae 0f The North Shore Book 1)
Page 23
Rowan got her meaning just fine, thank you. In fact, Rowan’s face went so blazing hot at Ciera’s meaning that she had to guzzle down her glass of water.
Until that moment, if anyone had asked her, Rowan would have denied having a jealous bone in her body. That was because, until that life-changing moment, she had no idea how deeply her monthly visits with Declan MacConall had affected her.
Maybe it was the intensity of his stares that left their mark, or how his beautiful gray eyes always flicked away the second she looked up. Maybe it was the careless tousle of his dark auburn hair, or how surprisingly soft it was when it brushed along her hand as she walked her fingertips along the edge of his trimmed beard, feeling the lymph nodes in his neck, or checking for his pulse. Maybe it was the way she felt that pulse quicken every time she touched him, matching her own.
Unfortunately, she was daoine sídhe, and Declan MacConall was cú sídhe. Her family—her clan—would never approve of such a match, no matter how strongly she felt.
Rowan drove home from the clinic, then pulled into the circular drive, passing the sign at the gate that marked her home as Dún Laoghaire Manor.
In actuality, her house was a modest two-story, but her father had used a glamour on it long ago, making it appear to the world as a grand manor house. Then he named the place accordingly and had the sign commissioned. Between the sign and the glamour, Rowan knew her life was a farce. She’d learned to accept it, but never liked it.
She parked, turned the key, then let her car’s engine rattle and bang for a few seconds before it finally went silent. It was over ten years old and not getting any younger.
Just like you, she mentally heard her parents add.
Rowan tossed her keys in the Kate Spade bag her mother bought for her off an auction site. Then she made the slow walk to the front door. It was slow not because she had so much distance to travel, but because she realized she’d spent the entire drive thinking about Declan, and no time thinking about how she was going to explain her weekend plans to her parents.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door.
“You’re late,” her father, Sean McNeely, called out from the living room. “By five minutes.”
“Sorry, Daddy.” Rowan closed the door softly the way he liked it.
Her father got up from the couch and met her in the foyer. He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and only the slightest paunch of middle age. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. “Your mother and I were just talking about you.”
Of course they were. Rowan had known since she was little that her parents were no great love story. As their only child still left at home, she had two jobs: one, give them a mutual interest so they had at least one thing to talk about; and two, make a good match with the son of a respectable family, preferably one to raise her father’s social standing.
She wished her parents didn’t rely on her so much. She wished they’d rely on each other—that they could be true partners in their marriage. For a long time, Rowan didn’t understand why she wanted that for them so badly. Now, at twenty-four years old, she realized she wanted that for her parents because that’s what she wanted for herself—someday.
“Would you prefer to have roasted potatoes or mashed?” her mother called out, also from the living room. The sound made Rowan jump; she hadn’t noticed her sitting there.
Rowan turned from her father, her gaze glancing past the narrow staircase lined with photos of her and her sister growing up, and toward the living room. A sunburst clock was mounted over the brick façade fireplace. The floral couch was covered in plastic. Nothing much had changed in that room since her parents’ marriage in nineteen fifty-five, and that included her mother.
“I’m sorry?” Rowan asked, not understanding the question. She was rarely consulted on the menu.
Her mother touched her fingers lightly to her perfectly coiffed hair. “I know you prefer mashed, but roasted seems more elegant.”
“What are we talking about?” Rowan asked.
Her mother muttered to herself, “Honestly.” Then she stood up, pressed the wrinkles out of her skirt with her hands, and walked toward the foyer.
“Dinner tomorrow,” she explained on approach. Her face was smooth, but still held an air of irritation. “Your father invited Niall Buckley from Babbitt. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
“So?” her mother prompted, throwing out a hand.
Rowan glanced away from her face and looked longingly toward the stairs. She needed to get to her room. For privacy, as well as to pack for the weekend. “I guess we’ll need to reschedule.”
“Rowan,” her father said warningly just as her mother whined in disappointment, “But I just ordered the lamb!”
“I have to work,” Rowan explained, trying to keep her tone as matter-of-fact as possible.
“On a Friday night?” her father asked. “Do we have to remind you how important our Friday dinners are? You’re lucky, princess. With your looks, many eligible daoine have shown interest. It’s time you start thinking about your family and our future.”
“Yes, I know. But I have to work all weekend, starting tomorrow.”
“All weekend? Since when is the clinic open all weekend?” her father asked, and Rowan could hear the disapproval in his voice.
“It’s not. Doc has a patient that requires round-the-clock nursing care for the next few days.”
“Who?” her mother asked, putting one hand on her slim hip.
“Doc. My employer.”
“No, who is the patient?” her father pressed.
“Oh. Um, Declan MacConall.” Rowan tugged at her scrubs. She’d worn them all day but they’d been feeling uncomfortable ever since his appointment.
“The cú sídhe,” her mother said softly.
“Yes.”
Her father turned his head and muttered, “I’d think he’d do better with a veterinarian than a nurse.”
Rowan felt the anger bubble up inside of her. Her father’s prejudice toward any kind of shifter was ugly, even for a daoine.
She would have thought he and his generation would be over it by now. It had been centuries since the cú sídhe had been in servitude to the daoine. She thought her kind should have been grateful for their years of service and the protection they’d provided.
Instead, her father and his cronies were bitter that the leveling of the social playing field had given some of the cú sídhe the opportunity to rise even higher than their former masters. The MacConall family, who lived in an actual manor house, were a case in point and a perpetual sore spot.
So, there was no way her parents would understand if she admitted that it was Declan MacConall who owned her heart. Her father would never allow it. It hardly mattered though, because Declan…
Suffice it to say, Rowan had heard the stories. The cú sídhe were instinctively driven to find their anamcharas. The instinct was so powerful that Declan’s own brother had been unable to resist a pádraig—well, a half pádraig—when she turned out to be his “one.”
Not once, in all the times Rowan had come to Declan’s house to treat him, had he ever even hinted that he felt that kind of pull when it came to her.
So, with her happiness doomed on two fronts: her father, and Declan’s natural instincts, why had she insisted on putting herself through the agony of sixty hours alone with that handsome male?
Oh, right. Ciera.
“I’m sorry that you’ll have to reschedule the dinner,” Rowan said emphatically, “but I have a responsibility to my work.”
“But if you were home for the dinner,” her mother prodded, “perhaps Niall Buckley would take a fancy to you. You could be married in a year, then you wouldn’t have to work. Your responsibility would be to the grandchildren you give us. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
“What about the MacConall brothers, or that pádraig?” her father asked abruptly. “Can’t they take care of him?”
“The girl, though. She’ll be there, right?” her mother asked. “I wouldn’t want you to be alone in that house with those dogs.”
Rowan paused. For years she had been the dutiful, obedient daughter, and she knew how much hope her parents had that her pretty face and equally pretty manners would attract a worthy mate. When she expressed interest in nursing, her parents had been adamantly against it, but Rowan had learned to be persuasive. What she’d never learned to do…was lie.
“Of course Meghan will be there,” she said, hoping her guilt wasn’t apparent on her face. Then she swallowed and added, “Doc will be by, too. Seriously. You have nothing to worry about.”
CHAPTER THREE
DECLAN
Friday
Meghan Walsh, Declan’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, stood in the entry to his bedroom and leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. “You’re sure you don’t want to come to the wedding?”
By the tone of her voice, she was clearly nervous. This whole thing with his brother Cormac had been moving at warp speed. He knew how much they wanted, needed to be together, but he also understood Meghan’s nerves. There was a lot to lose when you gave your heart so completely.
Right now, she was twisting one of her dark brown curls through her fingers and glancing around at his mess. They’d become close in the last couple months, but she had never come into his room before. It made him self-conscious about the old newspapers, fantasy football charts, and empty pill bottles that littered his floor.
“I can’t come, Curly. Sorry.”
Declan closed the door to his empty wardrobe and moved closer to the fireplace to warm his hands and avoid her eyes. His gaze was level with his mantel, which, unlike those in his brothers’ rooms, held no photographs of his parents or of their youngest brother, Madigan. All he had was a quarter inch of dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
“It’ll feel weird without you,” she said, and that felt nice.
Declan understood why Cormac had chosen this particular weekend to get married. It would be good for him to associate the date with something happy. For himself, however, Declan needed to preserve the anniversary just as it was, as horrible as it was. In a world where so few things endured, this was one thing he could control. Which was why Cormac understood when Declan said he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Doc’s medical orders just gave him another excuse.
“Doc’s starting me on an experimental treatment this weekend,” he explained.
“Experimental?” Meghan asked, taking a step into the room.
“Well, not a treatment exactly. More like he’s cutting me off. I wouldn’t want my body to freak right in the middle of your I dos.”
She took a few steps closer. “We can postpone.”
“No. No way.” Was she serious? “Cormac would have my hide!”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
Her defensive tone pulled his mouth into a grin. “Meghan, are ye completely oblivious to how much you’ve got him tied in knots? He’s so afraid you’re going to change your mind, he looks like a fucking contortionist.”
She rolled her eyes and turned away. “Not completely oblivious, but he doesn’t have to worry.”
Declan put both hands on her shoulders and brought her back to face him. He gave her a gentle shake for emphasis. “Put that hound out of his misery. As soon as ye tie yourself to him, the quicker he’ll relax. Then we can all relax.”
“Someone should stay behind with you,” she said, still sounding worried.
Declan wished they’d all stop fussing.
“We can find a new witness to come with us,” Meghan said. “Aiden can stay with you.”
“What can Aiden do?” Aiden asked popping up in the doorway and dragging his fingers across his thick dark beard.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” Declan said. “Doc has something arranged.”
“Stay with ye?” Aiden asked. “What’s arranged?”
“He’s taking me off the meds. Rowan McNeely is going to stay here this weekend to provide in-home care, just in case I don’t react well.”
Declan tried to deliver that bit of information as blandly as he could. He didn’t need them reading any more into this than what it was.
And it was nothing. It meant nothing. It would amount to nothing.
* * *
Hell Hound’s Redemption — the story of Declan and Rowan — is available now!
Want to read an EXCLUSIVE, FREE novella by A.S Green? Grab your copy now!
There’s trouble at sea when he denies his love.
Declan Howard has been at sea for three years—a crew member aboard the Catriona, a luxury superyacht off the coast of California. Anything shiny and new gets his attention—hell, it gets the attention of everyone on board—but Sarah Carter is more than just shiny. She’s the new hostess who captures his heart the moment she knocks on his cabin door.
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Also by A. S. Green
ROMANTIC BEACH READS
Summer Girl
Wild Child
Lucky Stars (coming 2019)
FAE HELL HOUNDS OF THE NORTH SHORE
Hell Hound’s Revenge
Hell Hound’s Redemption
Hell Hound’s Curse (coming March 2019)
QUICK & DIRTY READS
Real Man
Rough Ride
COLLABORATIONS
Their Bride (with Stasia Black)
About the Author
A.S. GREEN is the author of erotic novellas (Real Man, Rough Ride) and new-adult novellas and full-length romances (Making Waves, Summer Girl, Wild Child). She lives in the cold, upper-Midwest with her husband and three mostly grown children, usually hunkered down with a good book. You can find her on the interwebs at asgreenbooks.com and @asgreenbooks. Say hello and follow on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Book Bub, Goodreads, etc.