by Selena Kitt
She stood there for a moment, fuming, watching him walk away. What right did he have to be angry at her? She’d offered herself to him, had made herself vulnerable, and had been rejected. Everything he said and did told her that he wanted her, and yet he refused to claim her.
Claim me.
Everything in her begged him, but while they talked and laughed and flirted, while he looked at her like he could, indeed, devour her, he did not act. She was confused by her own feelings for him, how powerful and intense they were. The truth was, she wanted to be claimed by Raife, wanted it more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life, but it just wasn’t meant to be. She was a human, he was a wulver. He was leader of his pack, and his choice of mate mattered greatly.
But she wanted him. She ached for him. To be claimed, marked, made his.
That’s how the wulvers talked about marriage—which involved a “marking,” according to Laina. Each wulver pair had an intricate, matching tattoo engraved on their skin, men on their upper arms and women on their hip and thigh. These tattoos disappeared, of course, covered by fur when they changed into wolves, but in human form, the wulvers had an outward, fixed mark, proof they were matched and mated. It was far more permanent than a wedding ring.
But they hadn’t talked about it since that day in her room, the day she’d climbed into his lap like a fool and kissed him. She felt she couldn’t say anything without hurting them both, so they just didn’t speak of it. But it was always there between them. Always.
And while they didn’t talk about it, Raife would bristle at things, like he just had, and walk angrily away from her. She didn’t know if he was angry at her or with himself. All she knew was, when Raife walked away from her, it was like her own heart being ripped out of her chest. His anger made her angry. He made her want to hit him—not that it would do any good. He made her want to pound on his chest and scream and cry, but that wouldn’t do any good either.
It seemed, no matter what she did, he remained resolute, distant. He would allow her to draw close, intimately so, looking at her with such affection, such deep emotion, it made her throat close and her heart ache. But then, he would do something like this. He would push her away again, keeping her at arm’s length.
She saw the men corralling the horses. Raife had stopped to talk to his brother. The horses ran free in the valley during the day, but they kept them penned at night, just like the sheep and the goats. The wulvers would not harm them—unless it was during one of the female changes. The females were unpredictable, and while they wouldn’t harm a human, they might take down an animal. It was just safer, Raife had told her, to pen them up at night.
Otherwise, they could have roamed the valley to their heart’s content. There was no way out of it, unless you took a horse up a winding, treacherous mountain path and down the other side. Or went through the mountain den itself. She knew they had taken horses out through the den before—when the wolfen warriors were ready for warfare—but not very often.
Raife had taken her riding on more than one occasion. He’d been impressed with her horsemanship, a fact that made her smile. Here, with the wulvers, all those things she’d been taught actually had some practical use.
Sibyl found herself in the midst of the horses without even thinking. Her body just propelled her forward. She grabbed the reins of one of the big war horses—Angus was the horse Raife let her ride, a black beauty with a white patch around one eye. He liked her and nuzzled her shoulder as she approached. He accepted her weight without protest as she mounted him, pulling her plaid up slightly so she could sit astride. She loved riding this way.
“Sibyl!” Raife snapped when he saw her nudge the horse and squeeze him with her thighs, urging him forward. “Come back, lass!”
But she ignored him, ignored the calls of the other wulver men as she leaned forward over the neck of the horse as Angus crested the first hill. There was nowhere to go in the valley, of course. It was a large area, but completely contained, surrounded by the mountains. She could have ridden the horse through the tunnels—they were wide and tall enough—but by the time she reached the entrance, they would have stopped her.
There was only one other way out. She had asked Raife about the trail that went up the side of the mountain and he’d told her it was an alternate route out of the valley, in case something happened to the tunnel. It was treacherous and dangerously high, but she pointed her horse in that direction and rode hard. Both she and the Angus were out of breath by the time they reached the base of the mountain.
When she arrived at it, she reined in the horse, looking at the path. It started out innocently enough, a wide, grassy plane that narrowed into a mountain trail, but it wound up and up, so high just looking at it made her dizzy. It had looked different at a distance. Safer. Now it seemed impossible to traverse, although the horse seemed willing enough to go. He’d been trained to travel it by the wulvers.
Was she really going to do this?
She closed her eyes, swallowing hard, and of course, her mind filled immediately with Raife. She saw his lop-sided smile, those bright, dancing eyes, that long, thick, dark hair of his, the way he towered over her, the way his hand swallowed hers.
“Sibyl!”
She startled at the sound of her name, glancing over her shoulder to see Raife thundering up to her on his horse. His face was dark with anger as he grabbed the reins of her horse just as she dug her heels into Angus’s side in an attempt to get him to move forward.
“Dè tha thu a’ dèanamh?” he snapped. “Where do ye think you’re going?”
“Away.” Her lower lip trembled as he pulled her horse toward his so they were standing side by side. “Away from you.”
“Away from me?” His brow knitted, mouth turned down in a frown.
“I can’t stand it anymore, Raife.” She felt tears stinging her eyes and tried to blink them back, turning her face away so he wouldn’t see them. “I’m leaving.”
“Yer nuh goin’ nowhere.”
One moment she was sitting in the saddle, looking up at the dizzying zenith of the mountain, and the next she was in Raife’s arms, sitting in front of him, side-saddle on his horse. His arms surrounded her, face close, eyes searching hers.
“I can’na let ye leave.”
“Because I’m safer here?” Sibyl let out a wail of a laugh. “Yes, Raife, I’m safe. I’m so very safe. You keep me locked up here, your prisoner, to keep me safe. I’m safe from Alistair and his men. I’m safe from everything out there. But do you know what I’m most safe from?”
“Sibyl—”
“You!” She put her hands against his chest and pushed at him, but of course, he didn’t move. The man was like a rock. “I’m safe from you most of all!”
“Is that what ye think?” He gave a strangled laugh. “Ye think yer safe from me, then?”
“I know I am.” She stuck her chin out, defiant, meeting his burning eyes.
And then he kissed her. He seized her mouth with a hot, angled kiss that took her breath away. This was no cautious, gentle peck. This was hunger and desperation and a longing so deep it went straight to her core. Sibyl moaned uncontrollably, arms going around his neck just to hang on and keep the world from spinning her into oblivion. Raife’s hands wandered over her body into places no man had ever touched, squeezing her breasts, pulling her hips against his, even daring to move between her thighs, cupping her throbbing sex over the cover of her plaid.
“D’ye feel safe now?” he growled as he grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back so he could get to her throat. His mouth was doing things she didn’t understand, her body responding so completely it was like it wasn’t even her own. She was melting in the saddle in front of him.
“I feel you,” she whispered, wiggling against him, something hard and hot, insistent, throbbing against her hip. “Oh Raife, please. Let me feel you.”
“Och, Sibyl,” Raife groaned, grasping her wrists when her hands moved down his chest, his belly, re
aching for him. “Ye’re testin’ me beyon’ me bounds, lass. I can’na. I…”
She turned her face from him and slid out of the saddle without another word. He could have held onto her, but she would have been left dangling from the horse, feet not touching the ground, so he let her go so as not to hurt her, as she knew he would.
“Sibyl!” he called, voice hoarse, but she didn’t answer him.
She just kept walking deeper into the valley, toward the entrance in the side of the mountain that led to the wulvers’ den. Raife didn’t follow her and she didn’t expect him to. He would distance himself again. That was the pattern and it was killing her, bit by little bit, as if she was being picked apart, flesh stripped from her body until she was nothing but bone, laid bare.
It hurt that much.
“Sibyl!” Laina called her name as Sibyl’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. Coming into the den was always such a surprise to her system, even though the wulvers adjusted easily. Of course, they could see almost as well in the dark as they could in the light. “How’s our lil plant?”
Sibyl smiled, putting on a happy face, but she didn’t want to tell Laina the truth. Instead she distracted them both by fussing over the baby. He was a handsome fellow with big blue eyes and a thick, thatch of dark hair. He looked so much like Raife—and Darrow—it hurt her heart.
“You are looking so much better, Laina.” Sibyl smiled, chucking the baby under his chin. “Your color is coming back.”
“Tis not all that’s comin’ back.” Laina frowned at the way the baby turned his head, looking for something to chew on and found his fist. “He’s started solid food. The elders say me moon cycles’ll start up again soon.”
“The plant… it’s…” Sibyl swallowed as they entered the center of the mountain. All the tunnels led to and through here. It was the heart of all things, this place where they cooked and ate together.
“Tis dyin’ isn’t it?” Laina sighed, switching the baby to her other shoulder. “It can’na live anywhere but the borderlands. I knew it. I’m gonna hafta look fer it meself.”
“Laina, no.” Sibyl frowned, catching Raife’s eye across the room. He had obviously penned the horses before coming into the den. He stopped to tease Kirstin about something—she flushed pink and laughed, hitting him on the arm.
Everyone loved Raife, especially all the wulver women. Sibyl had noticed it from the very beginning, but once she found that he had not chosen a mate, she also discovered that most of the wulver girls dreamed of being that one. Not that she could blame any of them, of course. He was quite a catch, as far as wulver men went. There was no one bigger or stronger in the pack, which was likely why he had assumed the role of leader, but she didn’t think that was all of the reason. There was something different about Raife. Something calmer, more reserved than the rest of the wulver men. They liked to wrestle and tussle like little boys. Raife was far more serious than that.
Which made times like this, when he smiled and teased one of the girls, even more unusual. Sibyl found herself bristling at it and she tried to ignore it, turning her attention back to Laina and her tiny baby.
“You need to stay here for this little man,” Sibyl reminded Laina.
Sibyl saw Darrow enter the kitchen, carrying a thick, heavy sword. He hung it in a notch on the side of the mountain wall. There were hundreds of others there. The men forged new swords all the time. She was fascinated with the process and Raife had laughed at her when she once tried to lift one off the ground—she’d wielded a small sword of her own back at her father’s castle—finding it far too heavy. She couldn’t believe how the wulver men swung them around, over their heads, the strength it must take.
“How can I care for ‘im when I’m a wolf?” Laina’s lower lip trembled.
“But… isn’t that what your wulver sisters are for?” Sibyl asked.
She knew the other wulver women cared for the babies when the moon time of a mother returned. Wulvers wouldn’t hurt their young, but a human baby required things a wulver pup did not. Sibyl thought it was ironic, because a human woman could care for a wulver pup or a human child, but a wulver, with no hands or thumbs or even voice, had a much harder time caring for a human child.
“But he’s my bairn,” Laina protested.
“I know.” Sibyl smiled at the infant who sucked greedily at his fist. “He has your long fingers.”
“Ye do’na know, though.” Laina kissed the top of the baby’s head, her eyes sad as she looked at Sibyl. “Even if ye mated wit’ Rai—a… wulver… ye would never hafta worry about changin’.”
Raife.
That’s what Laina had almost said.
Even if you mated with Raife.
Sibyl glanced over at him. He was talking to his brother, their heads bent, expressions serious. Did everyone in the pack think she was in love with him? She wondered. Did everyone think what Laina had almost said aloud?
She had thought about what it would mean, to be a wulver’s mate.
To be Raife’s mate.
She would have denied it aloud—and had, on several occasions, when the women had teased her about it. They soon learned not to mention it, because if they did, Sibyl would bristle. And Raife—no one ever said anything about Sibyl in front of Raife. The last man who had said something suggestive about Sibyl had spent the afternoon in the pigpen, shoveling it out.
But as much as she denied it, she thought about it. She felt the way his eyes followed her, wherever she went. He always knew where she was, at all times. He spent nights sleeping in the cold hallway somewhere outside her door, wrapped in his plaid. She couldn’t count the times she’d stood on the other side of that door, her ear pressed tight, imagining she could hear him breathing, feel the pound of his wulver heart. Of course, it was really only the sound of her own quickened breath, the thud of her aching human heart.
Because, if nothing else, her heart beat for him.
She knew it wasn’t unheard of, a wulver choosing a human mate. It had happened before. Raife’s own father had been a human man, after all. But Raife was the leader of his pack. He had a responsibility, not just to himself, but to all of them. He hadn’t yet taken a mate, but they expected him to, and soon. They expected him to choose a wulver woman, someone who matched him in spirit and strength, a woman who wouldn’t put herself at risk every time she gave birth to a new heir.
And Sibyl knew any issue from a human and wulver would be a changeling. No human-wulver pairing ever resulted in a child who was fully human.
She had been sold to a man who was as different from her as night from day, or so she once thought. The Scots ways were odd to her, so often opposite her own, but the more time she’d spent in their presence, she’d grown used to the soft brogue, their jokes and forward behavior. Donal and his men had endeared themselves to her, over time. Well, most of them had.
It was mostly Alistair, her intended, who had still rankled her.
Now that she’d lived with these wulvers, she knew what real “difference” was. They couldn’t have been further apart, she and these creatures. They were wild, untamed, a close-knit pack of warriors, the men strong and protective, the women nearly as strong and just as territorial. Sibyl had watched them argue, tussle, fight and make up, had listened to the women tell stories and watched them take care of their young.
And yet, in their hearts, she had found they were the same as she was. Their needs and wants were no different. They hungered. They fed. They laughed. They wondered. They loved. And in that last, in her estimation, they were perhaps superior to her own breed. They loved with a passion and devotion she had never seen before. The connection between wulver mates went far beyond contracts. In her world, men of power and pieces of paper served to join two factions.
She had been little more than a pawn on her uncle’s chessboard. King Henry had sought to unite the English and Scots, to ease the tension between them by uniting families along the border, so everyone was invested in the future generations that iss
ued from each union. She was but one bride who had been sold for that purpose, she knew. And ultimately, if her uncle was to be believed, James IV of Scotland would marry a Tudor and the union of Scots and English would wind its way all the way to the top of the hierarchy.
“Sibyl?” Laina’s voice brought Sibyl out of her reverie. Sibyl tore her eyes from Raife, focusing on the woman and her baby.
“I’m sorry?” Sibyl apologized. She hadn’t heard a word, didn’t even know if Laina had been speaking at all.
“He’ll claim ye.” Laina was the only one who dared speak of it aloud, although even she was cautious and spoke in hushed tones, so no one overheard them. “If’n ye let ‘im.”
“Who am I to let him?” Sibyl laughed, trying her best to sound as if it mattered not at all. Besides, what did Laina know? Sibyl had climbed into the man’s lap and humiliated herself—and he’d refused her. “I am just a woman. I get no say in such matters.”
“From what I hear, ye had a great deal t’say ‘bout such matters wit’ an arrow.” Laina leveled a knowing look in her direction. “Ye’re more wulver than English at heart, I think.”