He’d shifted as he sped northward toward the source of the trouble. Brought forth the Heller, praying even as he did so that he’d have no cause to fight. He was still weak. Not even Jamys’s abilities enough to completely cleanse him of the Keun Marow’s poison.
Skidding to a halt at the edge of the woods, he already knew what he would find. The death hounds’ stench fouled the air. Soured his stomach.
There were three of them hunched above a victim, now little more than mutilated offal. Their mouths dripped blood as they gorged, their nose slits spread wide to absorb the mage energy that curled up from the dead faery like smoke. Bloated with stolen magic, their power would be dizzying.
So much for the praying.
He slid his sword from its scabbard. Tried to circle around behind them, but alerted to his approach, they broke off feeding, peered into the woods with eyes like cinders.
They were well-armed. The largest pulled a wicked-looking scythe from its belt. Another had a short axe strapped across its back. A third held a bloody spiked club in one clawed fist.
Conor broke into the clearing, leaping at the closest of the three with a lunging sword thrust.
The largest hound threw itself sideways as the second advanced swinging his club, hoping to crush Conor’s arm or knock away the blade. The third melted away. Lost in the dark.
The two that were left were coordinated and stronger than Conor had anticipated. And he was weaker. He couldn’t use magic. That would only strengthen their already overwhelming odds. And without it, he was at a disadvantage that grew every second he lingered. He needed to end this. Quick.
He backed up, parrying the fey hunter’s deadly club before twisting and ducking to knock aside a scythe thrust from behind aimed at taking his head from his neck. The Keun Marow’s blade spun away into the grass.
But Conor’s victory was short. The club-wielding hound advanced, every blow tiring Conor’s already drained strength. He fended him off, but his arm felt limp and numb from wrist to elbow. Sweat poured down his chest. Stung his eyes. It shouldn’t be this hard. It wouldn’t be if he weren’t still sick.
In a last effort to even the odds, he slid beneath the Keun Marow’s guard, bringing his sword up and out, tearing into the creature’s chest. Hot blood slicked Conor’s sword hand, soaked his torso. The beast screamed, crumpling to the ground.
One down. One to go.
Conor felt the rush of wind behind him as he straightened. Spun to defend himself against the last hound. But this creature was fast. He parried every sword thrust before lunging with his scythe, ripping a gash across Conor’s stomach.
Roaring his pain, Conor clutched the wound. Twisted out of reach and slammed his sword home.
It was over. But not without cost.
Winded, his heart thundering, Conor bent head down, hands on knees. Sucking in great lungfuls of air. Spots burst in his eyes. His stomach throbbed. But he couldn’t rest. Already he sensed the approach of others.
The ward stone’s power ebbed again. He’d strengthened it yesterday and already the warp and weft of the mage energy had unraveled. Enough to embolden the Keun Marow. Enough to put everything under Daggerfell’s protection at risk. Including Ellery. If Asher penetrated the wards…If he got to Ellery…Conor would have failed. And there would be no stopping the Triad.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
Approaching the ward stone, he laid his hands upon the rock. The buzz and tingle of magic sparked up his arm. Raced through his bloodstream. “Dor. Ebrenn.” Each word fell heavy with command. “Dowr. Tanyow.” The air around him crackled. “Menhir. Junya. Gwitha rag Asher.”
As his voice died into silence, light—red and gold and green—twisted and curled over the rock. Pulsed outward east, west, south where it met and melded with the mage energy from the three other ward stones. A constant current. Safety as long as nothing—and no one—interfered.
“Morgan told me which was your room.” Ellery stepped into the bedchamber, shutting the door behind her, leaning against it as if Conor might make a break for it.
He’d been in the act of undressing for bed. His shirt was gone, the tattoos vivid swirls of blue against the muscled bronze of his bare chest. Tired as she was, her heart skipped, settled into an unsteady rhythm.
He glanced at the case clock. One in the morning. “You should be in bed.”
“And who are you? My mother?”
His scars from her injuries—she couldn’t think of them any other way—were now completely gone, but he carried himself gingerly, wincing as he sat to pull off his boots. “You’re tired,” he said.
“And so are you, but I don’t see you tucked up with a warming pan and a cup of milky tea.”
A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Five minutes later and you would have.” He pulled off one boot. Dropped it to the floor before straightening.
That’s when she saw it. A long, ugly weal across his stomach. A fresh wound. “You’re hurt.” She rushed forward.
He caught her wrist before she could lay a hand on him. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Now that she was close, she saw the edges had already knit closed, the skin pink but healing.
“That’s new. Something happened.” She met his eyes. “Asher tried again, didn’t he?”
Letting go of her wrist, Conor pulled off his other boot and sat back. “The demon’s testing our defenses. Looking for weakness. He didn’t find it tonight.” His gaze remained frustratingly inscrutable.
Conor wasn’t going to make this easy. But now that she was here, she felt a fool. She tumbled the stone in her pocket, wishing she’d just gone to bed. But she’d wanted to show him she knew how much she owed him. Prove that he was right to trust her—that she could understand if he’d take a chance.
“Did you need anything?” he asked. “I can call you a maid if you like.”
She refused to be intimidated by his polite dismissal. She pulled out the pearl, shoved it toward him. “I wanted to give this back to you. It’s not mine. And Molly stole it, so it wasn’t hers either.”
This caught his attention. He stiffened, a guarded look on his face. “I claimed it for you.”
“But I don’t want it. It’s…” she looked down at the shimmer of colors. How far could she have gone with this jewel to pay her way? She held it out again. More firmly this time.
“It’s dirty. Take it.”
He palmed the pearl. His eyes sought hers, curiosity and hesitation mingled in their lightning depths. “Why the change of heart?”
“The truth,” she answered, softly. “You killed my father. I can’t forget that, but I’ve seen Asher for myself. I see what Father’s curiosity wrought. What I don’t see is why you let me believe you were responsible for the massacre that followed. It was Asher.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Who told you?”
“Does it matter? Why did you let me think you’d murdered them all?”
He shrugged. “I had my reasons. It seemed best to let you believe.”
“To believe the worst of you?”
He stood up; so close to her she felt his body’s warmth, saw his pulse jump at the base of his throat. “Just because I didn’t kill those men, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have if I had to.”
“The good little soldier,” she whispered.
“Call me what you wish. I am who I am, Ellery.” His voice was low and sensual.
A prickle of anticipation raced across her shoulders, making her shiver. “It’s over now. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”
“And your father’s death? My part in it?”
“I know what really happened that day. If you agree, we won’t speak of it again.”
His stare deepened, lingered. Devoured. She couldn’t breathe with the waiting.
“I agree,” he said.
The air crackled between them. Lightning flickered along her skin. She could lean up, brush his lips with hers. It wouldn’t take much. He was only
inches away.
“Did Morgan know what she was tempting when she pointed my room out to you?” he asked, making her wonder if he’d caught her stray thought.
Her lips curved into a sly smile. “I think she meant it as a warning. Don’t get mixed up with Conor for your own good.”
“Smart woman, my cousin. I eat shy young maidens for breakfast.”
“This young maiden can take care of herself.” And she could, couldn’t she?
She squashed the voice in her head warning her to withdraw while she still could. Things were getting out of hand. She was getting out of hand.
He fingered a strand of her hair, pushed it back behind her ear. The lightning swelled. Became fires lit and running with her blood. “It’s not you I worry about, Ellery,” he said.
“What do you worry about?” Her voice wavered. Broke.
“Starting something I can’t stop—can’t control.” He grazed her side with his hand, the pressure of his touch catching her breath in her throat.
The bugles blew. Retreat. Retreat. But by then, she’d stopped listening.
She took the final step that brought them together. Reached up to skim a hand over the planes of his torso. Caressed with gentle fingers the line of his latest scar. This time, he didn’t stop her. “I’ve had a lifetime of looking after myself. I’ve gotten quite good at it.”
Out of character, the corner of his mouth quirked in a little-boy smile as he stripped her with his molten-honey gaze. “Until I came along, anyway.”
Had she come here wanting this? Knowing what would happen? Her mind screamed at her to get out. Run while she had the chance.
“Conor. Please,” she whispered, not knowing whether it was a plea for him to stop or continue.
His kiss, when it came, knocked the air from her lungs. She clung to him. Twined her arms around his neck. Felt his heart beating in rhythm with her own.
His tongue dipped into her mouth. Tempted her with a hint of what lay ahead if she chose to keep on. He fisted his hands in her hair, tilted her head back as his kiss assaulted her senses. Now teasing and sweet, a playful nibble of her bottom lip. Now deep and hot and breath-stealing until she fought against the constraints of clothing. Until only skin-on-skin would satisfy.
She wasn’t the only one affected. Conor’s breathing came faster, his eyes darkening from bronze to almost black.
Answering to some primitive force of her body, she rocked against Conor’s swollen ridge. His whole body tensed before he gasped a half-laugh, half-groan, “Gods, Ellery…you’ll finish me before we even start.”
Her lips curved in a sly smile. “Just by doing this?” He groaned and caught her before she could do it a third time. “Aye, more’s the shame. It’s been a long”—raw animal need burned in his gaze—“long time.” His hands were inside her robe now, untying the ribbons of her shift. Skimming the curve of her breasts, his light touch only making the aching heat spread faster. “No weapons tonight? Gun? Knife?”
The pleasure swelled. Made her hurt with wanting him. “Too messy.” She smiled, running her hands through the un-fashionable crop of his hair. Traced his shoulders, the long, sculpted line of his back. “I’m unarmed.”
Her robe was gone. Her shift fell away. She stood naked before him, flushed and shivering with desire.
“So you are.” His predatory gaze pinned her in place.
Moved over her with slow, deliberate relish, pausing for a moment when it reached her crotch. His nostrils flared as if he could tell she was wet and ready for him. She trembled under the scrutiny even as a wash of heat swept through her. Centered in her woman’s place. She wanted him so bad, she throbbed with it. And he knew it.
So much for playing hard to get.
He lowered his mouth again to hers in another dizzying kiss. He tasted of whiskey, and she drank him in, lost in the freedom of hands and lips and flesh. He backed her against the bed, dropping her onto the quilt, pinning her beneath him as his teeth grazed a line down her neck. He explored her, running his hand down her stomach, over the swell of her hips. Drawing her deep into a whirlpool she couldn’t escape. Wouldn’t if she could.
He lowered his mouth to her breasts. Slid his tongue over the swollen mounds, taking a nipple between his lips. She jumped under the mind-blowing pleasure-pain sensation that radiated along every nerve. He tongued the hard bud until she moaned. Until she writhed beneath his expert lover’s touch. He switched his attentions to the other. But this time she was prepared.
She leaned up in a plea for him to take more into his mouth. He obliged, the slick tease of his tongue combined with the scratch of stubble on her sensitive flesh transforming the earlier fires into a conflagration that consumed her.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, his fingers were inside her. She arched her back, gasping against the searing rush. Heard the blood pounding through her as he carried her on a current of desire. “Conor. Please,” she moaned, and this time she knew she was begging for more.
She closed her eyes. Conscious thought had left her. She was acting on pure lust. He rolled away, the mattress sagging as he tore off his breeches.
“Look at me, Ellery,” he purred.
She obeyed, swallowing hard. He was naked. The satiny gleam of his skin complete from head to toe. And as absolutely perfect as she thought it would be.
He rolled back on top of her, spreading her legs, his cock poised to enter. But he held back, his self-discipline as firm as his manhood.
She couldn’t take anymore. Her control snapped. She guided him home, gasping against the burst of pain. His mouth found hers, silencing her cries.
Her inner muscles closed around him. And as he lay there, letting her adjust to his presence, the pain was replaced by a new and different sensation. She shifted, eliciting a hiss of in-drawn breath from him.
“Bleydhes,” he ground out from a clenched jaw. She smiled up at him in the darkness.
“What does that mean?”
The reaches of his black-gold gaze were impenetrable. Unknowable. “It means she-wolf.”
“I can live with that.”
She’d barely finished speaking when a knock on Conor’s door crashed through the bliss like a dousing of ice water.
Heaven help her. What had she done?
Who the hell was bloody knocking? Conor had never been closer to murder than in that moment.
Ellery broke away. Her eyes were glazed with lust, her lips parted and swollen from his kisses. Her mop of curls lay damp against her brow.
He rolled onto his back, his chest heaving. Still rock-hard and apparently staying that way if Ellery’s reaction was anything to go by. “Go away.”
Ellery struggled to get out from under him, her eyes wide with panic. “I should never have come here—like this. It was a mistake.”
The knock sounded again. “Conor, I need to see you.” He cursed. “Damn it, Jamys. I’m fucking fine. Top of the world. Go. The Bloody Hell. Away.”
There was silence on the other side of the door. His cousin’s sense of timing may have been horrible, but he wasn’t stupid.
Ellery rolled up and off the bed. He threw a hand out to grab her, grimacing for the expected pain to follow. Nothing.
He’d have been grateful to Ellery for taking his mind off the sting of healing if she hadn’t replaced it with a mind-seizing, gut-churning passion. That sure as hell wasn’t supposed to happen. And she sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d cocked it up this time.
“You decided to heed Morgan’s warning?” he asked, ignoring his remorse, hoping to tease a smile back into eyes clouded with shame.
She fumbled with clumsy fingers at her robe’s ties. Flushed. Nervous. “I’m sorry, Conor. I’ve made everything a mess.”
He stood, taking the ribbons from her hopeless fingers. Tied the robe closed with infinite care. Knowing he couldn’t console her without making things worse. It was better this way. But it sure as hell didn’t feel like it.
�
��No, you were the smart one here. I shouldn’t have let it go so far. But—” He plowed a hand through his hair. Blew out a breath. “If things were different…” His words trailed off. There was nothing he could say that would change the future.
“If wishes were thrushes…” She managed a shaky laugh. “But that’s not how real life works, is it? Still friends?” She held out a hand.
His stomach clenched, wanting to be on top of her. In her. Wanting the taste of her on his tongue. He accepted her hand, holding back his desire to throw her down. Possess her. Bring her to the point where her commonsense could go to hell, and all that mattered was the mindless explosion of senses. “Still friends,” he answered.
She squared her shoulders, chin held high. Her gaze was suspiciously bright, but determined. “Good night, Conor.” She crossed to the door. With one hand on the knob, she turned back. “I’ll stay until Beltane. But then, I’m gone. For good.”
She shut the door behind with a click that echoed loud as a gunshot.
Guilt and frustration tore at him. His bedchamber became a prison, the bed a reminder of what could have been. His throat tightened with a choking rage. He slammed his fist against a wall, the pain nothing compared to the satisfaction of crumbling plaster. He punched it again, startled at the energy surging down his spine, sensing the effortless twisting and shifting of his muscles. The loss of thought beneath the animal’s instinct to lash out. The change had never been this easy. A slight draw on his power, and the Heller would be realized. The fey in him released.
He drew in a shuddering, bitter breath. Let it out slowly through clenched teeth. His father was right. He stood at the edge. And why not take that last step? Bring forth the power he needed to not just imprison Asher but destroy him once and for all.
Being human was highly overrated.
Chapter Eighteen
Ellery stood on the terrace, watching the trees. She wasn’t a naturalist by any stretch of the imagination. She’d spent too many nights in the open to appreciate such rustic beauty. But these thick stands of ancient woods seemed different—alive. Shadows dappled the paths she saw stretching away from the manicured park. Shadows that behaved unlike any she’d ever seen. Quick flashes of dark and light that lifted the leaves and sent them scrambling.
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