by Jan Delima
Her despondent attitude only confirmed Sophie’s accusation. “Tell me what happened the night my wife left me, Siân. Tell me what happened when you found her.”
As if he hadn’t spoken, she looked out the open door toward the woods, lost in the torrent of her own thoughts. “I know Sarah and Michael are out there. They’re watching me.” She remained quiet for a moment. “I used to laugh when that woman fought you for keeping her guarded, and here I am now, sharing her fate.” Her shoulders slumped, and her voice grew heavy with regret. “Except I don’t have you in my bed . . . or a child of my own.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.
Her eyes glazed over then, and she was uncomprehending, or unwilling to answer. She had moved on to that other place, Dylan realized—her place of madness and avoidance. Was it a misguided sense of responsibility that her misery still provoked him? Perhaps it was, but he would rather feel compassion than hatred for a woman who’d once been his lover, and more important, his friend.
“Come here,” Dylan said and opened his arms. She turned back toward the room. She frowned at him, but then the haze of confusion cleared and a soft sob escaped her lips. Three strides and she fell into his embrace, tucking her head under his chin. She smelled like dried lavender and mint. He kissed the top of her hair, more like a father would a frightened child than an ex-lover. “I know why you did it, Siân. But it doesn’t change what I must do.”
“I understand,” she sniffed. “I can’t live here now anyway . . . I can’t bear it.”
“I had Alise create a new identity for you, with six hundred thousand dollars in two separate accounts, under the name Pamela Johnston.”
A soft growl grew close and Dylan dropped his arms, waiting for Siân to withdraw herself. She did so with some reluctance. He reached into his jacket and handed her a portfolio with her account information, her new birth certificate, her social security card and her driver’s license. She accepted the packet, hugging it to her chest, nodding without words.
Heavy padded steps fell across the porch as a red wolf prowled through the door. Cormack took a protective stance between Dylan and his sister.
Siân rested her hand on Cormack’s head. “It is all right, my brother. I’ll be okay.” But her voice cracked with emotion despite her brave words.
Dylan nodded to Taran as she entered and stood with her siblings. Taran took her sister’s hand within hers and waited.
Dylan found no satisfaction in issuing this judgment. “Siân is banished from my territory . . . and my protection, for her own personal actions. I’ve provided her with the means to make a fresh start.”
A low growl hummed through the room. Dylan pinned Cormack with a glare, letting his own wolf have a voice. Both sisters leaned against their brother in a silent bid for respect. In a fight, Dylan would dominate. Cormack broke eye contact first, but his stance remained arrogant.
“I don’t expect you to agree with my decision,” Dylan continued, “but I expect you to respect it. If you cannot . . . then you must leave with your sister.”
Taran nodded. “We’ll go with Siân.”
“No.” Siân shook her head, not willing to force her fate onto her siblings. “Cormack will never have a normal existence among mortals.” The wolf made a noise in the back of his throat, almost human, and clearly offended. “You are trapped in this form.” Siân stroked her brother’s neck. “The Guardians will kill you. And the humans . . . at best they will confine you. Here you’re free. Here . . . you’re safe.”
Cormack pushed up against her, releasing a mournful howl.
“No, I’ll have no argument with you on this.” There was vehemence in her voice and fire in her eyes. “You will stay here with Taran.”
Was it divine justice, or comeuppance, Dylan wondered, that he’d been given a final glimpse of the woman he’d once admired. She had petitioned him for sanctuary almost four hundred years ago, with a red wolf by her side and a young sister in her arms. Sane and selfless. The protector of her family. And eventually his lover, until her need for a child had driven her to other men, searching for the one who could give her what she’d longed for most: to be a mother.
She never conceived with him, or with any of the others. Over time her behavior turned erratic . . . desperate. She had started to worship fertility gods, in the old way of the ancient druids, with mating rituals and animal sacrifices, until he put a stop to the senseless animal deaths. By then, whom she’d chosen to take into her bed was not his concern.
For a while, Siân’s restlessness had seemed to settle into a form of acceptance, or so he’d thought.
Not long after that time, hardly even forty years, Sophie and her team of nature scientists had petitioned for temporary residence in Rhuddin Village. Dylan had agreed only to keep an eye on their efforts, and to sabotage them if necessary.
However, he hadn’t been prepared for Sophie herself, with her gentle nature and fiery conviction, or her innocence in a sweet woman’s body. She had taunted him, teased him, unaware of the wolf she aroused, with a need long denied.
She had conceived almost immediately.
His greatest joy had been Siân’s worst humiliation. He had little doubt that she had threatened Sophie and his child. And that offense—regardless of their personal history—was unforgivable. “You have an hour to decide.”
With a vile taste on his tongue, he walked out of the cottage. Elen and Luc waited on the front steps, supporting him with their silent presence. He turned to his brother. “Will you escort Siân out, and whoever decides to leave with her?”
“And if Taran stays?” Luc asked.
“Then she’ll need to prove her loyalty before returning to her position. I want you to watch her,” Dylan added for clarity. “Personally. She accepted her sister’s banishment too easily.”
He nodded without argument. Elen entered the cottage. Her concern, Dylan noticed, went to Cormack, as she knelt beside the wolf and buried her face in the thick fur at his nape.
“I’m going for a run,” Dylan said, taking off toward the woods. His people had wronged Sophie. He was convinced of that now. And still she had come home to him, of her own free will—for their son.
His wolf clawed at his spine for release. Its fury, its need, its desire for the woman who’d had the courage to return for their child was no longer controllable.
The wolf wanted out.
Having her near and within reach was akin to pain.
Perhaps it was a good thing Sophie hadn’t invited him to stay, Dylan thought as he entered the forest, ripping off clothes as he walked. For if she had, he wasn’t sure if he could have controlled his hunger.
It had been too long.
Twelve
MATTHEW’S GIFT WAS A LARGE ROUNDED GOLDEN BOX. The metal was worn, like a statue Sophie had once seen in a church, caressed by thousands of hands over time. And there was a rendering of a man with antlers inscribed along the lid, holding a horned snake, flanked on either side by two hounds. Or were they wolves?
A foreboding chill crept up her spine.
The box was Celtic in origin.
She had studied the religion of ancient cultures in college. In the Celtic religion, there was a horned god named Cernunnos, worshiped by ancient Celts as the lord of animals, the hunter and the balancer. His image appeared on several artifacts from Celtic gravesites.
Sophie slid the lid off the box and gently set it on the polished surface of the bureau.
A thick metallic rope lay coiled within, gold and silver combined in the shape of a horned snake. Tentatively, with her heart pounding in her chest, she grasped the tail of the snake and let it uncurl to the ground, about eight feet in length and an inch in diameter.
She studied the details of the ornament with morbid curiosity. The eyes of the snake resembled opaque jewels, cloudy white and set an inch apart, the fangs attached to holes along its tail. A belt of some sort? An odd yearning had her circling the metal around her waist; it
looped three times until the clasp enclosed around the tail, hanging low on her hips.
She ran her hand across the delicate scales, then back against the grain—and felt the sharp bite of metal into skin. She drew back with a hiss, turning her hand to assess the damage. Blood pooled across her palm. The scales of the snake, she discovered too late, formed hundreds of thin razor edges.
With surreal clarity, she understood Matthew had given her a weapon—a whip with knives, with the tail as its grip, and the serpent’s head a fanged barb.
Holding her palm up, she walked to the kitchen and held it under the faucet, watching the water turn from pink to clear. The wound wasn’t deep, more like a nasty scrape, but with pressure and momentum true damage would have occurred.
Not a pleasant image. Her hands shook as she tried to unfasten the belt. The clasp wouldn’t release. She tried again, only to receive more nicks in the process. As she searched for her phone, she pulled the hem of her sweatshirt down to cover the sharp metal scales. The purse hung on the coat hook by the door, her phone still in the side pocket. Checking the battery, she quietly stepped outside, hoping for better reception, and dialed Matthew’s number.
He didn’t answer. And his message recording had been changed to a generic automated system. She left a message. And just to be sure, she redialed his number. And left another message.
This isn’t happening, she thought, certain then that Matthew had lied to her from the beginning; he knew why she had returned to her son’s father. Why else would he have given her a weapon of Celtic origin—a weapon of Dylan’s origin?
She paced across the cedar planks of the porch. The night was crisp, just above freezing, but the fresh air soothed her racing thoughts. A rustling sound drew her attention to the woods. She froze, not moving her eyes from the edge of trees where the forest ended and the driveway began.
A wolf stepped into the clearing, making his presence known. Moonlight danced across the gold tones of his fur, caressing him like a mother would a child, proud of her creation, loving his existence.
“Dylan?” she whispered, grasping the porch railing. Relief washed over her when she should have been more afraid, as if her heart recognized what her brain refused to acknowledge.
Intent dark eyes leveled on her as he prowled closer and into the light. Strands of gold and green bled into the darkness of his gaze. Wolf eyes. She hadn’t noticed that change before.
He bowed slightly in answer to her question.
He was large in wolf form, too large for a normal wolf, well over two hundred pounds—equal to his human weight. Why that scientific observation came to her now, she had no idea. Perhaps her mind was grasping at senseless facts to ward off insanity.
Or perhaps she no longer cared. Why else would she have made her next offer? “If you have clothes nearby, you’re welcome to change and sleep on the couch.” She almost laughed at the double meaning of those words. God, it had been a long day. “Or I’ll sleep on the couch. But I’d rather you come inside than watch us from the woods.”
Then she turned and entered the house, not wanting to witness the transformation. She closed the door behind her but left it unlocked. Dylan would accept her offer. She had no doubt he would accept her offer, if only to be near his son.
She made another attempt to remove the snake, or belt, or whatever the hell it was, but without success. Not willing to take a knife to it just yet, she decided to call Matthew again later on, one last chance to explain his intentions. If he still didn’t answer, then the belt was coming off, even if she had to use pliers to pry its mouth open, antique artifact be damned.
She pulled her sweatshirt down to cover the snake and turned her energy toward an activity that didn’t make her head pound with unanswered questions. She had promised her son cinnamon rolls. The cabin was cool, and morning wasn’t too far away, so the rise time should work out well.
It was an awkward process due to a rearranged kitchen and the limited use of one hand. Still, cooking had always been soothing for her, a productive distraction when anxiety tangled her thoughts. No more than a half hour later, just after she cleaned her mess and covered the dough with a floured towel to rise, she heard the soft click of the door as it opened and closed.
Dylan entered the kitchen, wearing jeans and a torn T-shirt that only served to accentuate the hard curves of his chest and arms. His feet were bare. He stared across the short distance that separated them, greeting her with a sharp nod.
Green and gold streaks remained in the black depths of his gaze.
She took a step back. He stood before her as a man but she sensed his wolf. She felt it, almost as if the animal had been forced to withdraw unwillingly and lingered just below the surface of humanity, ready to attack at the slightest provocation.
“Your eyes, Dylan . . .” She had invited him to stay for the simple reason that it had felt wrong to deny him access to his son, especially here, in a place that belonged to Dylan. But she hadn’t expected this. “They’re different,” she said softly. “Why did I never notice them before?”
“Because I never showed you before.” His voice was raw, gravelly, as if it hurt him to speak.
She didn’t move, knowing that calm composure was the better response. “Then why show me now?”
“Because at this particular moment”—his voice dropped to a low growl, barely audible—“I’m having a difficult time controlling my wolf.”
She swallowed. “What do you need me to do?”
Those eerie eyes narrowed in on her with a look of pure carnal hunger. Her breath lodged in her throat. Of all the emotions she had expected from Dylan upon returning, desire had never crossed her mind. Anger, yes. Hatred, probably. But not desire.
“Dylan . . .” She grasped the back of a kitchen chair for support as her heart cried out and her body responded in kind. And that frightened her more than anything, for she fully understood her weakness toward this man, and what that might mean for her future freedom.
Slowly pushing away from the chair, she edged backward, her eyes darting to the door and then the hallway.
He moved in swiftly, shoving the chair out of his way, using his bulk to dominate her path until her back touched the wall.
“Don’t run, Sophie . . .” He placed his hands on either side of her head, trapping her between his outstretched arms. “Don’t move. Just keep still . . . please.”
He smelled like pine and fresh air, and something other, something undeniably sensual.
“All right.” Fear of her own reaction to his nearness kept her motionless.
“Don’t be afraid.” His head dropped and his lips hovered just below her ear. “I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you.”
She shuddered, leaning her head forward until it came in contact with his chest. To be this close to him, to touch him, to know he still welcomed her touch . . .
A ragged breath fell from her lungs.
This was a dangerous temptation—because she wasn’t afraid of him. Oh, no . . . She was afraid of her own weakness, of what she might let him do—of what she wanted him to do. It was sad, really, how rapidly her walls of defense had tumbled.
“What do you want from me?” She cringed at the desperate sound of her own voice.
He inhaled; she knew because the intake of air drew chills across her nape. “I think you know what I want.”
“Joshua and my mother are upstairs,” she reminded him in a panicked whisper.
“Both are sleeping.” His hands tangled in her hair, tugging gently. “I can hear them breathing, soundly and unaware.”
She clutched at his torn shirt, her knees threatening to buckle. “We can’t . . .”
“One kiss, wife.” It was a soft-spoken demand, but a demand all the same. “You asked me what I wanted . . . and what I need from you. For now . . . for tonight, just give me one kiss to calm my beast and then I’ll leave you alone.”
One kiss. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek along the soft material of his
shirt. Just one kiss.
Dylan lifted her head, cupping her face with both his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze, his dark eyes still stricken by the wolf. He did not ask for further permission. Slowly, as if sharp movements might frighten her into bolting, he lowered his mouth onto hers.
It was a gentle kiss that didn’t invade, a warm kiss of promises and restraint.
She closed her eyes and sighed against his lips. God help her . . . but she loved his mouth, the way it fit against hers. She didn’t know what base emotion compelled her . . . Selfishness, perhaps? Instinct? Sexuality too long denied? Maybe even a touch of wickedness? Because it was wicked to play with this fire.
But rationality was lost, destroyed by a greater compulsion as Sophie curled her arms around his neck, turned her head and deepened the kiss. Dylan stiffened, surprised. She felt his struggle for control as his hard frame shook around her, just as she knew the instant he lost the battle.
It was as if something in the air lifted, some unseen restraint, and whatever control Dylan maintained shattered on a broken breath. His hands became rough as they moved over her body. His thighs pressed between her legs, forcing her to straddle his hips, trapping her between him and the wall. Those demanding hands found her backside and lifted her onto him.
He paused for the barest of seconds, waiting, she supposed, for a protest. When none was given, he gave a ragged groan and pressed his tongue along her lips, insistent.
She opened for him. She was powerless to do anything else, trailing her hands into the soft curls of his shortened hair, melting into the hardness of his body supporting hers, matching the thrusts of his tongue with those of her own.
The evidence of his arousal was trapped between their bodies, hard against her belly. If they were not clothed, he would have been inside her. She ground against him in frustration that he wasn’t.
His mouth broke from hers. “Sophie . . .” He stilled her motions by pressing his entire weight into her, his hands a vise on her backside. “I will warn you not to tease me.” She squirmed against him. And he swore under his breath, a guttural sound of frustration. “Unless . . .” The last was a whispered growl. “Unless you’re willing to finish this properly.”