by Raven, Jess
Ash sobbed as her soul joined her body in the reunion and emotion swept her up.
Tear-wet lashes lifting, she spoke to the vulnerable hope laid bare in his steel grey eyes.
Her breath hitched. ‘I love you, Connal Savage,’ she dragged her lips along the scruff of his jaw, ‘I never stopped loving you. You’re in my bones, Big Bad, you’re part of me. No matter what.’ Ash punctuated her last words with hard kisses, imprinting the truth to his stubborn mouth. She hadn’t been able to breathe without him, and now she was overdosing on his oxygen.
Sealing them together in a kiss, Connal’s snarl was all affirmation and possessive satisfaction, rumbling against her lips, his strong hands pushing her thighs up and angling her into the brutal, snapping tempo of his hips.
She raked her claws over his scalp, fisting soft, short hairs for purchase. They were animal and Ash was going down in flames, her flushed curves arching and grinding in the cage of his powerful form. Her teeth left shallow punctures on his throat, marking her territory. Elongated nails hooked into his shoulders as Connal’s hips drilled her into the mattress, his thrusts synchronised to the circling pressure of his thumb on her clit, so she quivered around the punch of his cock on every stroke. Sounds spilled from her lips, praises and curses spurring him on and demanding harder, faster, oh yes, do that again.
Ecstasy had her on edge, nerves twitching, muscles seizing, bracing for the violent thrusts hammering home emotions too strong to word. Neither could explain how their souls were irrevocably bound, or how they weren’t really two people, but one. They could only try to show it. And so they battled it out in frenzied collisions and biting kisses.
Rough hands braced her thighs wide as Connal went in for the kill, drilling himself so deep inside her there could be no doubt. His tempo quickened and pleasure twisted, winding her up, tighter and tighter until she was barrelling straight for the edge of a cliff, her orgasm chasing every guttural moan and whimper until Connal tipped their bodies and they fell, together.
Instinct snapped her jaws around the straining tendons of his neck and she sank her teeth into his heartbeat as she came apart. Connal reared up in a lightning strike that knifed his canines through the exposed line of her throat, plugging them both into the carnal connection that set stars behind her lids. Endless waves of ecstasy rewired her nerves and vised her down around the punching thrusts of his girth, rhythmically milking his release as it pulsed hot to her depths. They surged through the crests of their pleasure, rode them beyond the shudders, and collapsed in a tangle of limbs and shivering muscle. Sated, complete.
Ash ran her nose lazily behind his ear and purred, Connal’s weight a living blanket securing her languid curves beneath him. She was content, surrounded by his scent, her hands smoothing down his spine, long strokes that made him arch up into her palms and pushed his face into her shoulder. He was burying himself in her hair, tonguing at her skin and she smiled, gathering him closer.
It was the smallest drop, but it was warm and it tickled as it slid over her skin. A tear. Connal's body hitched slightly, his hands tightening on her. Wetness pricked at her eyes and she nodded into the curve of his neck. She carded her fingers into the soft, short spikes of his hair and just held on. It was all ok. They were free, and they were together, and she would fight tooth and nail before she let anything separate them again.
HEART TO HEART
Connal lay awake, propped on one elbow, watching the small miracle of Ash breathing. She was alive and sharing his bed, and wearing his bite-marks on her throat. He curled the ends of her hair in his fingers. This incredible woman was his one in a billion: somebody he didn’t have to lie to about who, or what, he was. With her, he had the chance to be himself. No holding back his true nature for fear of hurting her. No cold sheets from sneaking away in the night. No fear of forming attachments he could never honour. Connal had lived his lone-wolf existence for so long, he’d forgotten what is was to not be lonely, if he’d ever known. Ash loved him. Unconditionally. And it scared the hell out of him, because that unconditionality was about to be severely tested.
Brevity adds infinite poignancy to life’s fleeting moments.
The Morrígan’s words taunted him. A life for a life, she’d said, and Connal thought he’d got off easy. Now? He realised she’d done this on purpose.
His thumb stroked Ash’s open palm, and the dual crescent-shaped mating marks embossed there. However much Ash protested wanting his half-brother, Connal was no fool. Her scent had been in MacTire’s bed, just as it was in his. He’d watched them kiss, and though they might be faded now, he’d seen the teeth marks in her skin that weren’t his own.
MacTire had tied their blood. Why else would Ash have goaded Connal into having sex with her that day in the forest, if not because they all three shared the same biological link? It was a tragic legacy of their birth, and it was more than that. Connal witnessed Ash and MacTire’s friendship, and felt the stab of jealousy at their easy exchanges. The King had saved her life, and had turned on his own men to do it.
And that was precisely why the Morrígan, in all her sadistic generosity, had granted him this month’s stay. She wanted to make it harder on him, to prolong his agony. He should have done the deed as soon as he knew Ash was safe, but he was weak, he couldn’t bear to let her go. This moment alone with her could prove to be his last, and so he cherished it, committing every detail of her sleeping form to memory. Ash was going to hate him for what he had to do.
Food first, death later. Connal’s stomach growled, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d eaten a proper meal. That would be the steak and eggs Ash cooked for him. Assuming the pack outside hadn’t devoured the entire contents of his freezer, he planned on repaying the favour, with breakfast in bed.
Slipping silently from the sheets, he pulled on a pair of his own jeans and navigated the sprawl of passed-out wolves, following the scent of freshly-brewed coffee to the kitchen area.
MacTire was at the table, mug in hand. Their eyes met in a guarded truce.
‘You look like shit,’ MacTire laughed, ‘was your barber drunk? Or only blind?’
Connal scrubbed a hand over his shorn scalp. ‘Long story,’ he said, ‘and not one I want to talk about.’ The bargains he’d struck with the Morrígan were not on the table for discussion.
MacTire poured a second mug and slid it across the table. Connal’s hand hesitated on the back of the chair before he reluctantly pulled it out and sat. A plate of hot, buttered toast was pushed in his direction. To an outsider, this scene would be so ordinary, he thought. Two brothers trading insults over breakfast. In reality, this was the closest he’d been to his half-brother in almost a thousand years. United by a woman they both loved, yet doomed because of her.
‘Cheer up,’ MacTire grinned. ‘Only a few hours, and we’ll be out of your hair. The thegn are mobilising to evacuate the prisoners as we speak. I’ll have them take care of the mess upstairs too.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Connal answered tightly, cradling the mug.
Dark eyes met Connal’s across the table. ‘They said Doyle, the bartender, failed to report in. You know something about that?’
‘Nope.’ Connal’s expression was shuttered. Reluctant truce or not, he didn’t trust MacTire when it came to Madden.
MacTire shrugged. ‘Saves me the bother of killing him myself.’
Connal popped a brow.
‘Kidnapping children is not my style. Doyle will be made to pay for his rogue actions, if he hasn’t already.’ Mac regarded Connal briefly, then drank from the mug and ripped his teeth through a slice of toast. ‘Go a month without bread,’ he groaned, ‘and you forget how damn good it tastes.’
Connal strummed his fingers on the coffee mug. 'Tell me something, MacTire. Why did you do this?’
‘You know the answer to that,’ MacTire replied, ‘though I don’t believe you want to hear it.’
Because the bastard loves her.
‘No,’ Connal shook his head, ‘I get
why you saved Ash. But why spare me? You’ve had ample opportunities to finish what you started.’
MacTire dropped his toast and looked Connal square in the eye. 'This will be hard for you to believe, but I am a man of honour. The laws are clear. You withstood your punishment a true warrior. Balor knows how you survived the blood-eagle and the raveners, but some higher power chose to spare you, Connal Savage. The debt between us is paid. In my eyes, at least.’
Connal stared back at him for a long moment. ‘You know I won’t let you take her back there,’ he said quietly.
‘I would have her come to me, willingly.’
Connal felt the muscles tighten across his spine. ‘You’d really let her choose?’
MacTire topped up both mugs and scratched his temple. ‘These centuries leading the pack have taught me something of life. When a man is handed his every desire, or can simply take what he will by superior force, how shall he ever know the measure of his own worth? There is true satisfaction only in what is rightfully earned.’
Connal’s brows disappeared into his hairline. ‘You’re prepared to risk your people’s future existence over pride?’
‘I follow my instincts. Second guessing destiny only makes it harder for her to find you.’ MacTire drank deep and exhaled. ‘Did you know the thegn unearthed an ancient prophecy claiming the next generation will be the one to break the Morrígan’s curse forever? I believe in prophecy, and therefore in fate. What will be will be, however tortuous we make the path.’
‘So what happens now,’ Connal asked warily. ‘You’re just going to walk away?’
‘I can’t compete with a dead man.’
‘I’m not dead.’
‘No, you aren’t.’ MacTire’s mouth curved in a half-smile as he licked the melted butter from his fingers. ‘You know, I think a part of me knew all along you weren’t dead. You can separate félagi, but you can’t sever the connection. It was the same when we were boys. For years, after you were taken, your father would ask me if I could feel your life-force. He was obsessed with finding you. I did everything in my power to win his respect, but it was never enough to make him forget you. I could never measure up to the perfect son he’d conjured in his head.’ MacTire stared into the depths of his coffee cup. ‘So you see, even then, I was competing with a ghost, and that’s one fight I learned you can’t win.’
‘You’re not going to fight me for her?’ Connal asked.
‘What would be the point?’
‘We are physically matched. Who knows, you might even win,’ Connal laughed humorlessly.
‘And have Ashling forever resent me for killing you? Such a contest would have no victor. Perhaps I prefer to watch you fuck it up with her, Brother, and drive her back into my arms.’ MacTire’s smile didn’t reach his black eyes.
‘We are not brothers.’
‘We were, once. Our fates could so easily have been reversed. Sometimes, I even wished it so: to be the favoured, prodigal son, free to fight and fuck, with none of the responsibilities of leadership.’
A growl ripped from Connal’s throat. ‘I was not free. That man you call my father made me no better than a slave.’
MacTire’s blond head dipped in acquiescence. ‘He thought he was doing the right thing, teaching you to survive in our world. He believed your human upbringing made you weak, but I admit your father's treatment of you was wrong. I could have intervened, but I resented my wife’s affection for you. I knew all along that Aoife was fucking you, just as I knew the child was yours, and that she was planning to run.’
'And so you killed her, and my son ...' Bitterness twisted Connal’s voice.
'I didn't kill them.' MacTire’s expression was level. ‘Their deaths were a tragic accident.’
'Impossible,’ Connal’s mug hit the table hard, spilling its contents over the rim, ‘I heard you arguing, you released the untame on them. You said to me, on the sands, that you slit her throat.'
'A lie,’ MacTire’s mouth thinned. ‘I wanted you to hurt as I had,’ he confessed, ‘I loved Aoife. I knew she was leaving me, for you.’
Connal’s jaw went lax.
‘I wanted a clean break, for both our sakes,’ MacTire continued, ‘I went to her to sever our bond, so we could both be free to mate again. She owed me that much.’
‘Is that even possible?’ Connal asked.
MacTire inclined his head. ‘I consulted the thegn Masters and they gave me the Skil. Do you know of it? I don’t suppose you would. It is a blade whose steel was forged in the blood of our forefathers. It's cut is said to sever the mating ties of our kind.’
Connal’s eyes flared. ‘And does it work?’
‘I never found out. I followed Aoife to the arena on the night of the Blód-Samhain. And yes, we argued, because she didn't believe me. When I drew the blade, she saw it as a threat to her and the child. She snapped. Right there on the sands, she shifted, and the outcome was disastrous. The child was swaddled too tightly in her robes. He was crushed by her wolf form. By the time she realised what was happening and shifted back, it was already too late for Quillan. Aoife took the dagger from me. I thought she meant to break the bond herself. Instead, she used it to take her own life.'
Connal’s breaths were shallow and a tic worked the corner of his left eye. 'But you released the untame.'
'I did,’ MacTire’s face was grim. ‘I wanted to spare her and her family the shame. There is no crime more heinous to a Fomorian than infanticide. I thought, if I made it look like an accident ...'
Connal shook his head, hands curled into fists on the table. 'How can I believe you? After all this time, after everything?'
'Rún was there that night. He will corroborate every last detail. I never wanted them to die. I never wanted us to be at war.'
The heavy weight of silence settled over them. Elbows on the table, Connal tunneled his hands through what remained of his hair. 'But you hold me responsible for the genocide,’ he said. ‘You wanted me dead, you ordered my execution.'
'What choice did you leave me, Brother? You set those beasts on innocents, you turned your back on us, you hunted my men ... can you blame me for hating you?
'I never knew.’ Connal’s intense grey eyes lifted to MacTire’s as he shook his head. ‘I swear to you, I never knew the Morrígan’s plan. She promised to raise the dead. I thought she meant Aoife and the child. I was a fucking idiot, and by the time I realised, it was too late to stop it. I'm not proud of what I did. There was no going back. She enslaved me, and yes, I hunted for her, but only the wolves that chose to stray lost their heads to me. I respected Haven law, and the thralls were mercy killings.’
The King rocked back in his chair, wide-eyed. ‘Would that you had come to me then ...’
‘You wouldn’t have believed me if I had.’
MacTire nodded slowly. They both knew the collective grief of the pack would have killed on sight and asked questions later. ‘A thousand years of animosity can't be just turned on the axis of one fight,’ the King extended his arm across the table, ‘but you have my gratitude.’
Connal’s expression tightened, his eyes fixed on MacTire’s offered hand of friendship. His own arm was leaden. He had to take what the King offered, but doing so would feel more like marking him for death than a handshake. ‘What I did, I did for Ash. Not for you,’ Connal said.
‘Nonetheless, I would have you call me Brother, and mean it. One day, perhaps.’ MacTire’s smile was warm as he clasped Connal’s forearm in an affirming grip. Connal’s was grim as he returned the gesture.
‘Hi.’ Ash's voice was sleepy from where she was blinking at them in the doorway. Connal's heart leapt at the sight she made, bed-rumpled and clad in one of his shirts, a gentle flush illuminating her pale cheeks. The two men jumped apart, distancing themselves, but her drowsy eyes lit up with a stirring tenderness. She'd seen. ‘I don’t mean to interrupt,’ she smiled, ‘but I think there’s somebody at the door.’
BACK TO FORM
Standing i
n her front garden, surrounded by the other wolves, Ash frowned at the vehicle as it pulled up to the gates. It even looked like a prison van. Shiny and black, it was a state of the art model, a pimped-out truck with blocky sides, small windows and giant wheels. The thegn driving it hopped out to spring open the back doors. Hands cuffed at the base of his spine, Fite was led up from Connal’s basement by a brace of burly bodyguards. As they forced his head down, preparing to bundle him inside the van, the silver-haired wolf noticed Ash, and turned to pin her in the ice of his green-rimmed stare.
‘I do not see why she has to come. We do not need a farewell wave,’ he hissed, each word blade-edged.
Ash cocked a brow. She opened her mouth to answer, but MacTire beat her to it.
‘Ashling will come. If the Morrígan reneges on her promise, she will be close enough to sanctuary.’
She could see the animosity bristle up the curve of Fite’s spine.
‘It’s only a precaution, right?’ Ash said. Her gaze went to the moon, full and bright in the sky. ‘There’s no reason for the Morrígan to renege. She’s my grandmother.’ She turned her face up to Connal, but finding no reassurance in the hard set of his jaw, her tentative smile evaporated.
The guards went to work securing their prisoner inside the van. There was a caged-off area inside, suited to the purpose. Ash didn’t realise how on edge she was under Fite’s stare until it left her and she relaxed. A convoy of vehicles followed behind, and pretty soon Ash’s house was swarming with Mac’s elite, thegn, clean-up team.
Tyr and the other rebels emerged next, all cuffed, heads hung low in reluctant submission. The cage barriers were secured and then the rest of the wolves filed obediently in. It must have been a regular occurrence, as they slotted onto the benches, clicking on safety belts and settling down, unconcerned.
Ash hesitated, looking down the long line of enclosed bodies and mesh lockers. If they turned on her in such a small place, she’d have trouble defending herself. Mac sat alone on the opposite side, a furrow in his brow, his eyes on the circle of the moon shining through the small window.