The Pack Rules Boxed Set: The Complete Series of Wolf, Bear, and Dragon Shifter Romances

by Michele Bardsley

  “I do,” she said. “I was so scared, babe. The thought of losing you…it was too much. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m just glad we have a second chance. Together, we can conquer anything.” He kissed her fingertips, the heat of his lips more healing than the meds dripping through her IV. “I love you, Hope.”

  She looked at him, her heart full. “I love you, too, Gabe.”

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  Michele Bardsley is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of paranormal romance. When she’s not writing sexy tales of otherworldly love, she watches “Supernatural,” consumes chocolate, crochets hats, reads on her Kindle, and spends time with her husband and their fur babies.

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  The Dragon’s Wife

  1

  SHANNON BRAM STEPPED out of the limousine, her hiking boots touching the earth that had once belonged to Áillen mac Kearney if the legend of the fire-breathing warrior was to be believed. Her little archeologist’s soul wanted more than anything to find proof that Áillen was not some pub-born legend, but in fact, a real man who deserved a place in history.

  “Welcome to Cloghnykyltye. She’s the biggest jewel in Clonakilty’s crown,” said the limousine driver with pride. He flourished an arm toward the foreboding castle that stood on a small rise. “It’s also known as Cloch nag Coillte. That’s Gaelic for the Castle of the Woods.”

  It was an accurate description, given the thick, tangled forest surrounding the lonely-looking fortress. Dark clouds hovered above. A chill wind swept across the craggy hillside, rattling the stiff grass. The breeze stroked Shannon’s face with cold, witchy fingers.

  She shivered.

  Shannon looked at the driver, who merely gave her the same bland smile he offered when he’d picked her up from the Cork Airport. After he’d placed her suitcases in the limo’s trunk, he encouraged her to enjoy a selection of snacks and beverages and then put on soothing classical music—no doubt to allay any questions. So, she’d been left alone with her doubts. During the hour-long drive to this place, those doubts had turned into hungry, little monsters that nibbled viciously at her confidence.

  Why me?

  Out of all the archeologists who’d applied for the Kearney grant, she should’ve been one of the last considered. She was barely done with college and had only one full season under her belt digging for dinosaur bones in the Arizona desert. Thanks to a favor owed by the friend of a friend, it had been the only gig she could get with no experience. She’d taken the job and sweated her ass off dusting sand from the bones of extinct animals.

  Shannon’s true passion was historical archeology, in particular, the medieval cultures that existed in Ireland between 1200 and 1400 CE. The most fascinating part of that era was the supposed fiery rule of Áillen mac Kearney, half-man, half-beast, and all temper. According to legend, a maiden named Clíona tamed the savage of Clonakilty. Reputedly, her beauty was only rivaled by her tender heart, and Shannon fantasized about the glorious romance that must have existed between the two of them.

  Unfortunately, no one in the archeological field put much stock in the legend or the romance. Despite a statue dedicated to Áillen and Clíona’s true and tragic love, along with hundreds of years of oral traditions, there was a larger belief in the leprechauns than in a fire-breathing lord. Not even the Kearney family claimed the man as an ancestor, and Shannon was sure he had a direct connection to their bloodline.

  The driver retrieved Shannon’s bags and put them on the stone pathway that curled toward the massive front doors. She eyed the distance to the castle and estimated she was in for at least a ten-minute hike. Good thing she’d worn sensible shoes and her luggage had wheels.

  “It has another name, doesn’t it?”

  “What, miss?”

  “The castle. Dragain Cuthaigh.”

  The driver paused, his young face revealing shock. “You speak Gaelic?”

  “Not really. But I’ve researched the area quite a bit.”

  “You might want to avoid mentionin’ Dragain Cuthaigh to Mr. Kearney. He’s not fond of the way people tell the tale of the ragin’ dragon.”

  “Why not? It’s a wonderful story.”

  The driver slammed the trunk. “Except the part where the Raven Maiden drowns. We don’t need any more sorrows ‘round here, miss. Not even the made-up kind.” The young man tugged his cap down. “Need help gettin’ to Cloghnykyltye?”

  His words quivered with nervousness. She looked at him sharply and realized he wasn’t at all comfortable. Was it the castle’s purported ghosts that made him restless? Or the fearsome reputation of Aiden Kearney? Mr. Kearney was a recluse, and he never let anyone who didn’t work for him onto his property. Ever. The fact he had openly sought an archeologist to excavate his family lands had set the entire world abuzz, at least, the entire world of medieval archeologists and historians.

  “I can take it from here,” Shannon said. “Thank you.”

  Relief flooded the driver’s expression. He tugged his cap once more and slid into the limo. The sleek black car disappeared down the craggy, twisted road. At this elevation, she could see the town of Clonakilty and hoped she would be able to visit soon. She’d read about its history, of course, but she wanted to explore the nooks and crannies that so often told the real stories of towns and the people who had lived in them.

  She opened the invitation and read it again, even though she’d long since memorized it.

  Shannon,

  I have chosen you out of nearly 1,800 applicants for the chance to excavate Kearney’s private lands.

  The strong scrawl on the thick cream paper seemed so familiar to her—she’d probably read it so many times she began to feel as though it was part of her own past. For the last three months, they’d e-mailed each other. He’d always been polite and impersonal—asking detailed questions, not only about her application but also about her personal life.

  Are you married? (No.) Have you ever had children? (No.) Who are your parents? (Gary and Karen Bram, technically my uncle and aunt. My biological mother died a month after I was born. Uncle Gary was her brother, and he and his wife adopted me.)

  Some might consider his queries intrusive, yet she hadn’t minded. Nothing to hide—and nothing to lose. Besides, the questions had probably been standard for all the candidates in order to gauge their level of commitment to the project.

  She must have answered right, because two days ago, a FedEx package arrived at Shannon’s apartment, and to her surprise, she found this handwritten note, a plane ticket, and instructions about her transportation to his ancestral home.

  You will be allowed to excavate one section of the Kearney lands. I promise you that this parcel has many intriguing possibilities. You will have two weeks and full autonomy to complete your exhumation of my property.

  He hadn’t given her much time. It was mid-October. If she began the dig tomorrow, her last day to process the site would be Halloween.

  I am compelled to tell you that if you come to Ireland and claim this opportunity, your life will change in ways you cannot possibly know.

  He felt compelled to tell her? Her life would change in ways she couldn’t know? The wind howled as if giving voice to her distress. It whipped about her, loosening her hair from its clip. The strands tickled her neck, and she swept them away. Her gaze riveted to the most intriguing sentence in the letter.

  I will be waiting for y
ou.

  And I for you, love. Shannon blinked. Where had that thought come from? Wow. The jet lag was already getting to her. That, and not eating anything in the last twelve hours. She glanced at the end of the note.

  Ever Yours,

  Aiden Kearney

  Ever Yours. What an odd way for him to sign off.

  “Miss Bram.”

  The deep voice startled Shannon. She’d been staring at the note more than the castle so the man could have been making his way down the hill, but surely she would have seen him before now. He had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

  As he drew near, Shannon’s heart thundered in her chest. The man was gorgeous. Broad-shouldered and nicely muscled—if the fit of his jeans was any indication—and the kind of chiseled good looks that belonged to Celtic gods. That face. Beautiful. Familiar. Square jaw, sharp cheekbones, amber eyes. I know you. A mess of mahogany brown hair curled around the upturned collar of his coat. He stopped in front her, his gaze filled with trepidation.

  Her thoughts swirled, and she felt dizzy. Yes, she knew him. Somehow, she knew this man she’d never met. She couldn’t look away from his amber eyes, and she imagined she saw them darken, saw fire flare in his black pupils.

  “Shannon, is it?” He stretched out a hand, and she shook it, marveling at the gentle strength in those tapered fingers. “Call me Aiden.”

  “Aiden?” His name was a query, but she didn’t understand why she’d made it into a question. His creamy chocolate voice was made all the better by the lyrical quality of his Irish accent. She wondered how many women regularly swooned at his feet.

  “My housekeeper Mrs. Calhoun has prepared tea for us in the main living room.”

  A cup of coffee sounded better than tea, but all she really wanted to do was collapse onto a bed and sleep. She felt so terribly tired. Shannon’s knees buckled, and the next thing she knew, she was crumpling. Aiden caught her and easily scooped her into his arms. She clutched at his shoulders, her eyes on his. Grief invaded her; her limbs felt weighted down, her heart filled with loss. She fought an unaccountable desire to cry. Not just to cry, but to wail.

  “Shannon?”

  The despair deepened. Her breath left her body in a whoosh as tears scalded her cheeks. A buzzing droned in her ears, and Shannon felt suddenly woozy. She’d fainted before, so she knew the signs. Her vision darkened, her limbs going loose. From far away, she heard her own voice say, “I did not betray you, love. I’d die a thousand deaths rather than harm even a single hair on your stubborn head.”

  Just before she passed out, she felt Aiden nuzzle her cheek and whisper, “I know, a chuisle mo chroí. I know.”

  2

  THE CORRIDORS HID untold dangers. Her life was in peril, but fear for her husband propelled her down the dark passage. She knew the way well, and thank Brigid for that because she dared not use any source of light. She couldn’t risk being found by Aithne. The woman had made it quite clear what would happen to the village if Clíona did not obey her insidious command.

  Oh, this damnable love! She could no more control her heart’s longings than she could control the moon and the stars. She had to know Áillen was all right. She’d only believe it if she saw him with her own eyes. Her head ached, her throat clogged. Grief shrouded her, and she cursed herself once more for leaving him. Aithne’s blackmail had been effective, and though it cleaved her heart in two, she had disappeared from the castle and hadn’t returned.

  Not until now.

  Clíona made it to the door. Her heart pounded, her palms slickened with sweat. She only needed to check on him. Rumors spread thick as honey that he’d been sick, sick enough to make people whisper about the plague.

  She shuddered. The sickness hadn’t come to Clonakilty … had it?

  She entered her husband’s bedchamber and shut the door behind her. The light of the dying fire offered some visibility. Relief weakened her knees.

  Just check on him and be on your way.

  Her husband slept on his stomach. The coverlet concealed him from the waist down, but she knew every battle scar, every muscle, and every wicked line on his body. For a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of gazing at him.

  Fear chilled her.

  Surely he breathed!

  She rushed forward, caring not if she woke him and invoked his wrath. But he did not stir. She tugged on his shoulder—still he didn’t wake. Grabbing his arm, she managed to roll him over. His beautiful eyes stared unseeing at the stone ceiling.

  Blood covered his chest, the furs, and his scarred warrior’s body. No breath. No heartbeat.

  No! This was not the plague. This was something worse. Not a random act of the divine, but an intentionally cruel act of man.

  No! No! No!

  An ungodly wail echoed in the room.

  “ÁILLEN!” SHANNON BRAM rushed into Aiden’s bedroom, her eye wild. Something about her bespoke a torment so deep he thought it might shatter his soul.

  “I’m here, love,” he said automatically. He scrambled from where he’d sat working at his desk, surprised when she fell into his arms, sobbing. “I’m right here.”

  “I am lost.”

  He scooped her up and set her down on his bed. Her keening cut him to shreds. In the throes of the nightmare, she’d remembered her past life. The life that had led her to him. The modern day woman probably didn’t realize she’d come to his room and curled into his arms like a frightened kitten. The fire in the hearth crackled, the flickering light shadowing her beautiful face, so much like... “Oh the gods, Clíona. I never thought I’d find you.”

  “You were dead.”

  “I can’t be killed, love.”

  Eyes closed, still in the throes of memories made into dreams, she whispered, “I saw the blood. All that blood.” She clutched at him obviously still reliving the moment she’d found his body in this room, in this castle, so many centuries before. The sword that pierced his heart had not killed him. But the wound had been severe enough that healing had taken time. Once he’d healed, he immediately went to search for the human who’d tried to kill him.

  Instead, he found something much, much worse.

  “Áillen.”

  “I’m here, mo choi. Forever yours.”

  Tears fell, dripping down her cheeks like rain, and then her mouth sought his. Blind in her need and gripped by horrors perpetrated more than eight centuries before, she sought his comfort.

  He could not deny her.

  Aiden tasted her lips. Ah, how familiar the curve of her mouth. He sipped gently. Her sweetness filled him, and he was reminded of that first kiss he’d shared with her so very long ago. Is it really you? He pulled away and stroked her hair. She turned her face and nuzzled his palm. So like Clíona. He recognized little things about her—the shape and amber color of her eyes were nearly the same. So was the way the left side of her mouth tilted higher than the other when she smiled. Her hair was dark blonde, the tresses barely touching her shoulders. Eight hundred years ago, she’d sported long white-blonde locks that reached past her buttocks. He had relished the chore of brushing out the tangles, usually because he was the one responsible for creating them in the first place.

  Aiden smiled.

  He had the Moon Pack alpha to thank for finding Shannon Bram. How the werewolf had managed to find the girl was something of a miracle. And when Aiden had received the pictures of her—and got the details of her interests and her career, he’d had his first hope in centuries that Clíona had been reborn.

  Until this moment, he’d feared the dragonwitch’s prophecy had been untrue.

  You will find her again when the world no longer believes in dragons.

  Aiden hadn’t imagined there would ever be a time that the world would stop believing in his kind. But they had. Creatures that had once ruled both land and sky had been killed off by the thousands until only a very few remained. In an effort to stave off extinction, dragons had transformed themselves to look like men and women as a way to blend in with
the human populations. By the time he’d come to Clonakilty more than 800 years ago, he and his siblings were nearly the last of their species, only able to survive by hiding their true and powerful natures.

  He had kept his land and castle by “dying” every seventy or eighty years and inheriting the land as the “only son” of the previous owner. Humans and their pain-in-the-ass rules.

  His gaze roved over Shannon’s face. She wasn’t the same, not exactly, but the echoes of the woman he’d loved for centuries were there.

  She who tamed the beast of Clonakilty

  Slumbers beneath waters silty

  Mourn the Raven Maiden one and all

  For she caused the great dragon’s fall

  The town burned

  The lesson learned

  If you wish to see the morrow

  Ne’er speak of Kearney’s sorrow

  3

  AFTER HIS WIFE had been found dead in the cavern beneath the castle, Aithne had tried to convince him that Clíona had sent one of her cousins to kill him and then drowned herself. She was crazed, Áillen. She blamed you for the babe’s loss. She’s frail in mind and body. What did you expect—mating with a human?

  His stepsister Aithne hadn’t known that Clíona had been utterly devastated by finding his body. Healing from the monstrous stabbing to his heart and organs took many hours. Killing dragons took a specific skill set and knowledge that had been lost even in that time—and no one in the modern world knew the ways. That was one advantage to being relegated to myth. As a fictional being, he was safe from arrogant assholes looking to make reputations by hanging a dragon’s hide on their castle walls.

  He’d been attacked less than an hour before Clíona found him. Though he could hear and see her, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even blink or force air into his chest. After she’d sobbed herself limp, she’d gotten herself under control and began searching the room. He didn’t know what clue she’d found, but after a while, she’d kissed his brow and whispered, “I shall avenge you. I love you, dragon.”