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

by Michele Bardsley

  He lay there, helpless, thoughts whirling. The healing was nigh on complete by dawn. The moment he could move his limbs, he went searching for her. He had so many questions. Why did you leave me? Why did you come back? Who are you accusing of my murder? He worried that she’d confronted the fiend on her own and landed in trouble. She followed her heart absolutely, common sense be damned.

  For weeks, he grieved. Then he went to the dragonwitch and begged the crone to give him some hope. Hope, he said, or he would join his sweet Clíona in death.

  And now his patience had paid off.

  The fact she’d sought him while entranced was proof enough. She’d sought him out like she always had when she needed his comfort, his reassurance. She was a strong woman. Only with him would she allow herself to be vulnerable, to show weakness.

  And to a dragon no less.

  God, how he’d mourned her death.

  Their last parting pained him still. Tonight, he would begin his apology to her. Seek her forgiveness. Show her his eternal love.

  Her small hands fluttered around his shoulders as if unsure where to land. He clasped them and gently pushed her against the bed. Her silky hair fanned out against the pillows, and he picked up a strand and rubbed it between his fingers. He leaned forward and inhaled. It smelled of lavender and mint—the same scents she’d used to wash it so long ago.

  She moaned. Her eyes closed, her mind lost in dreams and memories, she sought his comfort, his love.

  Tear tracks marred her pale cheeks. He kissed away those remnants of sorrow then covered her mouth with his own. She returned his kisses with desperation that spoke of her love for him, of her need for him.

  His heart rejoiced.

  “Clíona,” he whispered against her lips.

  “Áillen.” His name was a sigh. “Love me.”

  “I cannot. You are…” he sought the right word “…unwell.”

  Her mouth curved into a luscious pout, and her American accent turned into a flirtatious Irish brogue. “What would you be knowin’ about my health?” Her smile turned sly. “Have you inspected all of me body? Just t’ be sure?”

  He laughed, and the tension crowding his chest released. How he had missed her impudence!

  Stretching like a lithe cat, she wound her arms around his neck. “Love me,” she demanded.

  “I will give you pleasure, beloved,” he acquiesced. He hesitated, though, because even though his wife asked him for lovemaking, the woman now in his bed was not his wife. Not yet. The dragonwitch had warned him that human souls were memory-less entities. The present Shannon and the past Clíona had to merge together and become one…thus, the need for the potion and the ritual.

  “Áillen?”

  He pushed away his doubts. Shannon would not remember anything that happened here this eve as real. No, she’d believe it to be a dream. He wanted her so much. She felt so wonderful in his arms. His dragon ruled his heart, his passions. All the same, he would not take her body, but he would bring her to orgasm.

  Her pleasure would be his pleasure.

  She wore a thin T-shirt and running shorts, easily breached barriers. His hand slid under her shirt until he felt the firmness of her breast. His fingers trembled as he cupped the tender weight in his hand. His breath shallow with excitement, he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It hardened, the tight bud an unbearable temptation.

  Patience, Áillen. Patience.

  He pushed up her shirt. His heart thudded erratically. Sweat trickled down his neck. Eight hundred years of waiting had taken its toll. And now his love, his only love, lay before him, a feast for a starving man.

  The deep coral of her areolas and the dusty tips of her nipples beckoned him. Grasping one breast, he leaned forward and swirled his tongue around the nipple, teasing it with light, quick licks until his love’s soft moans begged him for more.

  He took the taut peak into his mouth and suckled.

  She cried out, shoved her hands into his hair, and pressed him closer still.

  He moved to her other breast, kissing the underside before tasting the areola.

  Patience.

  His lips clamped her nipple and sucked it with the same intensity he’d devoted to the other.

  His hard cock strained against the interior of his jeans. The rasp of the rough material against his flesh made him sensitive to Clíona’s squirming beneath him.

  It had been too long.

  He didn’t want to stop…

  He shuddered with desire, stalling the deep need to ravish her, to show her right now how much she meant to him.

  He seated himself between her thighs, his jean-clad cock pressed against her sex—protected only by the thin material of her shorts.

  He moved.

  Slowly.

  Clíona had no such compunction.

  She grabbed his hips and writhed against him, her rocking strokes short, frantic, and torturous.

  She bucked against him, her hands fisting against his buttocks. “Áillen!”

  He felt the rise of his own pleasure, the bare edge of an orgasm threatening. He teased her nipple, matched her strokes, and enjoyed his woman, his very heart, for the first time in eight centuries.

  Her scream of completion was scant seconds before his orgasm claimed him. He cried out, jerking hard and painfully against the confine of his jeans. As guilt slashed at his conscience, he rolled to the side, tucked Clíona into the crook of his arm, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Are you angry with me, Áillen?”

  Aiden’s breath lodged in his throat. Grief crushed him, so much so, that for a moment, he couldn’t quite speak. Finally, he said, “No.” His voice broke. “Never.”

  His heart clenched. Was she remembering their last argument? The reason she left him? But her love for him had been stronger than her pride. Had she not put away her hurt and his betrayal to rescue him? He’d been a fool to let her go. She was his muse, his light, his soulmate. Only together were they strong enough to face the challenges of life and love.

  “You are my heart,” she said.

  “And you are mine.”

  She cried, curling into his chest and giving voice to her despair. He held her; regret spearing him relentlessly for using her, for hurting her, for taking the woman’s body that was not yet his.

  Her sobs quieted, and her grip relaxed. He wanted to heal her wounded spirit, but all he could do was caress her back and murmur soothing nonsense. When her tears were spent and sleep claimed her, he kissed her brow and prayed she would be free of nightmares.

  He had two weeks to strengthen their bond before he had to reveal the truth. Before he had to ask her to give her life as Shannon…

  To become the Raven Maiden Clíona.

  And once again to save the dragon of Clonakilty.

  4

  SHANNON FELT LIKE she’d been on an all-night drunk. Her limbs trembled, her mouth felt like she’d swallowed a whole bag of cotton, and she’d slept like the dead.

  Now she felt like the dead.

  One vague dream haunted her. In it, she and Aiden were together in bed, exchanging words of love and gestures of passion. Probably a side effect of the bodice-ripper novel she’d bought at the airport gift bookstore and read on the long plane ride to Ireland.

  Been here one friggin’ day and I’m already having fantasy sex with the gorgeous Aiden Kearney.

  Feeling shaky, jetlag no doubt, Shannon left her room. The hallway tilted—or rather she did. Groaning, she clutched the wall and rested her cheek against the rough stone, contemplating the idea of going back to bed.

  Just until her headache went away.

  Alas, the mysterious Aiden Kearney wanted to take her on a tour of the castle and the excavation area. The housekeeper, Mrs. Calhoun, a doughy woman with button-black eyes and a habit of clucking her tongue whilst giving unwanted advice, had awoken her.

  Not even a shower and the strong coffee brought by Mrs. Calhoun had made Shannon feel better. Dressi
ng had been a chore, too. She ditched her bra and slid into a cream-colored sundress with spaghetti straps before she shoved her feet into a pair of heelless sandals. Forget make-up and fancy hair-dos, too. She barely had the energy to brush a single strand, much less wrestle her too-long hair into submission. Right now, she didn’t care if she looked scary enough to frighten a banshee.

  “Maidin mhaith, grá mo chroi.”

  “What?” Shannon asked, startled at his presence. Even so, Aiden’s resonant voice brought an instant smile to her face. She turned and found him leaning against the opposite wall. Good lord. Had he gotten even more handsome?

  “I wished you a good morning.”

  He straightened, his gaze on hers as he crossed the hall. He lifted his hand, presumably to touch her face, and stopped. Why had he felt compelled to touch her face? Attraction stretched between them. She couldn’t deny the connection but his gaze held sorrow. What could make such a powerful man so sad?

  “Feeling rough, Ms. Bram?” he asked.

  “Afraid so.” His mouth was beautiful. Perfect. She loved how it crooked up on the right when he was deep in thought, and how he’d use his tongue to wet his bottom lip before... Oh God, she was fantasizing again, but damn, the fantasy had seemed so real. She shook away the weird thoughts. “Please call me Shannon.”

  “Shannon.”

  He said her name in a way that sent shivers through her. She swallowed the nervous knot forming in her throat.

  “Call me Aiden.”

  Heavens! The way he affected her should’ve terrified her to bits—she’d never felt this kind of pull to another human being. Her body responded to his in a way that should have been impossible for two strangers. Shannon craved Aiden Kearney’s touch like she normally craved chocolate. Her flesh tightened under his intense gaze, and her nipples drew into hard nubs against the soft rub of sundress fabric. His eyes drifted to the sharp points, and she groaned at his appraising glance. Áillen. The name of the ancient warrior rang in her mind. Without thinking, she stepped into his arms. His eyes reminded her of a tiger’s, intelligent, predatory, hungry. He knew her heart. Saw into her soul. Offered her a promise of—what am I doing?

  She jumped back as if his skin had turned acidic. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  “Well, it’s not a Tuesday if at least one beautiful woman doesn’t jump into me arms.” He offered her a wicked smile, and her belly felt as though a thousand butterflies fluttered within.

  Her lips twitched. “I’m sure they line up at the door just for the opportunity.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said. “Clonakilty has a long memory.”

  “How so?”

  Aiden straightened. “It’s an even longer story, Shannon.” He gallantly gave her his arm, so she took it.

  As they walked down the wide stone steps, she enjoyed the palpable strength of Aiden’s muscled bicep. He pointed to the huge paintings on the wall. “Are you familiar with the legend of the dragon and the maiden?”

  “I know the myth well. It’s one of the reasons I applied for the Kearney grant.” God, she felt fuzzy headed. Maybe she just needed more caffeine. She tried to gather her wits and concentrate on Aiden’s words. She looked at him through her lashes. “It seems the locals are under the impression you don’t like the legend.”

  “I don’t.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  “Will you admit that you are related to Áillen mac Kearney?”

  He stopped midway on the staircase and stared at her. “You’ve searched the family lineage, have you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “So are you basing your query on facts you uncovered?”

  “On a working theory, I hope to prove with my archeological finds.”

  “Do you believe in dragons, Shannon?” he asked as they continued down the stairs.

  “Of course not.” But even as she said it, a niggling doubt tickled at the back of her memories. She locked down the lofty emotion. “But I believe Áillen and Clíona were real.”

  Aiden’s step faltered for a second, and he seemed genuinely startled by her declaration. Shannon hid a smile. He’d been throwing her off balance since they’d met the day before, and it was nice to know she could do the same to him.

  When they reached the end of the staircase, she released his arm and felt an immediate and keen loss. She resisted the urge to grab onto him and hold him tightly. Why did she feel so anxious whenever Aiden was out of reach?

  What’s wrong with me?

  Shannon took a steadying breath and followed him into the dining room, where he seated her to the left of the head of a long, beautifully carved cherry wood table. He took the master’s seat. A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. “The dragon and the raven maiden is a tragedy—true love rent asunder by betrayal.”

  “You’re a romantic.”

  “I wasn’t always.”

  She accepted the coffee poured by Mrs. Calhoun. The older woman flashed a look at Aiden, and she watched him nod slightly to the housekeeper. The older woman put the silver pot near Shannon and left the room, the sound of her sturdy black shoes thudding against the floor in a way that suggested she wasn’t too happy about the silent request to leave.

  “She reminds me of Mrs. Danvers.”

  Aiden chuckled. “She’s not a bad sort. Just set in her ways.”

  She spread jam on her toast. She wanted nothing more than to talk with Aiden, but every time she tried, the words failed her. She had a thousand questions about him, the dig site, the town, the legend, but none that she could verbalize.

  “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

  Shannon laughed but stifled it when she saw the serious expression on Aiden’s face. She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe in reincarnation. I don’t believe in fairies, monsters, ghosts, or witches.”

  “Or dragons.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I wish dragons were real.”

  Aiden studied her, his gold eyes asking questions she didn’t understand. “Maybe dragons are the same as love.”

  “A fantasy?”

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  “Love is real,” she insisted.

  “Mmm.”

  “The people thought Clíona was a witch, right?”

  “So the legend goes,” said Aiden. “She lived with her grandmother, who was also known as a witch—and a very powerful healer. They had a small cottage in the woods near this castle. Supposedly, Áillen hunted her down one night because he believed she was responsible for poisoning his sister. She was very ill. He believed she’d been cursed.”

  “I don’t remember this part.”

  “Because it is not particularly well known.”

  Shannon blinked and felt suddenly dizzy again. An image fluttered to the surface of her mind…

  “Remove the curse, witch, or I’ll remove your head.”

  Her heart leaped in fear, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how he terrified her. Grandmother told her no one escaped fate. If hers was to die by this man’s hand, then so be it.

  “If I’d cursed you, Áillen mac Kearney, you wouldn’t be standin’ in front me swingin’ about that fancy sword.” She tossed back her thick, blonde hair and put a hand on her hip. “If you don’t go now, I’ll turn you into a frog.”

  “A frog?” Aiden’s bemused tone startled Shannon out of her fogged thoughts. “You just told me how you didn’t believe in witches. How do you plan on turning me into a frog?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I never said—” She realized her tone sounded biting and disrespectful. “My apologies. I’m afraid the long trip has destroyed my manners.” And my sanity, she thought. If she told him about imagining Áillen and Clíona’s meeting, he’d find the nearest insane asylum and drop her off at the front door. To keep her hands busy, she refreshed her coffee and added a dollop of cream. She needed a bigger dose of caffeine. She felt so tired as if she hadn’t slept at all. Damn. The coffee was too hot. She pu
t down the cup and licked her singed lips then picked up her toast.

  Aiden watched her nibble the toast with such a ravenous gaze; she had the distinct feeling he wanted to nibble her. She cleared her throat. “Uh, so, what’s next, Aiden?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  She bet he did. A small thrill ran through her belly ending in a flutter. She placed her palm flat against her stomach to calm her charged libido. “What?”

  “The beginning of an 800-year-old legend.”

  5

  SHANNON STARED AT the portrait. The woman lounged on a beautiful red chaise. A man who looked very much Aiden stood behind her with one hand on her smooth, white shoulder. Both of their gazes held looks of joyful possession. She envied them. She touched the ornate frame.

  Electricity sparked through her. She closed her eyes and swayed. When she felt his hand on her waist, everything became clear.

  She opened her eyes and found herself staring at their finished portrait. Áillen had teased her and tickled her—trying to make her move when the artist insisted they remain still.

  “It’s amazin’ we got a portrait finished with all your play,” she said, looking at Áillen through her lashes.

  A flash of surprise lit his eyes and for a moment Clíona saw the face of the man who looked like Áillen, but his clothes were strange, and their favorite room had been filled with items she didn’t recognize.

  She shivered against the odd sensations and felt the arms of her love surround her, protect her, add his strength to hers. As always, the delicious buzz of need zipped through her. Their couplings satisfied her beyond her wildest expectations, but her thirst for Áillen was unquenchable, her appetite always ravenous when near him.

  She turned in his arms and kissed him, mating her tongue with his, reveling in his groans of desire. “Take me,” she whispered, hitching up her dress.