She’d done this to herself. Her parents had warned her, but she’d been young and headstrong and fancied herself in love. Alas, it had only been reckless lust that had driven her into the arms of John Graham. They’d married, and after a year of living off the charity of his widespread family, traveling from home to resentful home, Kenna had fallen out of love with him. After two years, she’d fallen out of lust. And after three, he’d died, and she’d had nothing. Not even pride.
Now she had food, at least.
When she set a serving of stew before the red-faced drover who’d shouted for her earlier, his thick fingers crept beneath her arm to twist her nipple. She only halfheartedly banged his knuckles with the tray before turning away.
“Well worth the punishment,” he crowed to his chortling friends before giving her rump a painful squeeze. Kenna ignored him and served the next table. Two pinches and one rub later, she was down to her last trencher.
For the first time since he’d started coming to the inn, Kenna didn’t look at the MacLain when she approached his table. She only pushed the stew toward him and turned away.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a movement of his hand and jumped forward. If even MacLain began to paw at her tonight…Kenna blinked back tears and fled toward the narrow passage that led to the yard.
This wasn’t the first time that regret had overwhelmed her. She just needed a moment. Just a moment of quiet in the clear air of the corridor. Cold wind sneaked beneath the crooked door that led to the horse yard and stable. It carried the faint scent of manure, but the air was crisp and smelled of rain, and she dropped down to her haunches and laid her forehead to her knees to draw a deep breath.
She’d long ago ceased to imagine that her life was simply a bad dream from which she’d awaken. No, she no longer hoped to open her eyes in her fine, warm feather bed and go downstairs to break her fast with her family. Her father had disowned her for running off with a wastrel. So now she was only Kenna Graham, serving wench, and sometimes the reality of it was too much to bear. But only for a few moments. Even regret was a luxury now, and best saved for those moments before sleep overtook her.
A footstep whispered against the packed earth at the start of the passageway. “Lass?” a voice said.
Kenna cringed and took a deep breath. Time to get back to it.
“Mistress Kenna?”
That brought her head up. In this place, only Angus called her by her Christian name, and that was not his voice. She squinted against the dim. The faint light of the great room was blocked out by the man. When he shifted, the firelight caught his profile, and Kenna gasped and scrambled to her feet.
The MacLain.
“You did not look well.” His deep voice rumbled over her as he stepped closer. His shoulders brushed the rough wood as he walked. His body did not quite fit here. “Is aught wrong?”
“Nay,” she whispered. “I’m well.”
“You seem troubled.”
She could smell him now, a scent that reminded her of snow, it was so cool and pure. “How do you know my name?”
He stopped only a foot from her and frowned as if she’d said something odd. “I’ve heard it spoken by the innkeeper.”
Simple enough, she supposed, but why would he remember it?
“Why are you weeping, Mistress Kenna?”
She shook her head to deny it even as she raised the apron to swipe at her face. How embarrassing to be caught here like a moody child denied a treat. “I must return. I’ll be missed.”
Though she started to push past him, there was no easy route, and when he turned to give her room, Kenna found herself pushed against the wall and facing a very warm man. His hand rose and he set his fingers lightly beneath her jaw.
“Why are you not afraid of me?”
Pleasure seemed to emanate from his fingertips and spread down her throat like droplets of water trailing over her skin. “Should I be?” she whispered.
“Yes, you should be.”
The trailing pleasure slipped lower, tightening parts of her body that had spent long months in slumber.
The MacLain’s eyelids dropped. His gaze fell to her mouth, and Kenna realized she’d parted her lips to catch her breath. Nervous and too aware of his attention, she licked her lips, and his shoulders tightened.
His head lowered slowly, slowly, as if he were waiting to be stopped. She would have stopped him. Should have. But he was giving her a choice in this, offering her time to escape, and that made her want it.
That strange scent of snow clung to his skin. Kenna breathed it in as his lips brushed hers. And that was all it was. Before he’d even truly kissed her, MacLain raised his head and took a deep breath. Her mouth tingled.
“What are you doing here, lass?”
“I…I just wanted a moment alone.”
“Nay, I mean what are you doing here, in this place?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You don’t belong here. That’s why the men won’t leave you be.”
Kenna pressed her back harder to the wall, trying to put a little distance between them. “They won’t leave me be because I have breasts and an arse.”
His chuckle shook through her belly and trembled her bones. “True enough.”
Her heart sped up in excitement, and Kenna blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. “Is it true you’re cursed?” The words seemed to come from someone else’s mouth.
His smile vanished. “Aye. I am.”
“I shouldn’t have—” she started, but if she thought she’d angered him, she was clearly wrong. MacLain kissed her again, and this time his lips pressed softly into hers and his tongue teased her lower lip. Startled, Kenna opened for him, and his warmth invaded her.
She would have sighed if she’d had the breath, but he’d stolen it all away. He eased into her, a slow assault that devastated her nerves. She could feel nothing of herself but her mouth where it touched his. And then his tongue as it rubbed against hers. His hands where they cupped her face.
Their bodies were separated by no more than two inches, but he didn’t push himself into her. He didn’t press her to the wall and grind against her.
And when Angus shouted her name loudly enough to rattle the walls, Kenna was struck with grief that the kiss was over.
“Kenna,” MacLain whispered against her cheek. His mouth trailed down to her jaw and whispered over her neck.
For a moment, she refused to open her eyes. She clung to the belt of his plaid and squeezed her eyes shut and imagined they were in a hallway in her father’s home. Later they would dance and flirt and Laird MacLain would lead her to her father and ask for permission to court her.
And that kind of dreaming was exactly the kind of idiocy that had led her to this inn in Larmuir.
Kenna let him go and slid to the side to escape the shadow of his body. “I’d best return,” she murmured and spun to hurry back to the taproom. She heard the door open and glanced back to see him vanish into the yard.
Wiping the last tears from her face, Kenna went back to her work.
Finlay MacLain’s fangs burned like slivers of metal pushed into his jaw. He paced the stable yard and let them descend with a groan of relief. They still throbbed, of course, aching with the need to sink into her body, but that he could bear. He’d learned self-control over the past fifty years, though he’d never faced a challenge like Kenna Graham before.
The woman was a temptation of scents. When she approached his table, she seemed to bring her own air with her, spiced with roses and green grass. It wasn’t soap or perfume, he knew that. Over the years, he’d gleaned hints from conversations with other vampires. Scent had much to do with attraction, and as a vampire, his sense of smell was sending him a blatant signal. Have this woman. Take her. She’s yours.
Kenna Graham was a mate. A woman perfectly suited to his body and his needs.
A mate.
Just the thought of the word terrified him.
He’d been alone for so long. The choice had been his at first, but now it seemed a decree handed down by a higher power. God, perhaps, if he still existed. Or the Devil, as everyone else seemed to think. Either way, there was no room for a woman. His longing for her was already taking up too much space inside his skull and causing him to do foolish things. Like watching her. Following her. Kissing her.
At least he’d so far resisted the need to snap the necks of every man who touched her. It was a near thing each night, and getting harder, but he’d resisted. He hadn’t even stood and shouted a demand that they cease their pawing. Being associated with the MacLain would not help Kenna Graham’s station in life, and it was clear to him that she’d already fallen far.
Her way of speaking suggested an education in a far larger town than Larmuir. He’d even seen her scratch out a few numbers on a table top during a long discussion with the innkeeper.
Kenna did not belong here…but neither did she belong at Castle MacLain. He shouldn’t have kissed her, and he wouldn’t again. She might think her current life low, but Finlay would bring her lower still.
No one should have to live the way he lived.
“One more,” he muttered as he paced the length of the yard and back again. The rain soaked through his shirt, but Finlay didn’t feel the cold. His body simply adjusted to it, dropping down to a lower temperature.
One more murderer and he would be done. His fifty-year hunt would be finished. The monsters who’d killed his family would all be dead. But this last one…This last one would assuage some of his own guilt, too. Surely.
Finlay glanced up at the moon and watched it with a measured eye. Another hour and he’d need to leave, and still no sign of his quarry.
The last week of September. That had been the deal. But Jean was nothing if not smart. As wily as a serpent. And he could likely smell a trap from hundreds of miles away.
“Move, girl!” Angus shouted, giving her a push between the shoulder blades. She would have turned to snarl at him, but she was too tired and still in shock.
The MacLain had kissed her. Quite nicely. If he was cursed by the Devil, the evil hadn’t affected his lips. Nor his hands, which had touched her with such gentleness. How long had it been since anyone had touched her with care?
Frowning, Kenna made her way to a table to set new tankards down. A hand cupped her bottom. She brushed it away. That kiss had thrilled her, jostled her nerves into excitement. But now that her pulse had slowed to its normal pace, she only felt wearier, more exhausted than she’d been in weeks.
“Just let me have a peek of that sweet little kitten,” a thin old man mumbled, his hand closing over her knee. Any other day Kenna would have knocked her elbow into his head, but this time she just gathered up the empty tankards nearest him and tried not to yawn. She was too tired to care, and the idea frightened her. A month from now, or a year, what would she allow? A hand down her bodice? A playful quest under her skirts? And then what?
She didn’t want to think of it. This one night was enough to get through. And then the next night. And the one after.
When the door opened, sweeping in wet air, Kenna glanced up only to see if it was MacLain. When a thin black-haired man walked in, she rushed to the back to ladle up more stew for the tables not yet served. Mary, the other serving girl, flounced down from the dark stairway followed closely by the blacksmith, still rearranging the folds of his plaid.
Kenna averted her eyes. Mary seemed to feel no shame in it, but Kenna did not like the glimpse into her own likely future.
It wasn’t until she’d begun to serve the stew that Kenna realized a strange quiet had fallen over the inn. Her heart leapt in anticipation. MacLain.
But when she looked for him, he wasn’t there. Instead, the black-haired man sat at the MacLain’s corner table. It shouldn’t have angered her, but it did. That was his seat. This stranger didn’t belong there.
The man crossed his legs, his mouth angling up into a smirk as Kenna watched. When his eyes met hers, her whole body flinched. He smiled.
Heart flailing like a frightened bird’s, she spun away and pretended to swipe at spilled ale.
“Wench.” The man’s voice crawled over her skin like spiders.
She froze, staring at the scarred table.
“Wench. Approach.”
She’d never had any compunction about ignoring patrons before, but despite her fear, Kenna turned and walked toward him.
“I have need of sustenance,” he purred, the vowels of his words thick with a French accent.
Still two feet away, she stopped and bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, milord. I’ll get the stew.” There. That hadn’t been so bad. So why were her knees shaking as his gaze slid over her? He only wanted stew.
But it seemed her instincts were right. Before she could escape, his hand whipped out and latched on to her wrist. The fine leather of his glove held the chill of the night.
“What is that scent?” he asked, while Kenna tugged at her arm.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“That smell. It’s familiar.” He tugged her closer, and though she strained to resist, he moved her as if she were a small child.
Smiling up at her, he pulled her between his knees and slowly inched his face toward the skin above the neckline of her gown.
“Stop,” she whispered, her whole body shaking now.
His nose touched her breastbone, and the stranger closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Ah, yes,” he sighed. He pressed the side of his cold face to her skin and slid higher. “It’s the boy.”
“What? Stop!”
His nose nudged her chin up just before he slid high enough that his mouth touched hers. “What lovely memories.”
Terror soaked into her bones. A tear leaked from her eye and rolled down her cheek. The stranger dragged his cool tongue along her skin and caught it.
“He never did mind sharing,” he breathed. Even the air flowing from his mouth was cold. Panic bloomed where it touched her, then spread down her body like ripples in a pool.
She reared back, but his arms didn’t even strain as he held her. His smile swept into a grin, then the grin turned into something truly terrifying.
His mouth changed as she watched. Sharp teeth descended. Teeth like the fangs of a wolf, only sharper, narrower.
“Oh, sweet God,” Kenna whispered.
“No,” he drawled, his voice light with amusement. “Not God.”
She drew air into her lungs, unable to stop until they strained at her ribs. And then she screamed.
The beast laughed as she twisted, straining away from him, screaming. He laughed and let her struggle.
“Help me!” Kenna cried out, eyes rolling to find someone willing to rush to her aid. Every eye was cast toward the floor. “Please.”
One man rose, and then another. “Please,” she prayed thankfully. But the men scurried away from her, toward the door, and left it swinging open as they ran away. Three more men followed. The others all seemed frozen to their seats.
The beast’s hand curved around her neck, and Kenna expected to hear the snap of her own spine, but instead he only bent her down, drawing her closer to those glistening fangs.
“No,” she sobbed, but his eyes sparked with delight at her terror. The fear snapped into desperation and Kenna began to fight like an animal, twisting and bucking and scratching at his arms. Despite his leanness, his body seemed sculpted from pure strength, and soon enough, the wet of his mouth touched her throat.
The sure knowledge of her own death rose over her like a wave. She could see it, looming and dark, brutal in its blankness. The end of her.
She screamed. She screamed until she thought something must rupture in her throat. Then she made one last, desperate attempt at survival and let her body drop as a dead weight.
It worked. She slid low, feeling one sharp edge of a fang cut her chin as she dragged by it.
“You stubborn bitch,” the beast growled, curling his fingers int
o her hair. Pain exploded across her scalp as he yanked her up. The laughter in his eyes was gone. Now he looked angry.
She’d thought herself terrified before, but now she knew true fear. “Oh, God,” she breathed.
“On your knees,” he ordered, and Kenna felt her legs do as he demanded as if she had no say over them.
“Offer your throat.”
“No!” she cried, terrified because her chin was tilting up.
“When I am done feeding, you will retire upstairs and await my pleasure.”
“No. Please.”
His laugh held not a touch of warmth. “Save your begging for later, my sweet.”
Behind her, the door slammed hard enough that it sounded of a tree branch cracking. Another patron escaping. A man who wouldn’t stop her attack, but not willing to sit and enjoy the spectacle, at least. Small comfort.
“Unhand her!” The voice exploded through the room. MacLain.
The beast glanced up, but instead of alarm or annoyance, welcome flashed over his face in a quick smile. The fangs gleamed. “Ah, Laird MacLain. Never fear. They’ll remember none of this.”
“Get your hands off her,” MacLain growled. Despite that her body shook with relief, the hair on the back of her neck rose at the sound of that rough voice.
No alarm showed in the beast’s eyes, but he shoved her aside all the same. “You would threaten me over a woman? She’s a tavern whore, you fool.”
Kenna scooted as far away as she could, dragging herself until the wall stopped her retreat. “He’s a demon,” she whispered in warning just before her eyes focused on MacLain. His snarl matched the growl she’d heard, but that wasn’t what squeezed her throat tight. He’s a demon, she’d warned, but she needn’t have bothered.
MacLain had fangs, too.
“Sweet God above,” Kenna breathed, hastily crossing herself before she pulled her knees to her chest and made her body as small as she could. She barely saw the claymore rise, MacLain moved it so quickly.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the stranger barked too late. The heavy blade descended in a blurred arc. The stranger became a blur too, sliding away from sure death. An awful sound jumped through the air…flesh and bone rendered from its body.
Born to Bite Bundle Page 18