by Dawn Madigan
He knelt down, his movements both cautious and fluid, and entrusted the slack body in his arms to the rug’s silky embrace. Positioning Dara on her uninjured side, he propped a blanket against her back to raise her left shoulder, hoping to prevent the arrow from sinking deeper in her flesh.
He bent closer, scrutinizing the wooden shaft. It pierced his mate’s shoulder through and through, likely cracking her shoulder blade. The arrow’s bloodied, silver broadhead was cruelly barbed. Its black-fletched tail had been etched with two complete circles and an inner half one, a twisted version of the ancient Celtic letters of the Ogham. The markings breathed icy darkness against Rowan’s spread palm. He withdrew his hand as if singed, his fingers tightening to a fist. It was a Hound’s arrow, no doubt about it, and it bore its maker’s signature.
“Aidan…” Dara’s eyes fluttered open. She mumbled something incoherent and fell silent again, the only sound her quick, shallow gasps.
Rowan dared not breathe himself.
Dara’s dark hair spilled against the carpet in a wet, tangled mass. His fingers absently skimmed over her rain- and blood-washed clothes, which were now soaking the trampled rug. The name she had uttered had stabbed through his chest and left his mind briefly numbed. His destined mate had just called for her dead lover, a friend he’d once known… The one whose place he had been chosen to take.
By Great Danu, how he hated himself.
Rowan stirred and lifted the sodden woolen cloth away from Dara’s skin. He easily tore it from around the arrow, back and front. His soggy hair tumbled in thick red knots about his face as he pulled the shredded shirt from underneath Dara’s unconscious body. He bent over her again, scanning for more injuries.
She moaned again, cracking open sightless eyes. “The H-Hound…” she mumbled. “Mom says if Tara’s soil touches its h-heart, it will…will…die.”
“Shhh, the Hound is gone now. Don’t talk, Dara,” he whispered, his hands working on her—but she’d fallen still again.
She had strapped her leather scabbard over her plain, ivory-colored demi-bra as if it was a handgun’s shoulder-holster. Its maroon straps circled both her shoulders and slanted against her bare back, and the empty scabbard hung beneath her left armpit, ready for a cross-draw.
Was she right-handed? At that blasted party she’d been holding her punch cup in her right hand…
Rowan shook his head, forcing out every stray thought but one. He must find a way to fix what he had carelessly wrought. He must make things right again.
Dark blood trickled from the arrow’s entry and exit wounds. It streamed down Dara’s rain-slick back and along the soft groove underlining her left collarbone, staining the ivory flesh crimson. Its course slanted to the valley hugged by her ample breasts, ending within the carpet’s disheveled furrows. Wrenching the arrow out of Dara’s body would likely turn the thin oozing into a furious gush.
Should he rush her to a hospital?
So close to the night’s peak underneath the ripened moon, it was definitely out of the question. The transformation would come soon, and then… If he didn’t take care of things now, Rowan knew, all would be lost. A soft growl of frustration climbed up his throat.
He was many things, but not a bleedin’ medical doctor!
There was only one way he knew that might heal her… An ancient ritual reserved for destined lifemates, passed down through the generations. As a child Rowan had been told legends of Slánú…healing. What the term genuinely meant was channeling one’s sexual energies to heal an injured lover. He wished he’d won Dara’s consent for what he was about to try, but he was left with no other choice.
Dara stirred again, mumbling her lost lover’s name. Her breasts heaved with fast, shallow breathing, almost animal-like. More than blood loss had triggered it—her body was already responding to the tangible spur of the full moon. This, along with the severe trauma she had suffered, was going to make a too-heavy load for her slender form to handle.
Rowan had come to a decision.
There was no going back. Not if he wanted her to live.
He reached down and undid the scabbard’s leather rig. Next his knowing fingers fumbled behind Dara’s back, unsnapping her bra.
His breath wedged in his throat as he caught his first glimpse of Dara’s breasts. The ample creamy globes, surprisingly ripe for her slim figure, were topped with puffy rosy areolas. Rosebud nipples were pinched atop their velvety cushions, tight enough to stab the skin of his chest.
Had the pain brought it on?
Whatever was the reason, Rowan felt his cock grow rock hard, pressing against the rough fabric of his denim. Her blood had an enticing dark, metallic odor, both sweet and sharp, so rich he could almost taste it. Whether he wanted it or not, the unique scent of the spilled blood teased his tortured senses and intensified his arousal.
Settling himself on the rug, he unbuttoned her jeans, top to bottom. He slid his hand beneath the rough cloth, over her naked left hip. Her skin felt damp, burning beneath his palm.
“Dara.”
He lowered his head to her hair. The heavy tresses were drenched with the biting aroma of fresh rain, and layered beneath it was her. Rowan’s auburn curls swept down to mingle with Dara’s dark ones. He brushed his face against the mud-caked hair, hunting for the unique scent that was all Dara, filling his lungs with it.
“You’re in a bad shape, lass.” His whisper slid along one burning cheek, his mouth dipping lower to kiss down her neck.
“And I am the bastard to blame for it.”
Dara’s scalding skin stifled Rowan’s words. He determinedly dug his hand deeper beneath her jeans.
“If we don’t do this, mo cara, you will die. I will not let that happen.”
His caress delved lower, finding the smooth curve of her ass. Her waistband chafed his forearm. He splayed his fingers over a burning ass cheek and squeezed the supple flesh, hauling her body tighter against his own. The movement brought Dara’s crotch close against Rowan’s own aching groin.
His mate hadn’t stirred.
He doubted she had even felt his touch, the way she lay unresponsive in his arms.
By Danu, he needed to hurry.
Embracing Dara with a muscled arm, he peeled her jeans down the swell of her thighs. Her white undies went with it. His gaze went to the dark fuzz of curls shading her sex, nested damp and tangled against her pale flesh. His cock twitched against its denim cage. Rowan stifled a groan and slid Dara’s jeans all the way down to her ankles. Taking great care to move her as little as possible, he stripped her completely. Every painful moan yanked out of her throat made his heart clench with fear and regret.
He had never experienced something like this, not since…
Jaw tight, he quenched the faded echoes of a long-buried childhood nightmare. An exceptionally gifted shifter, he’d always been so sure of his ability to manipulate his feelings with the same skill he used to manipulate his body. Obviously, he’d been wrong.
Rowan uttered a soft curse. There wasn’t enough time to be afraid. Not now. He pushed all irrelevancies aside with a practiced will, squeezing the frosty lump in his chest into a tight knot.
Aye, he still had the knack for it.
“You’ll soon be better, Dara.”
Or so he hoped. The strained words had been meant for his own ears more than for hers. He slid up Dara’s body, his caressing hand matching his body’s movement, outlining the soft mounds and valleys of her lush curves. Her waist was so narrow, he could circle it with his hands alone. As his head finally reached hers, her breath touched his face with hot, broken gasps. He winced as the silver arrowhead grazed his own shoulder.
Leaning on one elbow, he loosened his belt and tugged his zipper down. Pressure eased on his throbbing shaft, pushing his aching erection free against his lower abdominal muscles.
He’d wanted this to happen differently.
With a large hand he cradled Dara’s raised left thigh, slinging it over his waist. He sli
d his own leg over the fiery velvet of her right thigh, nudging her legs further apart, gasping as her feverish flesh touched the hard length of him…
And then he instantly froze at the feel of icy steel nudging his neck.
Rowan’s eyes shot up, clashing with flaming dark brown ones.
“Do not,” Dara whispered roughly, “move an inch.”
Chapter Three
Dara prodded her dagger’s point into the left side of Rowan’s neck, just beneath the hard line of his lower jaw. He cursed wordlessly, recalling how he had shoved the weapon down his belt, carelessly disregarding it from then on. All she’d needed to do, and obviously had done, was reach out and draw it, reclaiming it for herself.
“I’m surprised,” she whispered with visible effort, “you still have a hard-on under the current circumstances.”
“Let go of your weapon, céadsearc.” He hadn’t moved an inch, complying with her whispered command.
In retort she dug the dagger’s point deeper into his flesh, drawing a tiny red bead. “I don’t think so,” she spoke hoarsely.
“Please, céadsearc—”
“Quit…quit calling me that. That ‘kay-djark’ thing.”
“Céadsearc. Means ‘sweetheart’ in Irish,” he said, softening the word’s true meaning. First love. “Dara, sweetheart, you’re already burning with fever. ‘Tis a Hound’s arrow. It carries silver. Let me heal you.”
He studied her face, his uncompromising hand still resting on the swell of her hip. Her eyes blazed brightly within the paleness of her skin, a feverish blush coloring her cheekbones.
“Heal?” She squeezed the word out through ragged breaths. “I’d call this…many things…other than that.”
The hand gripping the dagger trembled, the whetted edge dancing against Rowan’s throat. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he slowly swallowed.
“Heal,” he repeated softly. “You are my destined mate, Dara. Our joining beneath the moon will heal you.”
“My destined mate is dead.” Dara shivered, her face tight with pain and bottled-up fury.
“You know the ancient Law as well as I.” Rowan’s hand rested stone-still over her hip. “We are Kanjali. Bound-Ones. We mate for life. If one of us loses his lifemate, and has the gift of bearing young ones, then he or she is to be mated again, to a spouse chosen by the Cainteoirì—the Speakers.”
“I d-don’t know what you mean. I don’t give a shit about your Law.” Mackey’s words made no sense to Dara’s blurring mind. She bit her lower lip and squeezed her sweaty fist tighter on her dagger’s hilt. It grew heavy in her hand, forcing her to shift its position against Rowan’s neck.
He spoke again through clenched teeth. “By Danu, lass, do you want to die?”
“I’ll be sure to take you down with me when I do,” she breathed out.
A lapse of consciousness slackened her body, and for a fraction of a second Rowan felt Dara’s dagger falling away from his skin.
He moved fast.
The moon, now acting as a ghostly catalyst, made him even faster than usual. His hand shot up from Dara’s hip to her wrist as he smoothly arched back from her dagger’s point. She let out a groan, her arms straining in his hold, then sagging. She had no strength left to resist him. Her eyes locked with his.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t…” Her voice was barely audible.
He stared down at her, then his head jerked in a brief nod. “Aye, you win. Halfway, you win.” He cursed softly, his Irish brogue gathering roughness and color. “I will not take you fully, but I will make sure you’ll end up with the living, whether you prefer it or otherwise.”
Her head sagged back against the damp rug. He put her weapon safely out of her arm’s reach. He then dipped his head again, brushing his mouth over hers. Wearily she turned her face away, escaping his touch. Her lashes trembled as her eyes grew heavy-lidded.
“Aye, close your eyes, sweetheart. Imagine it is him.”
His lips trailed over the cheek she gave him, leaving soft kisses in their wake. Dara gasped as his gentle touch tingled with laden electricity, an echo of something she had known once before.
“Just get it over with.” Her voice came out strangled.
In response, his fingers drew lazy circles against her back, caressing, steadying. He slowly shifted with her in his arms, sitting up, cradling her as he would a child. Her hair fell in a wet mass over the arch of his left arm. The arrow jutted from her back, icy cold against his fingertips. By now the bleeding had almost stopped. He wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign. His free hand stroked down the side of his reluctant mate’s face, where his mouth had just touched.
“Dara, sweetheart.”
Dara’s eyes were fully closed now, her lips moving silently.
Aidan, her lips were forming. Aidan. Aidan.
Rowan leaned his head down to trace his mouth along the delicate lines of her eyebrows. His hands caressed down her neck, searched lower and cupped the lushness of a full breast. His fingers were tinted with her blood. He felt her body going rigid again, before succumbing to his touch.
Her skin was like liquid fire. He’d never known this wealth of sensation before.
She was making small sounds as he touched her. He mumbled sweet nothings into her tousled hair, speaking the ancient tongue, though he guessed that growing up in this foreign land, Dara had no knowledge of Irish Gaelic. His fingertips circled her velvety areolas, feeling the rosy pads wrinkle and raise firm. He ached to suck the sensitive rosebuds into his mouth until they were blushed and swollen, but now wasn’t the time to take her this way.
Dara moaned, her nipples tightening, as this stranger—this brazen Irishman who seemed intent on making her live—gently toyed with her flesh. This man’s hand on her breast aroused an ache deeper than the one caused by the arrow wound. She felt his cock growing against her naked back, but wouldn’t open her eyes. The more his hands lingered over her skin, the more charged his touch became. She let out a soft scream as invisible energy jetted between the two of them, stretching and roiling whenever his fingertips withdrew from her skin and found it again. She groaned at how alien, yet familiar, his touch was. Twisting beneath his fingers, she craved more, hating herself for it… Screaming as the movement shifted the poisonous silver wedged in her shoulder.
“Lie still.” His warm hand both soothed and inflamed her, studying her body with long, sure strokes. Neck to ass to low thighs, thighs to tummy to breasts, his fingers nurtured every curvaceous detail. “Let my hands do the moving, sweetheart.”
She struggled to remain still as his fingers drew burning circles over the soft swell of her abdomen, shuddering each time the circle’s edge tugged at the first curls of her sex. She was weak with blood loss and maddened by the gnawing pain in her shoulder, too close to the peak of the full moon. Her mind shut down, leaving her body dazzled, every sensation raw. As Rowan’s hand plunged through the fiery flesh of her inner thighs and cupped her sex, her eyes flew open. A low growl formed deep in her throat.
Rowan’s gaze shot up at the sound, alarmed, colliding with the molten amber that had already flooded Dara’s eyes.
“Easy, Dara.” The plea was uttered like a soft command, his own voice strung tight with barely contained want. “You can’t take a full transformation right now.”
“Oh Goddess, then make me right!” Close to screaming, she dug her right hand into his chest, emerging claws tearing through the faded shirt. Her left arm was numb with pain, cradled below her breasts.
He sucked in his breath at the sharp pain inflicted by her clawed hand. She was losing control fast, and his brow gathered sweat as he struggled to hold on to his own restraint. His fingers slid against her soaked, heated flesh and parted her folds, finding the firm nub of her clit.
Dara’s thighs slowly parted and closed around his hand as he touched her center. She arched her neck and pressed her head against his supporting arm, her eyes glowing a soft gold. Moaning, her hand clawed deeper into R
owan’s chest.
“Dara,” Rowan groaned painfully, but didn’t twist away from her. Bright yellow flickered in his gaze and faded as he arduously regained control.
She raked her hand down his shirt with a sharp tearing noise as his sensitive fingers kept circling her slick clit and pressing into the engorged flesh, starting a sinuous massage.
“Goddess,” she half-growled, her hips bucking to meet his moving hand.
Rowan’s shirt hung in bloody strips over his chest and abdomen, the muscled flesh oozing dark red from five linear slashes. It stung like bleedin’ hell, but she was burning even fiercer in his arms. With his palm still crushing her clit, he eased two long fingers through her entrance into her searing heat. Her walls felt puffy and drenched, lubricating his fingers with her juices as they rocked and circled inside her cunt. She felt like an oven, her sodden flesh sucking him in, making wet sounds around his moving fingers.
Dara screamed, her human cry shifting to a bestial howl as she felt him stabbing his fingers deep inside her. His touch drove fizzy energy straight through her core, stirred biting currents into her very essence. His fingers kept pumping into her, as he tightened his supporting arm about her rib cage with a steely force, keeping her from moving her upper body.
“I can’t.” She panted and struggled, whimpering with a harsh blend of rapture and pain. “Can’t take…any more of it… Rowan!”
Her hips danced with an innate rhythm as his fingers fucked her harder, faster. And then her cunt was rippling and tightening around his buried fingers in short, quick squeezes. A violent shudder overtook her body. She was howling wildly, baying a name at the veiled moon.
Rowan shut his eyes with a sharp, brief pain, because the name she had called had not been his own.
He pulled his soaking fingers out of her rippling cunt and closed a wet fist on the arrow’s tail. There was no good way to extract the bleedin’ thing in this desolate place, far from any hope of medical aid. Steadying Dara in his hold, Rowan snapped off the arrow’s fletched tail.
