Destined

by Dawn Madigan

  She groaned.

  He wished he could take her pain away.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” His jaw tight, Rowan drove the remaining shaft through Dara’s shoulder with a deliberate, forceful thrust.

  Her body stiffened and arched in his firm embrace, quaking with another savage howl. Her cry broke at its peak and culminated in a raw, human-sounding scream.

  Rowan clutched the bloody shaft against the front of Dara’s shoulder. With a clean pull he wrenched the arrow from her flesh. She had gone limp and quiet in his arms, making his heart skip a beat. His fist was still clenched around the arrow’s shaft, knuckles white with strain. The silver plaited throughout it singed his palm and he growled, spreading his fingers, letting the slim lethal rod bounce against the rug.

  With a mounting, sickening wave of fear, he drew Dara’s body up against him. Her left shoulder was drenched with blood. He swept his hand through the still-warm liquid, exploring the skin hidden beneath. Finding it whole, he raised her further into his arms and ran his tongue over her skin in wide, quick lashes. He cleansed her with swift strokes—her blood both sweet and pungent on his tongue—then drew back.

  Great Danu, she truly was whole again!

  Releasing a long-held breath, he gently rotated her in his arms and studied her back.

  She was healed.

  He had healed her.

  A surge of pride and relief swept through him. The fever was gone, and her pulse had stopped bouncing madly, falling into a quick, yet steady pace. She appeared closer to sleep than unconsciousness.

  He laid her down atop the crushed rug and stretched alongside her, marveling at how small she was, and at how close he had come to losing her. Listening to her quick, soft breathing, he absently ran his hand over the bruised skin of his chest and abdomen, only to find the wounds she had branded him with gone. Her touch had healed him, as well.

  Suddenly, an alarming thought hit Rowan.

  The Hound could still be prowling out there.

  He leapt to his feet, forcing himself to go over each window and scrutinize every shady corner. His pending transformation made that simple task hard to carry out.

  The locals seemed to have done a formidable job on the place. Though at a glance it appeared to be no more than a deserted storehouse, each window had been well-barred. There was only a single entryway, equipped with a solid, robust door that could be latched with a heavy bolt only from the inside. Rowan lifted the bolt into its intended position with a groan and a bulge of muscles. No ordinary Mortal could have accomplished it, not without another man, maybe more, aiding him.

  A sharp tearing noise followed by a low rumble made Rowan turn around carefully. A pair of golden eyes gleamed at him from the niche where he’d left Dara asleep.

  “Dara?” he whispered softly into the darkness. His own eyes took on an amber glow.

  The beast watching him was bathed in Dara’s scent, its jaws clutched around Dara’s clothing—what was left of her jeans, anyway. The quivering energy emanating from its lean, muscular body tasted like his mate’s sweet and pungent life force, which he had earlier sampled. It was Dara, fully transformed—her injury had cost her her self-control. Her golden eyes shone amidst thick dark fur, and sharp fangs glistened within her gaping mouth.

  She was approaching him slowly on all fours, shaking away fading scraps of mist. She paused to pin the jeans against the floor with a clawed paw, then rip them beyond hope of repair with a forceful shake. The torn denim dropped from her mouth as she kept stalking towards him.

  Seemed like she was right vexed.

  Rowan bit back an involuntary smile. Dara would be in an even worse mood in the morning when she looked for her clothes.

  Rowan backed away and was stopped by the latched door. It was pressing coldly against the shirt that clung to his back. He could feel, as much as hear, the squall outside—the rain hammering in undulating gushes against the building’s frame, the wind shrieking madly, crushed by rolling thunder.

  The beast that was Dara halted about ten, twelve feet away from him. He gave her a soft warning growl, lashing his own Power out to entwine with the moon’s cool grasp. He couldn’t risk holding on to his human form for long, not with her gazing at him with that ominous, steady glare. Somehow, he had to get them both through this night, preferably alive and in one piece.

  The moon finally answered Rowan’s silent call, spilling its Power down on him. Its silvery light molded his shifter’s body, sweeping him away.

  Chapter Four

  “I must be dead.”

  Dara propped her forearms against the cement flooring, coughing up a few stray dust bunnies.

  “Naked and dead,” she pointed out wryly as she glanced down at her bare breasts. She was deeply startled to get a swift answer, one sounding alarmingly nearby.

  “Dead, lass? Does this feel anything like Tír Na nÓg to you?”

  Male voice. Irish accent. Gaelic gibberish.

  Her mind slowly added it all up, coming to the inevitable conclusion.

  Rowan Mackey.

  Along with the name surfaced some of the previous night’s sizzling memories, which made her groan aloud and drop her pulsing head between her hands. It was pounding like the worst hangover she’d ever had. She had a vague recollection of what Tír Na nÓg meant—and no, this glum place felt nothing like The Land of the Ever-Young, the Otherworld. In fact, it felt more and more like some mild version of her friends’ Christian hell.

  “Did I transform?” Dara’s voice rose muffled from her buried face.

  “Aye, fully.”

  “Did we…uh…”

  “No. I keep my vows, Dara. You didn’t want me to take you last night.”

  “Well, it did feel like a bit of a stretch after you’d almost got me killed.”

  Remembering, Dara’s hand shot to her left shoulder, finding nothing beneath the sweat and mud caking. Goddess, the brazen Irishman must have actually healed her! Slowly she sat up, nauseated, her mind still caught in a whirl.

  “Full transformation erases one’s memory,” she muttered. “No wonder my mind’s a black hole. Last thing I remember is…”

  Your fingers inside me, she had almost blurted out.

  Suddenly ultra-aware of her nudity, Dara’s face heated, and she desperately hoped the flush was masked by the shadowy darkness. She let out a soft gasp and turned her back on the naked man beside her. Her frenzied gaze darted around, searching for anything remotely resembling her clothing. She found only a fairly large vacant space, its periphery darkened by solid masses. Stored equipment? Crates of some kind?

  “I have never blacked out with full transformation,” Rowan said softly, his subdued intonation teasing a soft tremor up Dara’s spine. “Shapechanging is a knack of mine. And you won’t find any of your clothes here, sweetheart. Your mac’tir form ripped them to shreds.”

  He spoke in a low, husky voice. That, along with his vibrant accent, was a heady blend. Still caught within the aftershocks of the night’s transformation, Dara’s painfully heightened senses could trace all-too-well his musky odor of intermingled skin, sweat, and fur, both masculine and bestial. His scent clung to her skin. It was an aroma she’d used to smell on Aidan.

  “My parents told me no one could sustain any memories when turning full mac’tir. That’s why we struggle to avoid it, to stop at mid-transformation.” Dara gathered up her knees, hugging herself. Her breasts flattened beneath her thighs, cool, pebble-hard nipples peaking against her legs. Dammit, but the obnoxious Irishman was having the most deleterious, delicious effect on her! She was determined to keep that particular fact hidden from him, as well as shut her mind to the man’s coaxing assault on her senses.

  “I don’t need to stop at mid-transformation in order to keep control.” Rowan made no attempt to touch her. “Last night, after you had fully transformed, I had to turn mac’tir myself. Else your beast form would have treated me as nicely as it did your clothes.”

  Dara shuddered v
isibly at the notion.

  “My dagger?” she inquired, not knowing what else to say.

  “I’ll hold on to your exquisite dagger for now, since we will be sharing a common destination.”

  “We’re doing no such thing!”

  Dara leaped to her feet and swiveled about to gaze directly down at him, momentarily forgetting her lack of clothing. She was about to yell some more, but instead fell into a silent stare. It was the first time she’d laid eyes on Rowan Mackey since the previous night’s ordeal.

  The man was stark naked, and obviously happy to see her.

  “Aye?” He cocked a fiery brow, lips curling into a small lopsided grin.

  Dara couldn’t help but stare.

  Daylight seeped through the elongated cracks in one barred window, throwing out diagonal shafts that streaked and softly illumined his body. He lay on his side, propped up on his right elbow, his impressive height of about six-and-a-half feet stretched fully along the hard cement.

  The first thing her eyes bumped into was his long, thick cock beaming up at her. Neither the cold, nor her angry gaze seemed to have a deterring effect on the fierce erection jutting from amidst his dark ginger curls.

  Next, her gaze stroked over his skin, but the room’s mix of light and dark stripes made it hard to guess his complexion. His biceps bulged on the propped arm, a snaking vein cording beneath his skin. He held his left knee raised and shamelessly flexed, giving Dara a clear view of his long, hard thigh muscles all the way to his groin.

  Her gaze flicked to his cock again before surfing up his narrow waist, dipping into his shallow navel, and climbing up the soft, well-defined swells of his abdominal muscles. The tour ended on the coin-flat nipples gilding the lower rims of his glorious pecs, and, Goddess, his chest looked hard and silky-smooth. Dara suddenly yearned to flatten her tongue against that slick skin.

  Goddess, she’d never felt such an uncontrollable surge of passion.

  Not since she’d been with Aidan.

  Dara wrenched her eyes upwards and collided with Rowan’s steady stare. Obviously, he had been watching her watching him. A streak of sunlight thrown over the reclining Irishman’s face made his eyes catch green fire, and ignited his shoulder-length hair with a fiery copper-red.

  Dara’s cheeks burned. “So you’re a natural redhead,” she muttered.

  He threw his head back, his laughter thundering around the vacant storehouse. “Would you like me to turn around for you now?” he spoke in between deep chuckles. “I mean, you did grant me a generous view of your backside earlier.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “You hid it perfectly well, then.”

  Rowan slowly coiled and rose to his feet in one fluid movement. Dara had to crane her neck so she could meet his heated eyes. He reached down and before Dara managed to recover and withdraw, her left hand was enfolded between his warm, large palms. His mere touch sent a ripple of heat up her arm.

  “Still hurts?” he gently inquired.

  “N-no,” she stuttered. “You somehow managed to take care of that tiny, fatal-arrow-wound problem.”

  “We both did that, sweetheart. Slánú works only for those destined to be together.”

  “Well, see, that’s where I have a problem, Rowan. I’m not your, nor anybody else’s, sweetheart.” She made a futile attempt to tug her trapped hand free. “And I’d like my hand back,” she demanded.

  Before I’m reduced to Jell-O, her mind silently added.

  “You called me by my first name.” Mackey grinned with triumph and eased his grip.

  Dara gave her head a desperate shake, snatching her hand back from captivity. Her arm was still tingling with a pleasant case of goose bumps. She groaned and swiveled on her heels, resolutely turning her back on the man. Her eyes darted around in another search.

  “Door’s that way,” Rowan pointed.

  She frowned with suspicion and turned, glimpsing the bolted door he’d drawn her attention to. “It had better be open when I get there,” she tossed over her shoulder, already marching towards the farthest wall of the warehouse.

  “Of course, you can’t leave here on your own,” his voice trailed lazily behind her.

  “Oooooh, you just watch me.”

  Rowan was indeed watching her.

  Most intently.

  Her raven curls bounced against her bare back and her tight, full ass cheeks engaged in a sensual, rhythmic dance as she paced barefoot across the dusty floor, stamping it with clear, small footprints.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and waited as she struggled to lift the bolt.

  “If the door bars things such as the Cú…” Rowan smiled patiently at Dara’s shapely back, “—do you think it will yield to your gentle tugs, lass?”

  He spoke his last word just as Dara had finished a series of thundering kicks and fist-poundings aimed at the door. The darn thing didn’t budge, but her hands and bare feet were hurting like hell. She was still trying to figure out a more insolent way of saying “let me the fuck out of this damn hole” when Mackey’s words registered in her mind.

  “Cú,” Dara repeated, her sweaty palms still pressed flat against the door. “Isn’t that the Gaelic word for…for ‘Hound’?”

  “Aye, ‘tis,” Rowan replied, somewhat surprised.

  Beware of Hounds, Dara. “Tell me, Rowan, what…?” Dara hesitated, head bowed. “What, exactly, is a Hound?”

  “A Hound is a shifter, same as us,” Rowan replied, his astonishment growing at Dara’s question. Had she no knowledge of what a Cú—a Hound—was? “Only…not the same. ‘Tis a hunter of our kind. A vileness,” he added, choosing his words.

  “Oh.” Dara gave the door one last, violent kick just for the heck of it. She folded in two, bending to nurse her aching foot.

  Rowan couldn’t help but give a slight flinch at the sight. “Now that we’ve established that without my help you’re safely locked in,” he said, shaking his head, “would you please hear me out?”

  Slowly Dara rotated away from the door, bestowing a new meaning upon the expression “if looks could kill”.

  “Talk,” she told Rowan with a sweet smile.

  * * * * *

  Close to four thousand years, and counting.

  He’d come close to ending it last night, so close that rage still seethed red-hot, charring his already-blackened insides. The creature currently named Adam Conway stood in deathly silence, bow and quiver slung against his back, facing an Oregon winter sunrise.

  The night’s thunderstorm had already died away into a steady drizzle. Adam’s lithe, gaunt form was indifferent to the east wind’s icy battering and to the light rain stinging his fully exposed face. Through a gap in the rain he watched the black, rough triangle of Mount Hood silhouetted against the sky’s deep crimson. Blood-red, matching the burning anger inside him.

  He wasn’t used to dealing with scorching-hot feelings, nor was he at ease with prodding himself with questions and doubts. His life was a series of missions and accomplishments.

  Finding his prey.

  Making a kill.

  Getting food.

  Adam shoved both his hands in his pockets and sighed.

  Sighing…now, that was a human habit. Walking for thousands of years among the Mortals in search of Kanjali shifters had made some of their annoying human habits linger on his skin like a bad smell. There were enjoyable habits, as well… His lips curled into a wicked, thin smile as he thought of the little street hooker he’d made use of a couple of nights before. Her terrified screams, sweet music to his ears, were still ringing in his head. He was rock-hard at the thought. His tongue flicked over his lips, tasting remembered blood.

  He was tired of acquiring bad habits. Tired of walking among the Mortals. Tired of his emotions swinging between hot and cold. He missed being called by his true name, Adhamh. Missed the earth that had borne him. He was the last of his kind, and that felt…well…

  Lonely.

  The H
ound turned from the bleeding sunrise and cast a hungry look in the general direction of the seemingly deserted warehouse. As the wind beat his long, night-black hair against his pale face, he sniffed the morning air. A hint of a scent wafted about his nostrils, camouflaged by the wind’s interference. He could almost feel his claws lengthening in response, boring into his palms.

  Only one true passion was still blazing inside him. He wanted to rest again within the Earth’s sheltering embrace, knowing nothing, feeling nothing…a nameless sand grain among countless, nameless others.

  And no one was going to stand in his way.

  Surely not this shapechanging couple that smelled so sweetly of Kanjali blood.

  Chapter Five

  “I was told that you’d come here very young, Dara.”

  “Yeah, my parents immigrated to the U.S. from Ireland when I was about four. They chose to make Rose City the O’Shea family’s new ‘home-sweet-home’. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  They both reclined upon the spacious top of a tarpaulin-covered crate. Earlier, Rowan had shamelessly slung his leg atop it and lounged against the wall, humming some cheery Irish tune with surprising resonance until Dara had decided she had no other choice but to join him there. When she had, she’d sat rigidly as far from him as possible, her arms locked firmly over her breasts. She was not about to enlighten the man as to her nipples’ constantly erect state!

  “I’m trying to find out how much you know of our tradition,” he continued.

  “Just enough to hate the primitive mumbo jumbo,” she countered.

  “Yet you abided by it. Your mate was a Chosen,” Rowan stated, ignoring her quipping.

  “A Chosen?” Dara sounded genuinely confused. “I’ve no idea what you mean by that. My husband, Aidan Neilan, was Irish, born and raised. My parents played matchmaker and introduced us. I married Aidan because I was in love with him, not because of some zany, New Age ‘Chosen’ bullshit. Since he…died, I…” Her voice trailed off. She stared fixedly into the warehouse’s sunlight-dappled dimness.