Enslaved by Fear

by Claire Ashgrove

  As he let out a groan, Micah’s heart opened to her completely.

  His body slowed in time with hers. Their breathing drew him down from the high precipice of abandon and he looked into her shining eyes. Words formed somewhere in the back of his throat, but their meaning eluded him. Instead, he dropped his head and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled close with a contented sigh. “I could stay here like this forever.”

  “Mm.” Despite the heavy weight of his head, Micah nodded. He rested his cheek on her shoulder and tucked his arms around her narrow waist. He didn’t dare say more. He drew the line at telling a demon—even one by half—that he was falling in love.

  Chapter Ten

  Brigid laughed as Micah used his lean powerful body to roll her onto her back. In the bright moonlight, his blue eyes sparkled with amusement. Between his teeth he held a fat red grape. She leaned forward, laughing softly as her lips closed around his and she took the offered fruit. For an hour now, they’d talked and played like youths. She couldn’t remember a time life had been so carefree, when her spirit and heart worked in such symphony.

  She ran her hand down the tight muscle along his spine to the waistband of the jeans he’d donned, reveling in the simplicity of the evening. Delighting in the simple freedom of touching Micah at liberty while she basked in the nighttime breeze.

  He rolled away, back to his pile of pillows, his head braced on one elbow. “You should laugh more often. It’s a beautiful sound.”

  His compliment brought warmth to her cheeks. She reached her hand between their bodies and laced her fingers with his. “I like this.”

  Micah’s thumb caressed the back of her hand. “I do too.”

  “Do you remember the first day you dropped in on your reclusive neighbors?” She chuckled again as she used the description he had applied to her and Fintan years earlier.

  It was Micah’s turn to laugh. He popped another grape in his mouth, chewing as he nodded. When he swallowed, he gave her a wink. “I wanted to see the castle up close and personal.”

  “Instead you caught Fintan and me in the middle of a fight. Tell me really—what did you think when I lit flames around his feet?”

  His chuckles deepened, but his eyes held hers. “That it matched the color of your hair.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am.” He took a sip of wine and sat up. “It wasn’t until after I left that I made the connection with the vibrations of the energies and realized my neighbors were half demon. By then, I liked you both too much to care.”

  “Why didn’t you try to banish us?”

  Micah shrugged. “I wasn’t as benign as you think. I asked around, did some digging. When the majority of people in the valley didn’t have odd stories to relate, I figured the both of you were fairly harmless.” His wry smirk returned to tug at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward, his hand going to her hair, smoothing it as he pulled her close to whisper against her lips. “Little did I know what you were capable of doing to me.”

  Warmth skittered around in her belly as his mouth captured hers, his kiss slow and languorous. His fingers played in her hair, slid through the locks to frame the side of her neck. Though she had dressed, chills broke over her body.

  As he leaned away the moonlight illuminated two angry red, half-moon marks on his shoulder. A streak of unexpected compassion washed over her, and she bent forward to dust the fingernail marks with a soft kiss. “I’m so sorry I hurt you,” she whispered.

  “You didn’t,” he answered huskily. “I like the permanent reminder of you.”

  A shiver slid down Brigid’s spine. Permanent—she liked the sound of that. It made her think of the impossible, of nights spent like this, days spent unbothered by her feuding family and her sire’s influence. Micah brought happiness that she hadn’t realized she was missing. Happiness she never wanted to end.

  Well done, Daughter. Your talents in the art of seduction have not weakened. Now be done with this nuisance of a man and leave through the door where his ward is the weakest.

  Brigid froze as her father’s voice crashed through her mind. Drandar here. Watching them. Watching her. The pleasant chills transformed into a shudder. She drew away from the heaven of Micah’s kiss and rubbed her arms. Did Micah sense him?

  Micah reclined. One ankle propped on his knee, arms behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. He let out a soft chuckle. “I want you all over again.”

  His confession spread warmth through her veins, swiftly replacing her chill. She wanted him too—wanted to curl into his embrace until Drandar couldn’t find her.

  See? You’ve done well. He won’t even expect it. Use one of the despicable woman’s paintbrushes. Jam it into his neck.

  A whimper bubbled in the back of her throat. Though Micah’s wards would keep Drandar from physically entering the pagoda, it was as if his hellish hand passed over her shoulder. Her dark soul churned against the sudden rise in negative energy, welcoming the sin and destruction it recognized.

  Against her will, her gaze darted to Beth’s easel and the tray of wooden-handled paintbrushes mounted alongside the canvas. In the next heartbeat, she stared at Micah’s throat, the vein that pulsed alongside his neck. One tip would puncture that vital artery. It wouldn’t take much force to jam it in.

  “Micah. Take me back.” Her plea came out as a shaky whisper.

  He curled onto his side, concern drawing his brows together. “Everything okay?”

  “Take me back.” She said more forcefully. Rising to her feet, she headed for the door.

  Daughter, do not disappoint me. Here is your opportunity. Use it.

  How could Micah not sense him?

  As if in answer, Micah’s knuckles brushed her hair away from her neck, and his lips dusted her shoulder. “Join me in the shower?”

  To hurry him along, she gave Micah a hasty nod. Anything to get out of here. To get away from her sire.

  That’s the way, Brigid. Lead him to the forest. I will await you there.

  Micah murmured words before the doorway, and his ward fell away like tumblers in a lock. Grabbing the handle, she jerked it open. At a dead run, she bolted for the castle.

  “Brigid!”

  Brigid!

  Her father’s shout blended with Micah’s, though where one held apprehension, the other bellowed in rage. She yanked on the castle’s door and ducked inside, leaving it open for Micah to follow. In the dark hall where Drandar could not enter thanks to Beth and Fintan’s combined powers, she slowed her pace and reached behind her for Micah’s hand.

  As he jogged to her side, his fingers twined with hers. Relief flooded his expression. “I thought you were—”

  “No.” She wasn’t running. Not from him. “I just wanted to come inside.”

  Silence fell between them, the tight clasp of Micah’s fingers telling her his worry, though he said nothing further. A part of her longed to confide in him. But doing so would only bring questions she couldn’t answer. Truths she couldn’t confront.

  I will trust your judgment, Brigid.

  Riding on the atmosphere, Drandar’s voice defied the protection of the hall and reached her ears. She stiffened at the raspy touch.

  The sabot comes tomorrow. Bring him to me then. He stands in my way.

  Her rooms—she had to reach her rooms. Her sire couldn’t communicate with her there. Couldn’t fill her head with unspeakable things or taunt her dark soul into following his bidding. There, maybe the shocking vision of Micah on the floor, his lifeblood flowing through a hole in the side of his neck, would leave her alone as well. Sweet ancestors above and below—how had that idea even registered in her conscious? Another shudder racked her shoulders.

  With that vibration, understanding crashed around her shoulders. Her steps faltered as her eyes widened. Love. She had fallen in love with Micah. Somewhere, somehow, he blew past all her defenses and encapsulated himself within her heart. Th
ere could be no other reason for her thoughts to twist to the unthinkable.

  Micah mounted the stairs to their rooms, and Brigid matched him stride for stride, hurrying him along with the press of her fingertips against the small of his back. Sanctuary couldn’t come soon enough.

  He closed the door with his heel and clasped her hands, tugging her into the protective warmth of his body. His lips skimmed the length of her jaw. But as Brigid closed her eyes and tried to force her sire’s voice out of her memory, another more terrible vision burst behind her lowered lashes. They stood like this, Micah’s arms around her, his mouth teasing with each catch and release. But instead of her arms looping around his waist, she jammed a knife into his side.

  So easy, her conscious suggested.

  With a horrified gasp, Brigid jerked out of Micah’s embrace. She fled to her room, slammed the door shut, and bit down on the back of her hand to stifle a scream.

  ****

  Micah stared at Brigid’s closed door, at a loss for words. For that matter, he couldn’t connect logical thoughts. One minute they’d been laughing in the gazebo, oblivious to all that divided them and basking in the afterglow of incredible sex.

  The next…

  He damn sure didn’t have an explanation.

  If he weren’t absolutely convinced of his sanity, he’d have sworn in a matter of ten minutes, two women had switched places. The first was clearly Brigid. The second?

  A total stranger.

  He took a step toward her bedroom, intending to knock. But as his heel connected with the rug, he halted. Why pursue when the slamming of her door made it obvious his company wasn’t wanted?

  Christ Almighty, the woman was as unpredictable as a rogue wave on a stormy sea. If she’d been anyone else, he’d be locked behind that door with her, indulging in the splendor of her body. Instead, he stood in the living room, nursing unquenched desire alone.

  He muttered as he made an about face toward the kitchen for a cold bottle of lager. Therein lay the problem—Brigid wasn’t anyone else. She was a demon. He should count himself lucky that when she’d bolted from the gazebo she hadn’t high-tailed it toward the forest. For a terrifying moment, he’d been certain she would.

  What did you think, Nelson? A bit of romance could change everything?

  Grumbling, Micah twisted off the top of his lager and chugged half the bottle. He’d been foolish—the whole idea had been foolish. He couldn’t tame Brigid, no matter how he might want to. She was as wild and willful as the wind that blew through the valley. She always had been.

  The rest of his lager went down like water, and he reached inside the fridge for another. Twisting the cap off, he made his way to the living room and sank into the couch. He tossed his boots on the table, a fraction away from the ancient book that had sent him down this course of madness. Fintan had known Nyamah’s spell wouldn’t sway Brigid. Micah should have understood that as well.

  He sighed as he sipped. For a fleeting passage of time, he’d tapped into the gentler side of Brigid. In her eyes he read emotion. In the touch of her hands, he experienced genuine feeling. He’d been so certain she recognized the silent understanding he tried to convey with the gazebo, the quiet intimate dinner. So convinced that he’d broken through something tonight as they made love.

  Damn it, he’d hoped he had made a difference, that she’d come to realize life could be more fulfilling if she shed her dark ways. And that crushed hope weighed heavily behind his ribs. Admitting Brigid didn’t share the same depth of feeling hurt on so many levels he couldn’t count them all. Didn’t want to, for fear when he tallied them all up, despair would set in. Tomorrow was the sabot, and he was no closer to getting her to embrace her mother’s designs than he had been four months ago.

  Micah tipped the bottle once more, only to find it empty all too soon. He set it on the table and pushed himself out of the sofa. Everything else aside, he knew one thing for certain—it was going to be a very long night. A very long night alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Darkness pulled Brigid from sleep. It thrummed across her skin, lifted the hairs on her arms, and whispered to her soul. Familiar and strangely comforting, it called to her, encouraging her to wake, to give in to the dark yearnings she could never escape.

  She sat upright and opened her eyes to morning. Her hammering heart left perspiration dampening her brow. Her lungs seized against the massive constriction around her midsection, and she struggled to draw in a normal breath. She swept a frantic gaze around her bedroom, certain Drandar’s strong presence would reveal him standing in a corner. What was he doing here? How had he bypassed Micah’s wards?

  Not here—relief swept through her, and she reclined into her pillows. He was close, but still well beyond the castle’s impenetrable walls. Her lungs let go, allowing her to pull in air. Drandar’s energy, however, refused to allow her spirit peace. War waged inside her, every bit as violent and destructive as the Romans had been in their march through the Selgovae lands. Half of her craved death. The other yearned for peace.

  Both halves hungered for Micah.

  She closed her eyes to the torment of it all and pushed the dark urges down. Her pulse leveled out. The knot in her stomach unraveled. And in the relative quiet of her bedroom, momentarily free from Drandar’s presence, she became aware of another stillness. Another nothingness that had become so much a part of her life, its absence left her restless. Micah had failed to renew his wards again.

  Brigid slid from the bed with a sharp breath of surprise. She could go now. Run from here, from him, and escape the torment of staring at the same walls day after day.

  Freedom lay beyond her bedroom door. If she seized it, she might escape the horrific ideas of his death. She might yet keep from truly harming Micah.

  Hurrying, she tucked her feet into a pair of sneakers and tiptoed to the door to crack it open. Head bent close to the opening, she listened for his movements in the other room.

  When only the sound of the clock ticking on the stone mantel drifted to her ear, her nerves prickled all over again. Not much longer now. She opened the door wide and hurried into the front room, her focus riveted on the exit. Twenty steps. No more.

  A murmur froze her in place. Her gaze pulled to the sofa where Micah lay sleeping off a hangover if the six or seven bottles of beer on the table were any indication. Unexpected despair sliced through her, and she looked to the unguarded window, the clear blue sky beyond. Hesitating.

  Outside, just beyond the wild garden, Fintan and Beth walked hand-in-hand through the green fields. Beth stopped, throwing her head back as she laughed. Fintan gathered her close, dipping his head in search of her mouth.

  When their lips touched, Brigid’s eyes drifted back to Micah. What if we could have had that?

  He threw an arm over his eyes and mumbled something else in his sleep. His twisted clothes and scrunched position made it impossible to pretend indifference to the way she’d left him last night. She’d hurt him, although he would never admit it. And in some struggling portion of her soul, hurting Micah was unacceptable.

  With a sigh, she went to the sofa, tugged the afghan out from under his propped-up foot, and laid it over his body. When her fingers brushed his hair, a deeper awareness enveloped her. It wasn’t just Micah’s discomfort that delayed her. Wasn’t just the man, despite the incredible sway he held over her heart.

  Here, in these rooms, she was safe. Micah’s wards assured that safety. He kept her father’s darkness away, cocooned Brigid in a world where fear didn’t rule. All the times she’d unraveled Micah’s wards and told herself she wanted to witness his reaction—she’d never intended to leave. True enough, she’d told herself she would, but it was pride and a longing for the good things of life she missed that kept the mantra alive.

  She hadn’t wanted to leave yesterday when he failed to renew his magic, anymore than she wanted to leave now. For if she left, Drandar would control her again. Fear of her father would dictate the life she l
ed.

  As it had been doing since she was a small child.

  Problem being, now that she didn’t want to leave, her sire controlled her anyway. Already the curse he bequeathed to them all swam in her veins, brought to life by her heart. By the love she was forbidden to know, but had discovered here, in these three rooms, with Micah Nelson.

  Though she’d like to believe if she ran, she could resist the dark curse. But in her heart, she knew, if she left, she would find Micah again. When the calling to take his life became impossible to ignore, she’d return. Drandar guaranteed she would kill Micah, no matter how her mother’s blood battled that desire.

  If she stayed, she might be free from Drandar’s current will, but the curse would compound each day she spent confined with Micah.

  She lifted her head and stared at her mother’s spell. Salvation lay in those words, though the price would bring an eternal end to their love. She couldn’t save herself, but she could save him.

  And in so doing, she would commit one final act of revenge on the demon who had haunted her a lifetime.

  Brigid took a deep breath and snatched the book off the table. Like the wards in the room, Micah’s magic lay dormant. But beneath it, her mother’s power thrummed with life. It soaked into her fingertips, radiated up her arm, and took root deep in her core, giving her strength to ignore the whip of pain as her dark half recoiled.

  She took the ritual to her room and sat in the middle of her bed. With trembling hands, Brigid opened the crumbling cover and stared at her mother’s hand-drawn runes.

  ****

  Something wasn’t right.

  The thought dragged Micah from sleep, and he awakened with a frown. He sat up, despite the dull throbbing behind his skull and squinted in the bright sunlight that saturated the living room. What time was it anyway?

  One, according to the clock on the mantel. Good lord, he’d slept the day away.

  Small wonder, given he couldn’t remember exactly how he’d ended up asleep on the couch. The last thing he remembered was getting up for the fourth drink. The other three bottles on the table were as foreign to him as Japanese.