Celtic Moon cw-1

by Jan Delima

  “From a biker convention. They had booths of this kind of stuff. It works great for jogging.”

  With her eyes still closed, she felt his hand inch downward, pause, and then snake under the elastic band of her sweatpants and briefs.

  Her eyes flew open. “What are you doing?” She dropped her holsters and grabbed at his forearm.

  “I’m going to give you pleasure,” he announced as if it were a nonnegotiable fact.

  “Here?” Oh, God. “Now?”

  “It’s taking every ounce of my will not to throw you on the muddied ground and come inside you.” He pressed a finger between the moist folds of her skin. “I need this.” He moved up and over the sensitive peak of her sex. “Let me hear my name on your lips when you—”

  “Stop! Just stop talking.” Because his words taunted her, aroused her. She grabbed at his wrist but it was too late; he had found his target, plucking at the sensitive bud with skillful fingers.

  His arm pressed into her thigh, holding her in place. She lost her footing, falling back into the full support of his embrace. Her insides tightened, and tightened some more, and soon her grip on his wrist was encouragement as he stroked her toward a violent release.

  And, yes, she cried out his name.

  The sounds of the forest invaded slowly. She was mildly aware that Dylan had gone utterly rigid and that he no longer supported her weight.

  “I’m going for a run,” he growled, and left her struggling for balance, in more ways than one, in a suddenly empty clearing.

  * * *

  WITH HER SCENT IN HIS LUNGS, AND THE ECHOES OF HER cries in his ears, Dylan couldn’t breathe.

  Pausing in the shadows of the forest, the memory of her flesh and soft body haunted him. He wanted to go back and shove her to the ground, rip her pants down around her knees, wrap his hands in all that thick hair and pin her beneath him until he felt her sweet flesh pulse around his deprived cock . . .

  His wolf prowled, caged in his body, in full agreement with that plan, anxious and ready to be satisfied. It translated desire into hunger and it wanted to feed.

  It wanted to mark its mate.

  Leaning against a tree for support, Dylan clawed at the hardened bark beneath his fingers, welcoming the pain. He was in no mood to be nice. It had been too damn long. If he returned to her now in his current state, he might hurt her.

  With that knowledge, he moved forward with one heavy step, and then another, a focus of will that helped put distance between him and his ultimate temptation.

  There was one thing he knew for certain, one point of clarity that gave him strength: Sophie’s return was a tentative gift, one that could just as easily be taken away if not handled properly. Their reunion couldn’t be an act of domination. Not with their history. Not with how she’d been treated in his home.

  No, his wife needed to come to him, because he wanted more than just her physical submission. He wanted her loyalty—and her trust. He wanted her to accept their marriage, and he would bloody well wait for her to do so, even if it killed him.

  Sixteen

  “WHAT THE HELL?” SOPHIE RAN HER HANDS OVER HER face, trying to regain her composure. When she realized he wasn’t coming back, she returned to the lake house, creeping through the front door like a guilty teenager.

  Her mother was up—of course—and dressed for the day in navy slacks and a simple white blouse. She turned and assessed Sophie with shrewd brown eyes. “You couldn’t put off running for a few days?”

  “No.” Sophie felt her face turn red, even though the question had nothing to do with her embarrassment.

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed further. “Did something happen? Did you run into Dylan?”

  “No. Well, er, yes,” she fumbled.

  “Why is your face red?” She sniffed the air as if something didn’t smell quite right. “And what’s on your clothes?”

  “I tripped and I’m sweaty. And I need a shower.” Sophie rushed to the bathroom before her mother could probe further. “I won’t be long.”

  Locking the door behind her, she stripped quickly and turned on the shower, groaning when the hot water ran down her back. As Dylan’s words replayed in her mind, she rested her forehead against the tiled shower wall.

  Our son isn’t the only thing I lost when you left me.

  A soft sob escaped her lips. Only here, only when she was alone and the water washed away her tears, could she express her true feelings. How many times had she pictured Dylan with other women? With Siân? God help her, but she felt immense satisfaction knowing he had never returned to that woman’s bed.

  After rinsing off, she wrapped a towel around her middle and gathered her dirty clothes from the floor. Once in her bedroom, she chose the first thing out of her suitcase, gray trousers and a square-neck black sweater; both items hugged her frame but also allowed movement and were presentable and functional.

  After combing out her hair and putting on tinted moisturizer, the extent of her morning routine, she made her way to the kitchen, ready to face her family.

  Joshua sat at the kitchen table as Francine leaned against the counter. The smell of cinnamon and baking bread filled the room, along with a sudden awkward silence.

  “Thanks for finishing the rolls, Mum.”

  After no response, Sophie asked, “Okay, what’s up?”

  Francine lifted her coffee mug to her lips, took a sip, and set it down on the kitchen counter. “Joshua and I have been having an interesting conversation.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Sophie glared at her child, whose six-foot-three frame was trying unsuccessfully to sink under the table. “About what?”

  “Um,” Joshua mumbled, “is the bathroom free?” Not waiting for an answer. “I’m gonna take a shower now.”

  Not a woman to waste time, Francine got right to the point. “Joshua told me you’re married to his father. Is this true?”

  Sophie glared at her son’s retreating back. “Dylan and I made promises to each other. Nothing more. No papers were signed, no minister, no witnesses. I thought, at the time, it was a romantic gesture.”

  Francine pinned her daughter with an assessing look. “But Dylan thinks differently.”

  “He does,” she admitted.

  Her mother remained silent, thoughtful—never a good sign. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to be truthful with me.”

  “Can’t this wait?”

  “No, it can’t. Did your husband ever hurt you?”

  “Mum . . . you don’t understand, it wasn’t like that. It’s . . . complicated.”

  Her mother wasn’t deterred. “It’s a very simple question . . . yes or no . . . Did your husband ever hurt you?”

  Regardless of their sordid history, Sophie was unwilling to allow her mother to think the worst of Dylan. “No.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Then why were you injured when you came to me?”

  “Dylan had no knowledge that I was hurt when I left him.”

  Francine’s shoulders eased somewhat. “When your husband threatened to take his child from you, was that because he knew you were leaving?”

  Sophie’s stomach tightened, not liking the way her mother kept referring to Dylan as her husband. “Yes.”

  “Did your husband want you to stay with him?”

  And tightened some more. “Yes.”

  “And what type of promises did you give your husband in this ceremony that had no witnesses? Did you promise to support him, and to love him, through good times and bad . . . ?”

  “Stop.” Sophie held up her hand. She knew where this was going but didn’t know how to defend her actions without betraying Dylan’s secret. So she voiced the only truth she could. “I lost my freedom as Dylan’s wife.”

  “Sweetheart,” Francine said in a tone that would have been condescending if it hadn’t been laced with concern. “What do you think marriage is? Sunshine and roses?” She snorted, a feminine snort, but a snort all the same. “Your freedom ended the day you spo
ke your vows and accepted that man as your husband.” She held up a pointed finger. “And consummated the union. There are reasons to end a marriage, of course. So, I will ask you again . . . Do you have a justified reason? Do you think your husband is capable of harming either you or Joshua?”

  “No,” Sophie said again, shaking with frustration, “Dylan would never hurt us. And I don’t want to talk about this any more.” Feeling overexposed and miserable, she slumped into the nearest chair and put her face in her hands. There was a soft shuffle across the kitchen floor as her mother approached, and then a gentle touch on the top of her head.

  “In all these years,” Francine said softly, “you’ve never so much as looked at another man. And yet, in Dylan’s presence, you’re all blushes and fumbled words. Do you still love him?”

  Sophie hated the sudden thickness of her throat. “I told you it’s complicated.”

  “Life is complicated. The heart isn’t. Do you still love him?”

  “I . . . Oh, hell . . .” she stammered, turning to mush under her mother’s comforting hands and facing what she’d denied for sixteen years. “I love him so much that when I look at him it hurts.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Francine let out a loud sigh. “I know you. And I know I didn’t raise a coward. I think it’s time you explained to me what the hell is going on. If it’s not your husband, then what—or who—have you been running from all these years?”

  Seventeen

  I LOVE HIM SO MUCH THAT WHEN I LOOK AT HIM IT HURTS.

  Dylan stood outside the lake house, letting his forehead rest on the painted wood of the front door, listening without guilt to his wife’s conversation with her mother. Sophie’s admission resonated through his chest, soothing his beast more than a run ever could.

  Francine’s reproach to her daughter had been an unexpected insight into her character. He was pleased, but also troubled by his own past mistrust. How different would their lives have been, had he allowed Francine into his home when Sophie had needed her most?

  After two knocks, he opened the door. The women jumped apart. Sophie looked shaken, and . . . displeased. Perhaps she sensed her charade was about to end.

  “It’s time to tell your mother the truth,” he said.

  Her jaw gaped as understanding dawned. “No. Don’t do this.” Sophie started to shake her head, her tone beseeching. “I’ve told my mother nothing. She knows nothing. She can still leave here if she wants to.”

  Dylan walked over to his wife and lifted her chin. A wet streak stained her face and he dried it with his thumb. “It’s too late for that.”

  Francine poked at his shoulder. Not one poke, but several, until he turned and acknowledged the petite woman.

  Undaunted by his glare, she placed both hands on her waist, her questioning gaze on Sophie and then on the bathroom door as it opened. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on here?”

  Joshua’s hair stuck out in unkempt spikes, as if he had just shaken his head to expel the dampness. He assessed the situation, probably having heard most of it before stepping into the room. “Grandma, I want to ask you a serious question.”

  Francine threw up her hands. “What now?” Her narrowed glare held the fierceness of a worthy opponent but then gentled as she looked to her grandson. “Fine,” she sighed. “Out with it. Ask me your question.”

  Joshua gave her a respectful nod. “Would you rather live with us and never be able to leave, or leave us and have your freedom? But,” he emphasized, “the price of your freedom is to never see us again. What would you choose?”

  Dylan interrupted, saddened that he had to contradict his son. “Your grandmother no longer has a choice. She knows where I live . . . where you are.”

  Rolling his eyes, Joshua turned his back to both women and mouthed silently, Watch and learn.

  Surprised, but also intrigued, Dylan waved his hand for him to continue.

  Francine tilted her head to one side. “We’re not talking a hypothetical situation here, are we? This is a real choice you want me to make?”

  “Yes,” Joshua confirmed.

  “Why?”

  “We can’t tell you unless you agree to stay.”

  “Fine,” she said, directing her answer toward Dylan. “I choose my daughter and my grandson.” There was no hesitation, not even a question or a doubt, or even a moment for thought. “So, that’s settled. Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”

  “I can change into a wolf,” Dylan said bluntly.

  Francine laughed. “No, really, what’s going on?”

  “I can change into a wolf,” he repeated. “Do you need a demonstration? One of my men is nearby, or I could do it myself.”

  The laughter fell short. She looked toward her daughter for reassurance and found none. “He’s serious?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sophie said.

  “I would like a demonstration.” The quiet request had come from Joshua.

  “From me?” Dylan asked. “Or from one of my men?”

  Joshua shrugged as if he didn’t care, but Sophie whispered, “Not you.”

  Unwilling to deny her any reasonable demand, Dylan opened the door and held out his arm for Francine and his family to go ahead of him. A mixture of emotions surrounded the slow procession, doubt, sadness, and last, from his son, anticipation. He followed them to the front porch and let out a sharp whistle. Within seconds, Malsum appeared beside Sophie’s vehicle, still in wolf form.

  “Dear God,” Francine whispered, her doubt now edged by fear. “That’s a wolf.”

  Committed to this display, Dylan nodded to Malsum and ordered, “Shift.”

  The wolf gave a low nod and shivered as he drew in the surrounding energy. Dylan heard a startled gasp from his son, not of surprise, but of pleasure as the tendrils of power bled in their direction.

  Keeping his face to the ground, an act of respect for Dylan’s family, Malsum began his transformation. Within seconds, a human body took shape in a graceful dance of sinew and receding fur. He was often harassed by other guards for being a pretty shifter.

  A deep inhalation expanded newly formed lungs as Malsum unfolded into a standing position as a man; his waist-length hair shrouded much of his muscled form. His dark coloring turned gold in the morning light. With his arms relaxed by his sides, he waited for further instruction, although laughter danced within his brown eyes and a slight grin tugged at his mouth.

  Malsum’s father had been a native of this land, and much like his ancestors, he had a calm nature, an ability to evaluate a situation at a higher level. However, he also had the blood of a Celt running through his veins—the source of his wolf. If provoked, if given just cause, the man had no reservations about eliminating anyone who threatened his home and family, quickly and without emotion.

  “Thank you, Malsum.” Dylan nodded for him to leave and turned to assess his family’s reaction. Joshua had his hands fisted by his sides, riding out the aftereffects of lingering energy. Sensing his tentative hold on control, Dylan placed a hand on his shoulder. “Soon.”

  Tension eased as Joshua gave a sharp nod of understanding.

  After shooting an icy glare in Dylan’s direction, Sophie went to stand in front of her mother. “Mum, are you all right?”

  The woman answered with a quiet request. “Would you get me my purse, please?”

  “Sure,” Sophie said with some hesitation, “if that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want.”

  Sophie disappeared into the house and returned with a small leather satchel. “I told you things were complicated. I warned you not to come with us.”

  Francine ignored her daughter as she rummaged through the bag, giving a ragged sigh when she pulled out a metal cigarette case. She removed one cigarette, put it to her lips with a shaking hand, and then frowned. “Lighter? Where are you? Oh, there you are, my sweet thing.” She lit the cigarette and took a long draw, exhaling with a smoke-filled sigh.

  Sophie sta
rted to pace. “Mum . . .”

  “No, no . . .” Francine shook her head. “Not yet. I haven’t had a cigarette in eighteen years. Don’t ruin this for me.”

  “Are you unwell?” Dylan asked, quickly becoming concerned with her odd behavior. Perhaps he had misjudged her mental strength?

  “My mother used to smoke,” Sophie explained. “She quit when my father was diagnosed with cancer.”

  “I saved my last pack for a stressful situation,” Francine added on a breath of smoke. “I’d say this qualifies.”

  “Indeed.” Dylan gave her a low nod, thankful that she seemed quite lucid.

  However, once the initial shock wore off, Francine leveled him with a look of reproach. “Does this . . .” She waved her hand in the air, searching for an apt description. “Does this thing that you do also affect my grandson?”

  “We believe so,” Dylan said.

  “I see.” She turned to her daughter. “You should have told me.”

  “How, Mum? How was I supposed to tell you something like this? I asked you once if you believed in any of the old legends, if maybe you thought there might be some truth behind the stories . . . and you accused me of doing drugs.”

  “Did I?” Francine shrugged. “I don’t remember that, but if I did accuse you of doing drugs, it was only because you hung around all those hippie people with knots in their hair . . . who smelled like dirty socks.”

  “Dreadlocks, Mum . . . The knots in the hair are called dreadlocks. And those people were educated professors, and scientists, and wildlife activists. And why are we talking about this?” Sophie threw up her hands. “That was a long time ago, before Joshua was even born.”

  Francine huffed. “You’d think an educated person would know how to use a bar of soap.”

  “They did use soap.”

  “Then why did they have knots in their hair?”

  Dylan pretended to cough only to hide his laughter; he was quite sure he had met a few of the people Francine referred to, just as he was sure this inane argument was an outlet for their anxiety.