Cursed to Kill

by Claire Ashgrove

  She kicked the covers off and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Wallowing and hoping for a different outcome if she kept her eyes closed long enough wouldn’t solve anything either. She knew from experience that the best way to forget Cian’s effect on her heart was to keep busy.

  Damn, though, why did it have to hurt so much? Rejected not once, but twice—wasn’t there a point when numbness settled in?

  With concentrated effort, she shoved out of the bed, away from the memories of Cian’s powerful body dominating hers, pushing her into mind-blowing ecstasy, and into the confines of her bathroom. She told herself closing the door would block him out. That the click of the lock would keep him from intruding, and that the sound of the running shower would bar his whispers from her ears.

  It worked, to a degree. Beneath the hot spray, she focused only on the tiny droplets pounding into her skin, working away the tension that shouldn’t be present after an evening of fantastic sex. When the water ran tepid, however, and she spun off the faucets to confront the quiet of the house, Cian returned with a vengeance.

  Memories of the lazy fall day they’d both played hookie because nothing sounded better than staying cuddled up in bed assaulted her. They had showered here. In between making love, he had carried her to the bathroom and washed her body as if she were a treasure. He had toweled her off with the same, unending, tenderness, taking his time from her feet to the tips of her short hair.

  Miranda sucked in a sharp gulp of air to stop the barrage of sentiment. Unseeing, she stared at her reflection, counting her breaths until her lungs unclenched and the overwhelming urge to sit on the floor and bawl her eyes out passed.

  She would not cry.

  Like dragons pursued her, she finger-combed her wet hair, yanked whatever clothes met her fingertips from the closet, and made a beeline for the kitchen, in desperate need of a cup of coffee. Instant, so she didn’t have to stand around and wait for it to finish brewing, all the while replaying last night in her mind.

  The narrow, wooden-handled fillet knife in the bottom of her sink gave her pause. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall having a need for it anytime yesterday. Since last month, for that matter, when she’d skinned swordfish steaks for her and Susan. What in the world was it doing laying out?

  With a grunt, she recalled Cian’s obsession for saving leftovers. Miranda rolled her eyes and put the sharp blade in the drawer. He’d probably cut off the eaten portions of their burgers, either to take with him, or to put in her fridge. Quirky. The man could defy the meaning of odd sometimes. But damned if it wasn’t charming on him.

  Ugh. Nothing about him should be charming this morning. Least of all the very same oddness that had him spouting endearments then running off in the middle of the night.

  Annoyed, she ripped open the packet of instant coffee like she was tearing off his head and dumped it into a cup. If she saw him again, she’d give him a good piece of her mind.

  Scratch that. When she saw him again. Sure as shooting he’d be back in her store. This time, Miranda intended to make sure Cian couldn’t anticipate her schedule. No more Saturdays off, for starters. She’d put herself in his path. When he walked in, she intended to get some answers.

  If nothing else, she’d find a little satisfaction in the surprise that would invade his bright green eyes and the way he would trip over his tongue.

  The thought improved her spirits enough she found a wry smile. When the microwave dinged, signaling her coffee was finished, she drank deeply, no longer feeling the need to bolt from her house. She’d work on a plan. Then, when she knew exactly what she’d say to Cian, she’d venture downstairs.

  Mug in hand, she wandered to her living room, and her favorite meditation spot by the window in the tower sunroom. Maybe she’d just stay in today after all. Do a little yoga, read the paper, check on her investments, watch a little mindless afternoon television. Brainless activities that would allow her to muddle through possibilities in her mind.

  She came to an abrupt halt at her coffee table, where their plates from last night still sat, the food on them cold, the milkshakes soggy goo. If Cian hadn’t packaged up the leftovers, then just why was her knife sitting out?

  Miranda shook off the oddity. It didn’t matter. He’d been fiddling with a knife, for God’s sake. A regular, Wal-Mart version, fillet knife, not some priceless…

  Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt as her gaze landed on a bare spot on the table. The same place she had left the Celt manuscript when Cian distracted her with that intoxicating kiss.

  Damn him!

  Miranda slammed the mug on the table. Hot coffee sloshed onto her hand. She spewed an oath through clenched teeth and made an about-face. Two furious strides took her to her purse and car keys. Deliberate seduction was one thing. Stealing, however, was an unforgivable offense.

  ****

  Cian’s head ached from the unrelenting hammer behind his skull. The same thud-thud had kept him awake long after he dragged his sorry ass to bed. This morning, though, he could squarely fault his siblings for the interminable racket. Between Dàire’s goading, Rhiannon’s prodding, and Belen’s masterful cross talk, he was ready to tell all three of them to get the hell out of his house and he’d meet them in Scotland.

  All he knew was he had to find some way to get Miranda across the ocean before tomorrow night. Some way that wouldn’t leave her vulnerable to his dark urges.

  Once he got her there, he didn’t know what would happen. Belen had phoned the others after Dàire contacted him, and as expected, Brigid and Taran were refusing to come. And Belen, he too had Cian on edge. He was entirely too willing to go through with this. As if he knew something about the curse the rest of them didn’t. He wanted something, Cian was sure of it. He hoped that by keeping Miranda’s name out of their discussion, it wasn’t her.

  He squinted at his siblings from across the kitchen table.

  “What’s the matter, big brother?” Dàire flashed the same cocksure grin that had greeted Cian the moment he walked into the room, bleary-eyed and in dire need of caffeine. “Feeling the thirst for death so soon?”

  “Fuck you,” Cian muttered, at the end of his rope. He propped an elbow on the table and cradled his forehead in his hand, shading his eyes from the bright light of morning.

  Belen tsked. “Now, now, Cian, no need to be grumpy. We’re just trying to understand the situation.”

  Cian had no doubt Belen was well aware of the situation going on inside Cian’s soul. His torment gave his brother a twisted sense of pleasure. He would feed off the negative energy ebbing from Cian for the next few days.

  “Well, if you aren’t going to tell us what your plans are, I guess Dàire and Belen should head on over to the family home.” Rhiannon twirled her coffee mug in a slow circle. Her gaze lifted to Cian’s, full of silent knowledge. “I’ll fly over with you.”

  “You’re leaving me to deal with Taran? How cruel!” Dàire protested, but his blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

  Rhiannon leveled her index finger at Dàire’s nose. “One wrong step and you know I’ll feel it.”

  Dàire waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll behave.”

  Belen laughed, voicing the same amusement that stirred in Cian’s chest. Born on the Spring and Fall Equinox, Rhiannon and Dàire were as close to twins as could be. They looked alike, thought alike, and their ability to sense each other’s emotions often infuriated the both of them, but gave the rest of the family endless entertainment. Particularly in situations like now, where Dàire skirted the line between light and dark, and Rhiannon tried to pull him in one concrete direction.

  When the reverse happened, they all took cover. Rhiannon didn’t care to have her desires overruled. Yet she always sided with her twin. Yielded to the bond that ran deeper than the blood they all shared.

  “So you want me to talk to Taran?” Belen suggested. “I can convince him there’s merit in attending the ritual. But Brigid—someone else has to
deal with her.”

  Cian groaned. “Don’t tell me you two are at odds?”

  “Quite the contrary.” Belen flashed a Cheshire smile. “We’re getting along famously.” He lifted his coffee cup in mock toast. “Something I don’t wish to alter by creating an argument on the merits of destroying our father.”

  Cian’s grunt spoke for them all. Brigid was an obstacle they needed to approach carefully. No one wanted to be on her bad side.

  “I’ll do it,” Dàire offered quietly.

  “No,” Cian countered. He glanced at Rhiannon, studying her expression as he suggested, “Have Isolde meet with her.”

  “Isolde?” Belen barked out a laugh. “Isolde can’t stand up to a mouse, and you want her to convince Brigid?”

  Rhiannon’s eyes sparked with understanding. She dipped her head thoughtfully, then with more conviction. “He’s right. Send Isolde, Dàire. She’ll go. And Brigid will come.”

  Belen cocked his head, confusion etched into his expression. His unruly dark hair flopped into his face. He brushed it aside as he asked, “How do you figure?”

  “Win more with sugar,” Dàire answered, catching on.

  A sudden pounding on Cian’s door brought Dàire’s attention to Cian. One auburn eyebrow quirked, and that damnable grin teased the corner of his mouth. “Expecting someone?”

  Everything inside Cian ground to a halt. He knew who was on his front porch. There could be only one reason for someone to drop by at eight in the morning.

  Never mind the fierce arc of darkness inside his soul as it recognized the one thing it craved more than total freedom.

  Cian clenched his mug between both hands and stared at the black coffee inside, doing everything in his power to temper the deathly thirst. No way could he answer the door like this. Miranda would take one look at him and realize she’d stepped into a world of terror.

  As if Rhiannon could read Cian’s dark thoughts, her face clouded with concern. She pushed her chair back and rose from the table. “I’ll get it.”

  “Don’t,” Cian snapped.

  She stopped at his shoulder and bent near his ear. “If you’re not together in five minutes, break a dish.”

  An out. He had an out. A way to avoid Miranda’s rightful wrath. For the first time he could recall, he found himself hoping the black part of his soul would emerge the victor.

  Chapter Seven

  The last thing Miranda expected when she pounded on Cian’s door was for a woman to answer. A stunning woman. Worse, this long-legged beauty wore nothing more than a floor-length black satin nightgown, and she claimed the space beyond the open doorway like she owned the place. Her thigh-length fiery red hair shone with tints of gold and accented a pair of sparkling blue eyes that peered at Miranda curiously. As if she too hadn’t expected a woman to be standing on the front porch.

  Was this why Cian had left in the middle of the night? Had he, in the six months since he’d abandoned her, moved on? Moved someone else in?

  She squinted at the intricate Celtic band tattooed across the redhead’s nose and cheekbones. So Cian liked his women a little bad, huh? Was that why she’d never had the privilege of opening his front door like it belonged to her? Why he’d been so fascinated with her new tattoo?

  Bitter fury brought Miranda’s shoulders up as she tried to gain some height against the Amazon taking up Cain’s doorway. “Where’s Cian?”

  Blue eyes widened with a touch of surprise, but she took a step back, beckoning Miranda to enter. “He’s indisposed at the moment. I’ll see if—”

  Cian entered the front hall, looking disheveled and weary. Both women’s attention swung to him, Miranda’s heart catching shamefully. She ached for his smile, for a hearty greeting that told her this was anything other than the obvious truth that she’d intruded on Cian’s new life. But it was the redhead Cian gave an affectionate smile to. Whose shoulder he touched tenderly and bent his head to whisper something in her ear.

  And it was the redhead, not Miranda, who brushed a kiss over Cian’s cheek, secure in her position as Cian’s lover. Confident she should worry about nothing. Trusting…

  Everything inside Miranda rolled over as the truth smacked her in the face, and she realized just how foolish she’d been. Arrogantly, she’d assumed he spent the last six months alone. She didn’t know why—the man had never made it habit to be alone before her, why would he after? Still, witnessing reality knifed pain through her already bleeding heart.

  “Miranda.” Cian took her by the elbow, guiding her into the hall. He closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest. “Good morning.”

  “I’ve had better.” She pushed a lock of her hair out of her eyes, embarrassed by the shaking of her hand. “I want my manuscript, Cian.”

  His handsome features pulled into a grim expression, the lines around his mouth hardened. He shook his head. “I can’t give it back to you yet.” He inclined his head toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you come in and talk for a bit.”

  It wasn’t a question, and the harsh, decisive tone wedged beneath Miranda’s skin like someone had shoved iron filings under her nails. All the tumultuous emotion she’d experienced since waking bottlenecked, then exploded in an angry rush of words. “Talk? You think I give a damn about what you have to say? The hell you can’t give it to me. It’s mine, and I’m not leaving without it!”

  “Miranda, calm down. Let me explain.”

  “Explain?” Her voice shot through the hall, shrill and outraged. “Explain what? How much you missed me? How you need me? Not interested.” Spying the manila folder she’d put the papers in atop his coffee table, Miranda stalked past Cian, into the living room. She snatched the folder up furiously, then whirled around to point the ancient writings at his chest. “Stay out of my shop. Stay out of my life.”

  His gaze flickered, and for the briefest moment, Miranda thought she witnessed regret behind his unblinking stare. But in the next heartbeat, anger lit, and those bright green eyes glittered dangerously.

  What the hell did he have to be angry about? She was the one he’d seduced. Lied to. Manipulated.

  Abandoned.

  Twice.

  “I can’t let you take that, Miranda.” He approached her slowly, much like a cat stalking its prey. His eyes remained glued to her face, but she sensed he meant to take the papers out of her hand. His deliberate steps, the tightness of his body warned he would pounce and tackle if she tried to run for the door.

  She backed up a step.

  “I’ll give it back to you, but I need it for the next few days.” Inches away from her now, he held out his hand for the folder. “Let me borrow it. I’ll return it unharmed. Trust me.”

  Miranda couldn’t stop a derisive snort from breaking free. “Trust you—right. We see where that’s gotten me. Fucked, that’s where.”

  “Miranda, if you’d give me five minutes—”

  “I need more than five minutes, Cian.” Twisting her shoulders, she made to duck around his powerful frame. This was over. The conversation was rapidly degenerating into a useless argument that would accomplish nothing. She needed to get out of here while she still could. Before she lost her courage and took a good look at the pained creases around the corners of his eyes.

  Cian grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her to a stop. Firmly, he turned her around. With one step forward, he pinned her between the wall and his hard chest. “Yeah, you do,” he answered hoarsely. “You need a hell of a lot more than five minutes.”

  Danger! She couldn’t think this close to him. Could barely focus enough to breathe. And somewhere in that argument, they’d changed course. His hungry expression had nothing to do with explanations. Damn if it wasn’t affecting her too. The heat from his body radiated into her, shaking her foundation, mixing up her convictions until she felt like she’d been stuffed inside a blender and someone pushed HIGH.

  “Cian, stop,” she whispered as she flattened a palm against his chest and pushe
d. “I’m not doing this. Your girlfriend’s in the kitchen, and I’m leaving. My writings stay with me.”

  He ignored her completely. One hand dropped to her wrist, securing it between their bodies. The other worked the folder free from her fingers and dropped it at their feet. Then he gathered both wrists, and before she could do anything more than gasp in shock, he stretched her arms above her head and held her wrists to the wall. His head dipped. Morning stubble rasped against her skin near the base of her ear.

  “She’s my sister,” he murmured before his tongue flicked out to tease her earlobe.

  A shudder rolled through Miranda from neck to toes. With it came a low moan of pleasure. She didn’t know which sensation to focus on—the confession the redhead was family, or the exquisite feel of his warm, moist breath dancing down her throat. The conflicted voices in her head screamed in equal measure, one demanding she stop this nonsense, the other urging her to shut up and take what Cian so obviously had to give.

  At the base of her throat, his teeth pricked the tender flesh. The pinch of pleasure-pain shot all the way to her womb, turning her insides into melted honey. Miranda’s knees threatened to give out. Would have, if Cian hadn’t pressed his lower body into hers, stabilizing her against the wall, and exposing her to the undeniable evidence of his arousal. Hard and thick, his cock pressed into her soft feminine flesh.

  “I left,” he whispered as he scattered kisses across her breastbone to the opposite side of her neck, “to protect you. From me.” With his nose, he nudged the loose collar of her sweater aside and grazed his teeth across her bra strap, tugging it playfully. “From the things I want from you.”

  She didn’t want to ask. Couldn’t be certain his answer wouldn’t break her completely. But the question rose against her will and tumbled free. “What do you want from me?”