Heart Of The Wolf (Eye Of The Storm #3)

by Dianna Hardy

  “Yeah, whatever,” was Beth's retort as she walked out the door.

  Holly glanced at Sarah. “You think she'll poison my coffee?”

  Sarah let out a small laugh. “She might curse it, but I doubt she'll whip the cyanide out.”

  “I dunno, this is starting to feel an awful lot like an Agatha Christie novel.”

  “Thanks, by the way.”

  “What for?”

  “For stomping your way here from across the other side of the world and giving us what for.”

  Holly nudged her, playfully. “I was kinda bored, anyway, with my better half away at the moment. Besides, I've missed you … and the oh-so-impenitent Beth. The three musketeers ride again!” she exclaimed. Yeah, that had been their nickname at university.

  “Well, let's hope whatever they're fighting against, they win.”

  “What kind of talk is that? The three musketeers always win.”

  “Weren't there four?”

  “Huh?”

  “There were four musketeers.”

  “Only towards the end of the book. The fourth guy was someone they thought was the enemy first. They fought, and then he joined them, became acquaintances and then friends, and then finally, he became the fourth musketeer and they went on many adventures, of which all were won. The end.”

  “Would they have been able to win them without him?”

  “Um … we going anywhere with this? You know I was talking figuratively, right?”

  Sarah shrugged. “Just feels like there's something missing. Maybe it's a fourth musketeer.”

  Holly eyed her keenly. “Are you talking about your hot dude?”

  Sarah threw her a look. “No, I wasn't.”

  “Beth told me about him – said he fled and that you've been pining.”

  “I'm not pining! And it's more complicated than that.”

  “Is it more complicated than trying to track down the husband you don't remember?”

  Sarah let out a derisive grunt as her eyes fell on Taylor's name, scribbled in her very familiar, curly handwriting. “I guess not.”

  Holly's phone sounded. “Ooo. … here we go. Affirmative. Michael wants Taylor's name, last address and mobile number, and me to call him to catch up,” she rolled her eyes, “and he says we'll just have to wait and see what happens – no promises.”

  Sarah blinked. “I can't believe he's actually checking.”

  “I think he still loves me,” she shrugged. “Even if this gets us nowhere, it's worth trying. We need to know what happened.”

  “Yeah – thanks.” Although Sarah had to wonder if whatever the truth was would be better than not knowing. Maybe there was a good reason she remembered nothing.

  Beth appeared through the doorway with three steaming mugs in her hands and smiled widely. “Tea!”

  ~*~

  “Drink,” commanded a female voice in the Egyptian tongue. He might be rusty with his native language, but he still understood basic words.

  Amil wrinkled his nose in disgust. “That smells foul,” he choked out, as he opened his eyes, that god-awful stench hurtling him into consciousness far quicker than he'd like for all the bruises he could still feel on his person. Tridents usually healed faster than this.

  “It's tea.”

  “Not any tea I know.”

  He'd been brought indoors while he'd been knocked out. This place looked like the insides of one of those temple ruins he'd seen before climbing down the well, except this temple – if that's what it was – wasn't ruined. It looked as good as new.

  He eyed his visitor carefully from the stone wall he was currently propped up against. “Who are you?”

  She bowed at the waist, balancing his mug of 'tea' in both hands. “I am Aahmas. I am a servant of Sekhmet. You may call me servant.”

  “I'll call you Aahmas.”

  She frowned. “My status does not allow—”

  “Does she treat you well?”

  “Oh, yes, the Goddess is—”

  “I'm talking about my mother. Last time I checked, she wasn't a deity.”

  Aahmas' eyes widened with alarm. “She who represents the Goddess, embodies the Goddess.”

  So, they did know who he was.

  “Her name is Salihah.”

  Now she looked like she might faint from terror. “Dear Sekhmet, forgive me,” she whispered in a rushed prayer, never taking her eyes off him, maybe in case he killed her with his words. “I would rip my own ears from my head before hearing another falsehood against you.”

  Oh, good grief…

  He reined in his contempt. It wasn't this woman's fault, but she was the epitome – the result – of everything he had come to despise about his mother. He had nothing against religion or faith – not in the slightest – but following it blindly got you blind. “Relax, Aahmas…” And she muttered another prayer under her breath at his use of her name. So he did it again. “Aahmas, fear not. I shall not be calling her Salihah – I shall be calling her mother. Speaking of which, where is the Vociferous One?”

  Hell, that one sent her stumbling backwards in a panic. She dropped the mug in shock, looking on in horror as it crashed into pieces on the stone floor, that puke-coloured, wretched-smelling liquid spilling all over it.

  That's when he caught the scent. Only just a trace that he might never have noticed it at all were it not for her dropping the mug and sending the brew's aroma seeping into the room more strongly.

  His face grew hot with rage, and the Trident in him surfaced in attack. He struggled to keep his human form. “Datura?” he growled out.

  Aahmas stood frozen to the spot; petite, afraid … prey.

  Amil lunged at her, pinning her to the far wall with his hands around her neck in two seconds flat.

  Her struggling gasps brought his cock to life, a surge of power running through him.

  “Datura? Trying to poison me? Now tell me, whose sweet idea was that? Is Mother-dearest not too keen to see her only son?”

  “Not … that…” She clutched at his wrists, raking her nails into them in a desperate attempt to loosen his grip. “Not … uuuuh…”

  You're going to kill her!

  Not his first kill. So fucking what. You're either the hunter or the prey – you couldn't be both.

  He tightened his grip. His fangs broke through his gums, fur sprouted from the tops of his hands, and Aahmas' eyes bulged as her face grew purple.

  You're not human!

  FUCK.

  Everything stilled inside him, around him, and the silence made the shrill of that accusation ring louder – Sarah's accusation, shrieked at him just a few days ago when she'd been in a daze and near to meltdown, but truthful words nonetheless; as if in that precise moment she had seen him for exactly what he was.

  His mate's voice bounced around in his head.

  He dropped the woman just as she had dropped the cup earlier, and she fell to the floor sucking in air like there was no tomorrow, which there very nearly hadn't been.

  Disappointment and anger tore a roar out of him, but it did little to drown out the sound of Sarah's words.

  “Not trying to … kill you.”

  He turned back to the 'servant of Sekhmet', barely alive on the ground.

  She clutched her neck as she spoke, like she needed to hold it together to make sound. He supposed that might well be quite accurate.

  Very good, Amil. You've just proven you're not deserving of the life you came here to find.

  Shit.

  He kicked the wall and then sank right back down in the same spot he'd woken up.

  “Was trying to help.”

  “Datura is poisonous to me, even in small amounts. Don't pretend you didn't know that.”

  “I know what I need to. You know nothing.”

  He met her eyes. All the fear in them had vanished, a fierce pride taking its place.

  With trembling hands – now removed from her bruised neck, so he could see exactly how much of a murdering bastard he was �
�� she pulled at the front tie of her plain linen dress.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “My duty. It would have been better if you were relaxed – that's what the tea was for. It would not have killed you.”

  Her dress fell to the ground revealing absolutely nothing but bare skin beneath. Holy… “No.” He shook his head.

  “You need purification before the trials, and also, release.”

  What the… Trials?

  “I know how the moon enslaves you. My body can be your sanctuary – I have been given permission.”

  “I said, no.” For fuck's sake, he'd just tried to kill her and here she was, naked, and ready to—

  “I am prepared – see?” She dipped her fingers inside her before he could tear his eyes away, and when she brought them back up, they were glistening. If he'd still been human, he'd have wondered how the fuck she could be aroused, now, when she had almost been strangled to death. As a Trident he was well aware of what the body was capable of at any given time – anything goes.

  “What are the trials you mentioned? I didn't come here for … what? Combat? I just want to talk with my mother, that's all.”

  “You came here seeking life, did you not?”

  He paused, tripping over his own uncertainty. What had he come here for? It was a palpable, passionate, emotion that had driven him to the secret temples of his mother's cult. She called it a religion – he called it a cult. But that driving force was suddenly hard to name; to put words to.

  “I come here for … I come here for her.”

  Silence filled the room, and an odd peace fell upon him as that truth sank in. If Sarah wasn't in the picture, he wouldn't be doing this at all. He didn't know if he was worthy of life to be honest – he'd spent five years destroying it – women's lives, men's lives, children's lives… But he would try for her. Because she deserved the chance he couldn't give himself. Even if he failed, or even if the result meant they went their separate ways (Christ, how would he cope with that?), it was still her compensation for the life she didn't know she had lost – the one she couldn't remember. That erasure might not have had anything to do with him, but she was his mate, and what happened to her cut through him as if it happened to him. It would be the same for her, even if she wasn't aware of it – if he got a second chance at life, she would feel that too.

  “I come here for her. So, please don't ask me to fulfil your duty – I simply won't.”

  Aahmas' gaze fell to his crotch.

  Yeah – he was hard and it was obvious. He'd been hard the minute he'd tasted her fear in the air while he'd been strangling her in rage. “It's that time of the month,” he added, dryly.

  “You won't let me relieve you? The weight of your release will give you strength, and not only that, I come to you as the temple for the Goddess – my body is her temple. Your seed in me will be an offering to Her, and will be purified through that offering. It will hold you more favourably in Her eyes.”

  He bit back a laugh. “You said earlier that my mother embodies the Goddess … well, if having sex with pretty girls is enough to hold favour in her eyes, I would have been the golden child a long time ago. I'll take my chances with the deities. If I stink of impurity, they'll just have to hold their breath.”

  Here eyes widened once more, and for a minute he thought she was going to start praying frantically again for his brashness. Instead, she cocked her head to one side and took him in with curiosity. “You're a strange one, son of Sekhmet.” She bent down, picked up her dress and pulled it back over her head.

  “I am not the son of Sekhmet.”

  She crouched, touching the tea that she'd spilled, perhaps wondering how to clean it up. “That's not for you or me to decide.”

  What happened next, he didn't see coming at all: she pounced on him.

  Arms extended and fingers curled like claws, she shrieked and jumped and landed on his lap, before he could even blink.

  Razor sharp nails dug into his scalp as she pulled his hair hard.

  He yelped in surprise and pain, and fury that had only just started to form at the realisation of what was happening; then she pushed her fingers in his mouth.

  Too late, he registered the sharp tang of the poisonous flower on her skin where she'd touched the spilled tea. Little fucker!

  Too late, he tried to fight back, but his vision was already blurring; his tongue already swelling; his muscles already contracting and feeling weaker by the second.

  Too late, he conjured up the image of Sarah, as he so often did, to give him strength. Too late…

  Too late.

  Chapter Nine

  Lydia stood outside Lawrence's bedroom door feeling both nervous and stupid.

  But Ryan had asked her to talk to him, and here she was.

  She'd chatted with Taylor a while, told him she needed to speak with Lawrence alone for a few minutes, and then, at her insistence, he'd finally left her side to grab lunch and finish off the work he'd started out in the woods before the pack meeting. Ryan had already left. The thought caused a lump to rise in her throat. Her chest ached at the thought of him gone, and she hated that she was so dependent on her feelings – that they controlled her so much. For fuck's sake, he would only be gone a few hours and he was just a man.

  Your mate.

  Whatever.

  What the hell had happened to her ability to function as an independent woman?

  Gone with the breeding gene.

  Seriously … she was going to have to find a way to get this frustrating heredity under control.

  But first, she had to deal with Lawrence. The one who probably got her emotions more twisted into knots than anyone else.

  Her wolf had led her up here, agreeing one hundred percent with Ryan's advice about divulging her nightmares, even though she'd argued that the timing was crap. Nevertheless, her wolf was delighted to be at Lawrence's door, as was always the case, whether the door was real or metaphorical. She rolled her eyes at her animal's eagerness, then knocked on the beautifully carved wooden structure, only to realise it hadn't clicked shut properly. It swung open a few inches at her touch and that 'Lawrence musk' wafted out and greeted her … the way a tsunami greeted the land. Oh, lord…

  Knowing she shouldn't, but powerless against that scent of forests and lakes, she pushed open the door and called his name.

  No answer.

  But his aroma was so strong. He must have been in here just a short while ago.

  “Lawrence?”

  It was only when she scraped her ankle bone against the foot of an armchair, that she realised she'd gone right ahead and walked in. She really needed to walk right back out – wolves were territorial about their personal space – but it was, bizarrely, her wolf leading her in and keeping her there. It was unlike the animal to do anything that would trigger anger from her mate, so with an uneasy acceptance, she did what it asked of her, too tired to put up her usual fight.

  The bedroom was massive, just like all the rooms in this house, but it took up the whole top floor and was bigger than any of the others. And it was decorated with the most beautiful wood, which she immediately guessed was Scandinavian – in fact, the décor looked decidedly 'Swedish log cabin', with white-lined everything, wooden beams along parts of the ceiling and a very minimalist, clean finish. Gorgeous. And, strangely, more feminine and warm than she would have imagined.

  She guessed that was an adjoining bathroom through the door she could see on the far left.

  Her gaze fell to where he slept – a beautiful, king-sized, platform bed with one pillow in the centre; the platform itself made of the same wood that decorated the room. From the left-hand side of the platform, hand rails had been fitted, and to the right sat a wheelchair.

  Curiosity drove her forward – that, and the inexplicable craving she'd always had to understand him better. If her wolf had been hesitant, she would have faltered, but as it was, the happy bitch seemed completely at ease in here, wanting to wander arou
nd the place as if it were her own.

  She stroked the metal of the armchair, a flash from her dreams invading her mind – a distant scream of agony – and she pulled her hand back, briefly shutting her eyes against it, her legs already tingling with the pain of the memory.

  Glancing away from the chair, she caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror, and stilled. For a split second, it was another version of herself, entirely, that stared back – not the Lydia she knew with a mane of red hair, always tied back messily, freckles that took up half her face when she didn't wear make-up (which she almost never did) and eyes, always wide with wonder and curiosity making her look permanently clueless. This new Lydia looked … regal. Hair silky and sleek, her freckles looked like a map of some secret world, and her eyes, more violet than blue, held a steady composure she was sure she'd never have.

  A loud 'thump' from the wardrobe made her jump.

  She looked towards the sound, then back at the mirror. Oh – there she was. Frazzled Lydia was back again. The moon must be frying her brain. Was there a term for that? Moonburn?

  Tearing her eyes away from the mirror – and what man has a dressing table in his bedroom anyway? – she made towards the wardrobe to investigate the noise. Whatever had fallen, she could at least put it back so it wouldn't tumble out when Lawrence next needed a change of clothes.

  Prepared to catch whatever it was, she gently pulled open the door. The item in question was a leg. Or part of a leg. So, this is where he keeps his prosthetics.

  Intrigued, she opened the door fully and spied about ten pairs of 'legs' and bits and pieces which she assumed went into putting them together, neatly arranged in some kind of order. There were all sorts of things, from sleeves that looked like bandages, to rubber looking tubes, to metal gadgets, to pads and wires. Wires? Maybe for the bionic legs? Because, yes, each pair of legs, all of them slotted into a long rack, were different. Some looked metallic and slick, as if from some futuristic sci-fi movie; some looked liked the ones she'd seen athletes wear in the Paralympics on the telly, and others still, looked closer to actual legs.

  Wow.