by Black, Paula
'Wolves have been dying honourable deaths in battle since the dawn of time. The Healer did not swim through the sewers of Hell to mourn our fallen brother, now did you?' Four more pairs of eyes lifted to pin Madden down. He felt like an insect, squirming under the sole of a giant boot. 'Tell me more of this woman.' The thickly accented timbre of MacTire's words had a hypnotic quality, reeling Madden's attention back to focus solely on the King's penetrating stare. The intensity of his eyes, blacker than a starless night, unnerved Madden, the room shrank to just the two of them and he struggled to camouflage the tremor in his voice.
'She goes by the name of Ashling. Ashling DeMorgan.' Damn. It was as though the air had been suddenly sucked from the room, such was the stillness, the silence that descended at the mention of that name. Like talking into a vacuum. 'Her sole living relative, Ms. Anann DeMorgan, grandmother, suffered a debilitating stroke one month ago and was admitted to a nursing home.’ MacTire's cheeks took on a pallor that spoke of the blood draining out of his boots.
Brandr's cheeks, by comparison, were suffused with fury. 'What trap is this? We will make the old crone choke on her own deceit.' White knuckles gripped the table and he moved to stand. MacTire raised a hand that was the verbal equivalent of a shut the fuck up to the hot-headed warrior. Brandr found his ass planted firmly back in his seat, hands gripping the arms of the chair. The bastard might as well have been shackled to the thing, such was the King's control over his man.
'Describe this Ashling DeMorgan,' he commanded.
'Fair skin, blue eyes. Long, black hair, high cheek bones. Petite, but with curves.' Somehow aware he was treading dangerous waters, Madden left out 'beautiful' and tried to stick to the strictly factual, medical details. 'Nationality: British, but she has been living in the United States for all of her adult life. Date of birth: thirty first of July nineteen eighty seven, Blackpool, England. That would make her ...' Madden's brows knitted as he mentally calculated. 'Twenty five this year. Healed scar on the left ankle. Celtic tattoo on the right shoulder.' A pause. ‘She tests positive for Tapetum Lucidum, Sire.’
Low murmurings went around the table.
'Enough!!' MacTire's soulless eyes had become animated, the flames of the torches seeming to dance fire in their fathomless depths. Madden watched the drumbeat of the King's quickening pulse where it pounded at the base of his throat. 'Where have you secured her? Why have you not brought her here?' MacTire made no attempt to conceal the threat that invaded his voice.
Madden flailed mentally, the flare of his lids betraying the panic rising within him, he tripped over his own words, despite having rehearsed them relentlessly. 'I sutured her wounds, examined her for the signs, went to draw up the drugs to incapacitate her and she, well ... when I got back ... she was gone ... but ...'
'You. Let. Her. Go?!'
MacTire launched himself out of the throne, clearing the table with the agility of a big cat. Before he could draw breath, Madden found himself slammed back against the wall with the force of a tank, the air punched violently from his lungs. The King's massive hand encircled his throat in a brutal chokehold, crushing his windpipe, riding him up the wall until his toes were grazing the stone floor and he dangled in MacTire's iron grip. Eyes bugging, he could feel the popping of capillaries under his skin that was turning his face a sickly shade of purple. A clammy sweat broke on his forehead and trickled in rivulets down his spine. MacTire's eyes were fathomless in their blackness as they bored into him, seething words growled through bared, white teeth.
'You believe you had the bloodline in your grasp and you let her fucking GO!? Have you any concept of how long I have waited, you squirming, cockless maggot?'
Agony exploded outward from the epicentre of hurt where MacTire's giant fist connected with his gut.
Madden couldn't have answered if he'd wanted to. Blinded by the pain, his mouth was working like a landed guppy, his throat heaving reflexively, struggling to draw the air that was denied him. He took it back. There was nothing more terrifying than MacTire in a bad mood. Oxygen starvation was slowing the cogs and wheels of his thought processes to a slow, agonising grind. The blood! He still had her blood. If he could just ... his hands clawed frantically at the robe covering thighs that were now twitching like a condemned man hung from a gallows. Blindly, he fumbled the precious vials from the right pocket into a fist that pounded limply on the King's chest with all the effectiveness of a butterfly throwing its wings against a windowpane.
'I will rend you apart with my bare hands. I will throw your broken body to the untamed ones and let them fuck you in every orifice until you are ripped inside out and begging as you watch your own entrails strewn across the sands as bait for the Raveners. They will be picking your eyeballs from their teeth as you die screaming for mercy, like the worthless, snivelling runt you are, Thegn.’ He spat the title at him as an insult, reducing Madden to what he truly was in their eyes; a genetic reject, a runt whose wolf had bent over and taken it up the proverbial ass from the human to whom it had attempted to bind its soul.
It was clear the entire Skuldalid was getting serious wood for the brutality of the situation. Their bloodlust was palpable in the chorus of growls that rose up into the room like the rolling of thunder. Unless that was the sound of Madden's oxygen-starved blood rushing through his ears. He was no longer certain of reality, he was passing out, his vision swimming dizzily in and out of focus, when a lone voice spoke up, cool and clear, a shaft of light cutting through the storm clouds.
'I believe he's trying to show you something.' Rún. It was Rún, the quiet one, who voiced the words that saw Madden dumped unceremoniously to his knees in gasping convulsions.
He felt the vials ripped from his clenched fist as he sank to the floor, drawing his limbs up into a pathetic foetal position from which he watched the storm break in MacTire's expression. The King cracked the top off one of the vials. Passing it back and forth beneath his flared nostrils, he inhaled deeply and his eyes fluttered low, slipping closed on a moan that could only be described as sexual. Lifting the tiny glass container to his lips, he downed the liquid like it was a shot of fine tequila. There was more of the moaning. Head thrown back, fully bared canines dimpling his lower lip, MacTire's massive body shuddered, as though in the throes of a mind-blowing orgasm. Madden didn't need to look at the male's groin to know the guy was totally fucking aroused. It was all the doctor could do to keep from hurling his cookies all over the collective feet of the Skuldalid, who stood by, watching in awe as their master threw back his arms, neck muscles standing out in corded relief, eyes rolling back into his skull, a violent howl erupting from his throat. The King’s bass-toned voice, distorted by a savage fervency, rebounded off the walls. ‘I can feel you, Ashling DeMorgan. You are inside me. You are Mine!’ MacTire’s massive frame jolted like he’d been hooked up to the national grid, more wolf than man in the savagery of his declaration.
Holy shit! This wasn't the first time the healer had brought samples from potentially latent females, but it sure as hell was the first time MacTire had anything remotely like the intensity of his current bloodgasm. More often than not, he'd refuse to even let the stuff pass his lips. Once or twice, yeah, he'd gotten pretty juiced and had the female brought to him in the hopes of siring the new generation of Fomorians. They never survived long as his personal playthings. MacTire liked to play rough and when it was clear they were barren, sooner rather than later, they got used up and cast off to the wilder pack members. But this, this was different. Eyes glassy and psychotic, the King bent to fist Madden's robe and drag him to his shaky feet by the straining fabric of the lapels.
‘You will bring this Ashling DeMorgan to me before the moon wanes, Thegn.’ Spitting words like bullets into his face, the drill of his gaze never left Madden, even as he addressed his loyal guard. ‘Brandr, Fite, you go with this pathetic excuse for a male, and if he fails me in this you have my personal permission to castrate him and present his balls to me on a platter, so that I have the
pleasure of watching him choke on them.’
Madden went bobblehead by way of confirmation, right before he crumpled, his adrenal glands squeezed dry, incapable of anything more than a hoarse wheeze. Sure, he’d take chocolate and a pat on the back for motivation any day over being trapped in this Barbarian courtroom full of psychos, but he had got what he came for; a second chance, one he had no intention of screwing up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Maybe watching him dig wasn’t the best thing to do if they actually wanted to get this ... thing ... buried. The creepy as fuck, tarpaulin-draped mound was studiously ignored as her eyes fixated on the ripple of muscle, the smudge of dirt across his chest, the bead of sweat tracking down his abs to disappear into the waistband of his denims. She mentally smacked herself. Stop Ash, this is your worst nightmare made flesh and you decide now is a good time to eye-fuck the homicidal freak grave digger?
The shade of the tree had shifted as the sun moved lower in the sky, and mesmerised as she’d been, Ash hadn’t noticed the darkness spread around her. It was the tingling that got to her. The throb between her legs that started up the longer her eyes followed his every stab and pound into the dirt. God, was it hot out here? She huffed at her face, blowing air up to cool herself off, pushing the heavy fall of her hair up off the nape of her neck and fanning her skin with the flat of her hand.
Yes, it was hot out here. It was hot in her, deep within, burning out of control. And the restlessness was back. That edge that had had her walking the streets and stumbling into dogfights, that had her lapping up the attention from guys even as her mind flickered back to the attention she really wanted. His. She despised those thoughts that cast lusty dreams into her waking mind, mingling so easily with nightmares, making her want the mass of muscled male that had broken into her house, insulted her coat, buried bodies and made it clear as day plain that he wasn’t interested in her.
Her body shook, trying to rid herself of inappropriate thoughts of her ridiculously hot serial killer, when the shock hit. Like lightning spearing through her to find ground, the sparks earthed at her core, catching fire on the kindling of her lust. It was a vicious jolt that replaced her blood with electric arousal and her thoughts with violent, coiling desire. If she’d been naked and pinned under a guy, she could have understood this reaction, her body stoked with no physical stimulus, lighting up and careening to the brink of climax, and all she’d done was look at the asshole male muscling into the dirt like he was part Excavator. Her brain ceased to function, her body tightened and grew taut, her thighs sawed until they clenched together so hard she swore she felt tendons snap and wildfire swept her up in blazes of carnal energy. A crashing release crested over her until she was drowning on it, fighting to surface and see sense, to cut the cord that tugged at the core of her and linked her to something so out of reach. If she found the end of it, she didn’t think she’d survive the source. You are inside me. You are Mine!! It roared. It burnt her up, sizzling down the line of connection and flaring wide, sweeping her back and setting her up on the pyre of need once more.
No .
It would go away, it had to. She was not sitting in the middle of a forest, with him, biting back whimpers as her body came apart. Yet the heat grew as the sun dimmed and she was twitching at the base of the tree nonetheless. What is happening to me?
It took her until her ass went numb and her body started drawing tight again, buzzing, for her to finally feel stable enough to move closer to where he worked.
Connal was ridiculously unaffected, ploughing happily through the earth as though he were about to plant a shrub, not a corpse. She tripped to her feet unsteadily, splaying a hand against the rough bark for support as the rush of warmth dizzied her out. God ... yes, he’s gorgeous, yes, he’s massive and can snap your neck at any moment, yes, his eyes are the colour of a fresh-polished blade, yes, he’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk ... but he’s a killer ... you should not be undressing him with your eyes. You definitely should NOT be this goddamn wet. Ash inhaled, a calming breath meant to centre her, but all it did was drag the scent of fresh-turned earth and raw male to her senses. Another peek through her lashes ascertained that her intruder was too consumed with his task to notice her wobble, didn’t even seem to note her presence at all. He had been studiously ignoring her since he’d left her hanging on his all too unnerving comment.
Flicking grass and leaves from her sweats, she wandered slowly over with a little more hip twitch and saunter than was necessary. Her edgy came out in the weirdest ways. Ash felt like a cat in heat as she ducked under Connal’s arm.
The dirt pile beside the hole was growing steadily and she gazed down into it. Brow raised, using the man-mountain as an anchor, she leaned to look into the hole.
‘I think you're going to need a bigger one ...’
His gaze slid to her with a low laugh, leaning his weight on the spade. ‘Well then, how about you work up a sweat with me, Little Red?’ He indicated the second shovel, leant up against the car, with a jerk of his jaw.
He wasn’t ignoring her. ‘I can think of better ways to work up a sweat.’ Unable to believe the words had come from her own tongue, Ash couldn’t help it. She winked at him, taking up the extra spade, eyes devilish as she hefted it in her hands. The gods help her, but she didn’t think she had full control over her actions anymore. No. She’d given it over to the flames.
‘I'll just bet you can.’ He muttered under his breath, sinking the blade of the shovel into the dirt. ‘Smart ass.’
‘That's sexy smart ass to you.’ Her tongue was definitely possessed. ‘You just want to see me bend over.’
He growled, flashing white teeth, the sole of his boot kicking the spade deep into the earth. ‘Oh, keep talking like that and I'll bend you over, Beautiful.’
She narrowed her eyes, locked intently on the snarl of his mouth, backing away slowly. ‘You'll have to catch me first, Big Bad.’
‘You want me to chase you?’ He wiped his forehead on a bicep with a slow, canine grin, eyes flashing a threat. ‘You better run fast, little kitty.’ A low growl spilled from his throat and the spade in her hands hit the dirt with a hollow thud.
‘Meow ...’ She smirked, eyes gleaming amusement, backing away, backing away. Ash spun on her heel and darted in the opposite direction, the race of her footsteps fluid, light, laughter and the dark, midnight cape of her hair trailing in her wake.
She threw down the gauntlet and he ran with it, quite literally. The spade stood, abandoned, planted in the earth, a memorial to Connal’s sanity when it came to this girl. Blame the whiskey, blame moon fever, he blamed this irresistibly beautiful and infuriating woman who goaded him with the very thing he had been denying himself. And he just surrendered, caved in to all those instincts that had been riding him so hard these past days. He growled, loud enough so he knew she could hear him even as she fled. His heart rate accelerated, anticipating the chase. Muddy boots broke out, snapping twigs, pounding the earth in pursuit. All the self-restraint, all the holding back, trampled under his own heavy footfalls. His canines throbbed, tasting the hunt. ‘You can run, but you can't hide. I'm coming for you, Little Red.’
Her laughter rose over the sounds of his footsteps and her strides lengthened, covering ground, the world a blur as she raced away ... you can’t catch me. Gracefully, Ash leapt the stump of a tree and darted off at an angle, almost dancing as his growls were whipped to her ears by the wind, not daring the momentary lapse in concentration looking over her shoulder would cost her, but damn ... she wanted to be caught. ‘Too slow, Big Bad!’ Laughing breathlessly, blood pumping, her heart pounded out the nearing beat of his footfalls, the tiny thrill of her fear hidden in a shiver of wild arousal.
Snarling, his grey irises were eclipsed by dark pupils, nostrils flaring as he ran ... this little gingerbread woman was going to get eaten alive. Her scent carried downwind, firing up predator instincts and other, baser hungers. His boots ate up the ground, taking the stumps and the gn
arled undergrowth in his stride, in hot pursuit of her as she darted through the trees, gaining distance until his breath was hot on her neck, her whipping hair snatched and fisted in a rough ponytail, teeth bared at her throat as he took her down onto the forest floor, all animal threat at her back, growling in her ear. ‘Gotcha!!’
Fuckfuckfuck! Her spine arched, a whimper lodged in her throat at the jerk of his fist, strands of her hair snatching her back into him as his momentum carried them hard into the leafy, debris-covered floor. The breath rushed from her lungs, ass grinding up, pushing against his weight in a futile, feigned struggle to shift him from her back. ‘Connal ...’ His hot breath tantalized her nerve endings, riding fire down to her core.
The musky earth scent of the dark forest mingled with the fiery notes of her arousal had him pumped him up into a fever of animal lust that left his brain playing catch-up. He yanked her sweat pants down over the cocked invite of her ass, baring the smooth, peachy globes. Welded to the curve of her spine, his voice grated huskily against her ear. ‘You know what I’m going to do to you, Little Red. Say it.’ He commanded.
Playing with fire, she was aching for the burn. ‘You’re going to ...’ Breathe deep. ‘Fuck me, Big Bad. You’re going to fuck me.’
Jesus, this female was like a trip switch to his brain, and his control was flipped to ‘off’. His words were a ragged plea. ‘Now would be a really good time to tell me to back off, Ash. This is a one-way ride.’
Back off? If he backed off she was likely to detonate and it wouldn’t be pretty. He’d turned her arousal to high and she was nuclear in her lust, liquid between her thighs and touches away from begging whimpers into the leaf floor. ‘No. Connal. You have to touch me. Please.’ Her pinned submission whimpered from her lips, to be taken, to be owned, to be fucked, out in the goddamned middle of nowhere. Aflame with desire, the tearing of fabric, the cool air hitting the flushed skin of her ass, the erotic threat thundering in his growls foreshadowed the utter sexual destruction that awaited her.
