Dark Alpha's Lover

by Donna Grant

  Roman blew out a harsh breath and gave a shake of his sandy blond head. “Where were you during the Fae Wars?”

  “On assignment elsewhere,” Talin stated.

  Cael shrugged one shoulder. “There are seven of us. Or were. We’re battling an ex-Reaper named Bran, who escaped from a Fae prison realm and is seeking retribution.”

  “And this matters to us why?” Roman asked.

  Cael glanced at the Dragon King before returning his gaze to Con. “Because it’s only a matter of time before Bran turns his attention on you. You’re battling the Dark. Bran is recruiting the Dark.”

  “Why should that worry us?” Con questioned.

  “For a variety of reasons. The first being that when we accept Death’s offer to become a Reaper, our magic triples. We’re faster, stronger, and can remain veiled for as long as we want. Bran is somehow giving those same benefits to the Dark he recruits.”

  “And they don’t stay dead,” Talin added.

  Roman gawked at him as his arms fell to his sides. “Surely you’re exaggerating a wee bit.”

  “We kill Bran’s men, but they just keep coming back to life,” Talin explained.

  Con drew in a breath and released it. “I gather since Death isna doing anything that this entity isna able?”

  “Death is fighting back.”

  Roman barked a laugh. “It’s Death. Judge and jury are what you said. Why can Death no’ just smite Bran where he stands.”

  “Because, somehow, Bran’s appearance has affected Death,” Con said.

  Cael ignored Talin’s intense look and gave a quick nod. “Something like that. I wanted you to know of us, and to warn you about Usaeil. Watch out for her.”

  A weary look briefly flashed in Con’s black eyes. “I’m taking care of her. Give me the names of all the Reapers.”

  “Me,” Cael said. “Talin, Kyran, Daire, Baylon, Fintan, Eoghan, and Neve.”

  Con tilted his head slightly. “That’s eight.”

  “We had a new edition recently.”

  Roman asked, “How does Death choose a Reaper?”

  “We’re warriors, who have been betrayed and killed,” Talin said. “Death then finds us.”

  “So there’s only you eight—or seven since one of you is missing—right?” Con asked.

  Cael forced himself to smile since the reminder of Eoghan’s disappearance was always one that hit him hard. “Yes.”

  “And why is Bran no longer a Reaper?”

  “One of Death’s rules is that we can’t have any sort of relationship with family, friends, or . . . anyone, for that matter. Another is that if a Fae discovers who we are, they have to die. Bran fell in love with a Light Fae and told her who he was.”

  Con dislodged the snow from his hair when he raked a hand through it. “So, Death had no choice but to kill the Light Fae, which in turn caused Bran to get angry.”

  “Pretty much,” Talin said.

  Cael held out his hand to watch the snow pile on his palm. “Bran divided us. It was his four Reapers against my three. He managed to execute our leader and another of us. Eoghan and I fought for our lives, which meant we had to kill two of our brothers. Then Death arrived and took Bran to the Netherworld.”

  “Leaving Cael and Eoghan,” Talin said. “Death built the next set of Reapers around them.”

  Con said, “How much do you know about us?”

  “Enough to know that the story of Bran isn’t that much different than Ulrik’s.”

  There was a stretch of silence before Con turned to Roman. “You and Cain return to the manor.”

  Roman gave a nod and turned on his heel to walk away. Cael saw the other King disappear over the rise of a hill. Then he turned to Talin and said, “Return to the isle. I’ll follow soon.”

  Talin bowed his head to Con before teleporting away.

  Cael looked at the King of Kings. “You have no reason to trust me, but I hope you will. We could both use allies.”

  “With enemies seemingly closing in from everywhere, I admit an ally could be useful.”

  “But?” Cael asked when Con paused.

  “I only have your word for who you are.”

  Cael clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. “Then I’ll prove it to you and earn your trust.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll have to figure that out. Until next time, King of Kings,” Cael said and teleported away.

  Chapter Twelve

  The quiet seeped into every wall and corner of the house. It was almost a living, breathing entity. Normally, Fintan preferred silence, embracing it over the clamor of others. But he could find no solace in it this night.

  He knew the cause.

  Cat. Around her, the calm he’d worked so hard to achieve was stripped away, leaving him exposed . . . unmasked. She was a storm upon his senses and long-dead emotions, causing him to be helplessly tossed and twisted about.

  The pure, unadulterated lust that thrummed through his veins kept his body heated and achy. While the concern and—dare he even think it—fear kept him on edge.

  His mind kept returning to their kiss. Her reaction had been instant and full of passion. The only thing he’d wanted was to lay her down on the sand and make long, sweet love to her.

  That singular, surprising thought was what broke through his fog of yearning, enabling him to come to his senses enough to end the kiss.

  He rose from his place at the kitchen table and walked around the house, putting up shields to keep any Fae but a Reaper out. He also looked for anything to distract his thoughts.

  Then he found it.

  On a bookshelf, he spotted some photo albums. Several minutes passed as he stared at them, debating whether to look through them. Finally, his curiosity won out, and he chose one. Taking it back to the sofa, he sat and opened the album.

  Picture after picture of Cat graced the pages. From the day of her birth to holidays, birthdays, family trips, and school functions.

  He saw moments of her laughing with her parents and opening Christmas presents alongside her siblings. Moments where she looked deep in thought, and even one where she was off to the side, sitting with a forlorn expression on her face as she watched her siblings doing magic.

  Getting a glimpse of Cat in the photos was almost like him being a part of her life. He flipped through the pages eagerly, soaking up everything he could about her. It was the picture of her just a few years earlier at the beach with her grandfather that struck him. There was such happiness in her gaze that Fintan almost didn’t recognize her.

  Feeling as if he’d peeked into her life like a thief, he softly closed the album and rose to put it away. But shelving the photos didn’t put her out of his mind. In fact, she was all he could think about.

  Seemingly unable to do anything else, he walked down the hall to Cat’s room. He opened the door and looked to her bed, but she wasn’t in it. He found her sitting on the window seat with her legs pulled up to her chest. She wore a short nightgown that bared her shapely legs.

  Her head swiveled to him. He saw the tears upon her cheeks, and it was like a sucker punch to his gut. All his life, he’d been a killer, a Fae sent to snuff out life. He was all that was harsh and cruel and abrasive. He didn’t know the first thing about softness or grief.

  But when he tried to back out of the room, his feet wouldn’t obey.

  Fintan walked to Cat and sat beside her. She rested her chin on her knees and blinked up at him. The moonlight glinted off her wet, spikey eyelashes. Her despair gutted him, shattered him.

  For the second time in his life, he wanted to offer comfort—if only he knew how.

  He didn’t know the words, or even if he should touch her. Hadn’t he seen a mother put an arm around a crying child? Surely, touching was the right thing to do.

  But the more he thought about it, the more uncertain he became. Yet he couldn’t sit there and do nothing. He lifted his hand, only to fist it in frustration. How he hated to be so indecisive.


  Finally, he came to a decision and rested his hand atop her bare foot before he leaned back against the window. As he wracked his mind for some soothing words, she sniffed and scooted toward him, shifting so that she laid her head on his shoulder. It was Cat who moved his arm to wrap around her shoulders.

  He sat frozen, his heart hammering. His hands tingled, and heat radiated from his chest. It took a moment for his brain to register what his body was feeling—contentment.

  They sat in the darkness with nothing more than their breaths filling the silence. This time, Fintan was able to take comfort in the quiet. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of her breathing.

  The longer she was against him, the more he relaxed and enjoyed the simplicity of the moment. He’d come to give her solace, and yet he was the one who received it.

  No one had ever touched him so. Most feared him because of his reputation. That status had kept him shunned from all Fae. Others were apprehensive of him because of his looks. He’d never experienced any sort of kindness before Death found him.

  He wasn’t sure how to feel about his present situation. Years of witnessing humans and Fae told him that some gave affection without any deep meaning to it. Was that what this was?

  The conflict within him was so great that he nearly pushed Cat away and veiled himself. The contact of her body was . . . suffocating.

  And wonderful.

  His eyes opened as the warmth of her seeped through his clothes and into him. Her breath softly brushed against his other hand. The simple act of holding her felt so damned right.

  It was as if the entire universe suddenly aligned perfectly, and he saw everything with new eyes. The world was brighter, more vivid. The air felt sweeter entering his lungs, the moonlight more brilliant as it tumbled around them.

  Something fell against his hand. He looked to find a lock of her vibrant hair. He lifted the strand and twisted it around his fingers. The soft, cool texture of it was mesmerizing.

  “I can’t figure out what Bran wants with me.”

  He was startled by her whispered words. He’d thought she was asleep. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  “Then we will figure it out.”

  She released a long breath. “I want to know how I got the dagger when I left it here.”

  “Does your mind ever shut off?”

  “Not really.”

  He looked across to the opposite wall where a picture hung of a white background with an impression of gold lips. “How do you know you don’t have any magic?”

  “I’ve never been able to do anything.”

  “You called for your weapon. I’d say that was something.”

  She sat up and blinked at him. “So it was magic I used?”

  “I can think of no other explanation.” He reluctantly removed his arm from her, returning it to his side.

  “Why can’t I do it again?”

  He shrugged. “You’re trying too hard.”

  “It’s frustrating.”

  “If you did it once, you can do it again.”

  She flipped her long hair over her shoulder and swallowed. “Did you have a wife before you were a Reaper?”

  The question took him by surprise. He was so stunned that he could only stare. “Nay.”

  “Dedicated to your work?”

  “Something like that.”

  She twisted her lips. “I had someone once, but the death of my parents was too much for him to deal with.”

  “Then you’re better off without him.”

  “Yeah,” she said, her brow furrowed. “I’ve been so worried about my grandfather and the Fae that I haven’t had time to get lonely.” Her head turned to him. “Is it hard for you being a Reaper and not having those relationships?”

  He looked away. She was asking questions he didn’t pose to himself. Yet she was waiting for an answer, and for some reason, he didn’t want to lie. “I never had any kind of relationships before I became a Reaper.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Now uncomfortable, Fintan shrugged, wishing he’d never opened his mouth.

  “You just didn’t find anyone?”

  He jumped up and took a few paces away before he turned to her. “No one wanted me.”

  For several seconds, Cat merely gawked at him with wide eyes. “I don’t understand how that could be.”

  “It’s because of who I was.”

  Her head tilted to the side. “Who were you?”

  Damn. He really needed to stop talking. Why had he said that? Why had he allowed himself to be drawn into such a discussion? He hadn’t spoken about this to anyone. Ever.

  Why was he even now contemplating telling her?

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to say any more.”

  Fintan inhaled deeply and released the breath. “I was born to a Dark family. The hierarchy of the Dark is much as it used to be with nobility and peasants. I came from a very poor family. They sold me as a slave to the King of the Dark, Taraeth when I was about four or five.”

  He heard Cat’s quick intake of breath.

  “I don’t remember them,” he told her. “I believe I had several brothers and sisters, but I can’t be sure.”

  “You never went to look for them?”

  He shot her a stern look. “Why would I want to find the family who sold me?”

  “True,” she mumbled.

  “I probably had a better life than them anyway. I was a slave, but I never went hungry. I was clothed, fed, and had a roof over my head.”

  She gave him a wry look. “But you were a slave.”

  “A slave who had a knack for weapons and battle. Taraeth discovered when I was still just a wee lad that I was better than many of his warriors. That’s when he began sending me on missions to assassinate his enemies.”

  Fintan didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. “I worked my way up in the ranks quickly because I never failed. I killed. Often. And without remorse. It didn’t matter who. If my king wanted them wiped out, then I made sure it was done.

  “It took eight centuries, but soon I was one of Taraeth’s most trusted warriors. He gave me my freedom, but I didn’t know what to do with it. When I tried to seek out friends, no one would come near me. And it wasn’t just my reputation, but also my looks. I spent so many hours training and killing that I didn’t know how to interact with others.”

  “Which is why you didn’t have a wife.”

  He shrugged. If he were going to tell it, he might as well spill the entire story. “The only way I could have had a woman was if I paid for it, and even then, they turned their back to me during the act. A few times of that, and I decided it wasn’t worth it.

  “I focused everything on being the best warrior that I could. After three thousand years, I had a routine. During my slaughter of millions of Fae—Light and Dark—Taraeth was amassing power. It was Taraeth who started the civil war on our realm. I didn’t know that he’d begun to feel threatened by me.

  “But while he had been growing in power, so had I. My final mission for him was to kill one of his detractors, except it was a trap for me. Taraeth then handed me over to Usaeil, the Light Queen. She tortured me for years before she grew tired and killed me.”

  The silence after he’d finished was thunderous. When he could stand it no more, he looked toward Cat to find her staring at him with pity in her gaze.

  “Don’t,” he warned her angrily. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

  She rose from the window seat and came to stand before him. Then she put her hands on either side of his face. “I’m sorry for what you suffered. It was beyond cruel.”

  He tried to move her hands away, but she didn’t budge. Unable to help himself, he looked into her emerald eyes. Surprise rooted him in place when she rose up on her tiptoes and put her lips against his.

  Then she whispered, “I want you.”

  He should push her away. He should return to Inchmickery. He shoul
d . . . his thoughts melted away when she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts against him.

  Fintan splayed his hand on her back as he held her with his other. His eyes slid shut as their mouths brushed each other erotically. He didn’t know the first thing about seduction or wooing a woman. All he knew was that he craved Cat with everything he was—and everything he wanted to be.

  When their lips came together, the kiss was slow, sensual. It built quickly as the fires of desire ignited. She tasted of wildness and the sea.

  And he had to have more.

  He deepened the kiss, a moan tearing from him when her hands delved into his hair. Everywhere she touched left a trail of warmth, his skin tingling as if she were branding him.

  Her hands moved over his chest and began to unbutton his shirt. The first touch of her palms on his skin made him groan. She smiled against his lips and pushed the shirt over his shoulders.

  He dropped his arms and let the garment fall to the floor. When he went to hold her once more, she ended the kiss and leaned back.

  Since her hands were roaming over his chest, he didn’t fight her. The sensations were overwhelming. No one had touched him like this. He soaked it all in, craving more, needing more.

  His skin showed none of the wounds he’d received while in service to Taraeth or while Usaeil tortured him. But, somehow, Cat knew where each was because her hand would pause as if feeling the scars deep beneath his skin.

  He looked down at her, completely transfixed. This was the best night of his life, and he never wanted it to end.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cat gazed at Fintan’s sculpted chest and chiseled abs. She’d felt his strength earlier, soaking it in. His smooth skin didn’t have a single blemish on it, but she sensed the pain that was buried deep. Or perhaps it was her imagination after hearing about him being a slave, trained to be an assassin, and tortured.

  How could anyone endure so much and still have such a good heart? It was almost inconceivable. He was a Dark. He’d killed. By his white hair and eyes, he’d killed more than any other Dark . . . ever.