Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance

by Selena Kitt

  So why did she feel so empty?

  Chapter Five

  Griff spent the next three days, until the high moon, avoiding Bridget.

  It wasn’t that difficult. Aleesa monopolized him at breakfast, wanting to know everything about his den and his pack. She had so many questions about her daughter, Kirstin, and the wulvers Aleesa and Alaric had known. And all those who had come after, too, those she’d never had a chance to know.

  After breakfast, Alaric took Bridget out on the horses for training, and while Griff had attempted avoiding that, too, he’d been roped into it both days. Uri needed the exercise, anyway. That’s what he told himself, as he found himself facing Bridget in her English-Scottish hybrid armor. Alaric was hellbent on using Griff as a practice dummy for his daughter, and while he’d refused, more than once, Bridget had managed to goad him into fighting.

  The first time, he was a gentleman and he let her win—which wasn’t easy for him—and then she’d accused him of such. So the second time, he beat her soundly, and she’d accused him of cheating. Could he help it if the girl’s body was like a gory damned magnet he found himself drawn to? He hadn’t been cheating. He’d just been—distracted.

  Before lunch, the women did their purification ritual at the sacred pool. Griff steered clear of that, and Alaric did, too. The older wulver took him out to set snares and check traps. They spent time talking about Griff’s father, Raife, and Raife and Darrow’s father, Garaith. Of course, they both knew that Garaith was only Raife’s father by name only. King Henry VII was Raife’s father by blood—the same blood that flowed through Griff’s veins.

  But while his pack knew the truth, few people outside of Scotland’s borderlands, where the wulver den resided, knew that King Henry VII had once bed a wulver woman, let alone that his issue, a warrior who was half-man, half-wolf, led the last pack of wulvers.

  But were they the last?

  Alaric told him he wasn’t sure if their den was the last. The guardian Alaric had slain when Aleesa had first come to the Temple of Ardis and Asher had been a wulver, not a man. But he was not a wulver Alaric knew, and he hadn’t had a chance to ask the other warrior where he’d come from. And there was no priestess who resided here then. Aleesa had explained to her husband that she had been called to the temple by the dying high priestess—the wulver woman who had been the slain wulver’s mate.

  So if there had been two wulvers living here, two wulvers that Alaric and Aleesa did not know—mayhaps there were others, somewhere. There must be, Griff reasoned. They might all be descendants of the first wolf-human union—according to legend, Ardis was a woman, who turned into a wolf during the full moon, and Asher was the human man she loved—but the world was a big place.

  He knew this from Rory MacFalon, who studied maps with his father, Donal. Were there wulvers in England? France? Were there wulvers in lands beyond, that they had yet to explore? There were humans in those places—why would there not be wulvers? The thought of traveling to find those lost packs, of joining those wulver forces, excited him beyond words.

  He was impatient to find them. Impatient to be off. But he had to wait. According to Alaric and Aleesa, they had to wait for the high moon to read the location of the lost packs in the scrying pool. This annoyed him more than he could say, but he had no choice but to believe what Alaric and Aleesa said.

  The truth was, Griff wasn’t sure what to believe. He’d dreamed of the dragon both nights, alone in the big bed. The mattress was very comfortable, and while he’d offered to give it up to its rightful owners, the wulver couple had insisted he sleep in their bed. Sometimes he wondered if he’d really seen the dragon rising from the pool, the one he’d been sure was going to attack Bridget when it turned its scaly head, or if he’d dreamed that, too.

  The temple had that surreal feel to it. Mayhaps he was really dead and dreaming all of this, he thought sometimes at night, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, wondering if Bridget was as wide awake as he was at the other end of the cavernous tunnel. Bridget, though, was made of flesh. That he was certain. He had felt it pressed against him more than once. Her flesh seemed to call to him, every moment of the day, in spite of his efforts to avoid her.

  It was the most difficult at dinner, when she sat right beside him. He couldn’t seem to resist her bait. That little smirk when she saw she’d goaded him into verbally sparring with her drove him mad. He’d noticed Aleesa looking between them, a knowing look on her face. The older wulver woman sensed something. Knew something, mayhaps.

  He wasn’t sure of it, though, until he overheard them on that third day, talking after the purification ritual as they made rabbit stew for lunch. He had ridden Uri out to the edge of the island—to the sea—and back again. He wanted to make sure that the ship which had brought him into Skara Brae was still anchored there, getting assurance from the captain that yes, they were sailing to another small island that day, but would be there on Skara Brae on the morrow.

  Alaric had let him back into the temple at the rock. Rain had soaked Griff to the skin and Alaric sent him in to the kitchen to get dry, telling him he’d rub Uri down and feed him. Griff had meant to announce his presence to the chatting woman—but he’d stopped just outside the kitchen when he heard his name spoken in relation to hers.

  “Bridget, ye can’na go wit’ Griff,” Aleesa told her daughter. “E’en if t’man wanted ye… has he said so?”

  Griff stopped, wincing at the way his feet squished in his boots. There was a storm coming in topside, he was sure. He heard Bridget sigh.

  “Nay, he’s n’said a word.” Bridget’s voice was small. “But… what if…”

  “Bridget, we’ve spent our whole lives trainin’ ye,” Aleesa insisted. “I can’na b’lieve he’s yer one true mate. Unless… mayhaps… he’s meant to be t’guardian ’ere in the temple…?”

  Bridget snorted a laugh at that and Griff frowned, stiffening at her laughter. Was it such a strange idea, that he be a protector of this place? Not that it was something he was interested in doing, he had to admit.

  “Ye said he’s t’red wulver,” Bridget reminded her mother. “Even if t’dragon and t’lady did’na confirm it.”

  “Ye saw him change, as well as I did,” Aleesa replied. “I’ve ne’er seen a red wulver warrior a’fore, and neither has Alaric. He’s t’red wulver. And ye saw ’is eyes!”

  “Aye,” Bridget readily agreed. “But Mother, I… t’way I feel ‘bout ’im…”

  Griff leaned against the cavern wall, feeling his heart beating hard in his chest at her words. What way did she feel? He wondered. Because for all he could tell, the girl hated him. At least, that was the message she’d been sending since the first time they met. The incident in the tub notwithstanding—and that had been an accident.

  The truth was, he wanted to bed her. Bridget was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, with or without clothes, and he wanted her. He would’ve taken her to bed that first night if she’d agreed. But she’d turned him down. It wasn’t a common occurrence for him, he had to admit, but he understood her desire to retain her maidenhood. She was intended to be a priestess here, no different than a nun called to be married to the Lord in a convent, he supposed.

  He couldn’t say he understood it, exactly, but he could respect it.

  So he’d done his best to avoid her. Not that it was easy in such a confined space. And even when they weren’t together, in the same room, he could feel her somehow. Her presence was far bigger than her slight form, that was certain. He seemed to carry it with him wherever he went.

  “Oh Bridget,” Aleesa cried. “I wouldna expect ye t’understand t’ways of men’n’women. Ye’ve been so sheltered ’ere.”

  Griff grinned to himself. That was true enough. The girl was definitely a virgin. He’d bedded a few of them, in his time, but he preferred a more experienced woman, given his choice.

  “I know what matin’ is, Mother.” Bridget laughed. “That’s… that’s not it. I could’ve
mated wit’ him if I wanted t’do so. He made that clear enough.”

  “Bridget!” Aleesa gasped, sounding shocked.

  “We’ve done nothin’,” Bridget protested.

  Griff heard the lie in her voice, the defensiveness. No, they’d done nothing. Technically, they’d done little more than rub up against one another. But there was something between them, regardless of what physical contact they’d had. He wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, either, but he couldn’t lie to himself.

  “But, Mother, I… I’ve ne’er felt this way a’fore about someone,” Bridget said, lowering her voice, as if someone might overhear. As if her own mind might hear what she was thinking, and her heart take note. He understood that kind of caution, even as he stood in the tunnel and eavesdropped. “I do’na understand it.”

  Aleesa didn’t say anything, and Griff wondered at their silence. He considered making his presence known, glancing behind him into the tunnel, knowing Alaric would be along soon.

  “Daughter, listen to me…” Aleesa’s voice was low, so low he had to strain to hear it.

  “I’m not yer daughter,” Bridget whispered.

  “Oh aye, ye’re m’daughter,” Aleesa assured her. “Yer mine, ye’ve been mine, since the first day I held ye in m’arms and rocked ye t’sleep. I love ye jus’ as much as if ye’d come from m’own body, chile.”

  Griff heard Bridget sniff and he wondered if she was crying. The thought made his chest feel tight, as if something heavy had just sat on it.

  “Listen t’me,” Aleesa said again. “T’marriage of t’sun’n’moon is due vera soon, y’ken?”

  “Aye,” Bridget agreed, sniffing again and sighing. “T’marriage of Asher and Ardis. And I’m t’take m’vows as high priestess… which means I’ll ne’er leave ’ere again.”

  The sadness in the young woman’s voice broke him. He wanted to save her from it, from the fate of living the rest of her life chanting over pools and talking to invisible dragons. If she would say yes—and up until then, he’d been certain her answer would have been no—he would offer to take her with him. He’d never met a woman like Bridget before, a woman who wore armor, who could hold her own with a sword, who could run almost as fast, mayhaps faster, than he could. He’d never known another woman he thought could be his equal, in or out of bed.

  But this one…

  She didn’t deserve this life. He wanted more for her.

  He wanted her.

  “Oh, lass, do’na cry… a guardian’ll come,” Aleesa told her daughter in an urgent, reassuring whisper. “Alaric came fer me. A guardian’ll come fer ye, too, Bridget. He’ll be called here, jus’ as I was.”

  “Aye.” Bridget sighed, long and deep, a sigh so full of regret and longing, he was glad he couldn’t see her face. If he had seen her face streaked with tears, those big green eyes filled with them, he didn’t know what he might do. He was the strongest man—or wulver—he knew. But the girl’s tears made him feel as weak as a bairn. “And Griff’ll be leavin’ on t’morrow.”

  Ask me t’stay, lass. He closed his eyes, leaning against the cavern wall, trying to shake the feeling. He wouldn’t really stay, if she asked him, would he? Mayhaps not. But if she asked him to take her with him? What then? Would he do so?

  He thought he would.

  Then Aleesa’s words came to him, startling him upright. What did she mean, a guardian would come? They expected some man to arrive here at the temple, to take Alaric’s place, like Bridget would take Aleesa’s? His lip withdrew from his teeth and he snarled silently at the thought. Just imagining another man showing up at the crossroads, Bridget going out to meet him, made his jaw hurt, he was clenching it so hard.

  And the moment she took off her helmet, the moment the man saw her green eyes and that fiery red hair flowing over her shoulders…

  “Aye, Griff mus’ go fulfill ’is own destiny,” Aleesa said. “And ’is destiny isn’t yers, lass. I’m sorry fer it. I wish yer feelin’s fer ’im lined up wit’ yer fate ’ere in th’ temple.”

  “I do’na know what I’m feelin’ t’tell t’truth…” Bridget sniffed again.

  “I think it’s jus’ the energy of Ardis’n’Asher yer feelin’—t’lady an’ t’dragon. T’marriage time’s so close. Ye can’na be blamed fer it. And… he is a fine-lookin’ man…”

  “Mother!” Now it was Bridget’s turn to sound shocked, but she giggled.

  “Jus’ remember,” Aleesa warned. “Ye mus’ be sure. Tis a lifetime commitment, bein’ t’high priestess.”

  “Aye,” Bridget agreed, sounding like the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

  Griff wanted nothing more than to lift it and carry it for her, if he could.

  But he knew it was impossible.

  Aleesa was right about one thing. Even if he didn’t believe in destinies and prophecies and all of that, he knew she was right about this—he had his own path, and so did Bridget, and they would have to travel them, alone.

  With a sigh and a heavy heart, he ran a hand through his wet hair, put a smile on his face, and went into the kitchen, asking, “What’s t’eat? I’m starvin’!”

  He didn’t know what he’d expected—mayhaps dragon heads again, or ladies with silver eyes—but it wasn’t this. He hadn’t expected actual writing to show up in the scrying pool, reflecting the moon’s light from above. And he hadn’t expected how it would be, between him and Bridget, as they stood facing each other across the dark, reflective surface.

  Aleesa had fretted, afraid the storm would provide too much cloud cover and prevent the high moon from shining in from above, but the storm had come, as Griff thought it might, while they had spent the afternoon in front of the fire in the kitchen, and it had gone again after dinner.

  Before that, Bridget helped Aleesa with some mending while Alaric and Griff sat at the table playing chess. They’d been at it for two days, moving the board to the sideboard when it was meal time, since Alaric had challenged Griff after lunch the first day. The old wulver took forever to make a decision before he moved. Griff was impatient with his strategy, wandering restlessly around the kitchen, snacking idly on boiled eggs and whatever else he could find in the larder before Aleesa chased him out again.

  He couldn’t avoid Bridget in so small a space. He tried. He skirted around her chair, where she sat sighing and darning socks, complaining about Alaric’s tendency to get holes in them. He squatted by the fire to warm his hands, glancing back to see her scowling at him. He returned her scowl with one of his own, growling low in his throat, muttering about the storm forcing him to stay inside and the moon that was taking far too long to come to fruit.

  “Are ye always in such a hurry?” Bridget snapped.

  Griff raised his eyebrows at her, seeing Aleesa frown at her daughter.

  “Yer move!” Alaric called.

  Griff stood and went over to the board, taking in the old wulver’s move in a glance. Two more moves, mayhaps, and he’d have him in checkmate. It would be all over. Griff moved his bishop, knocking out Alaric’s rook.

  “Gory hell!” Alaric growled.

  “Check.” Griff went back over to the fire, squatting down to warm his hands again.

  “Do’na worry, Father,” Bridget said over her shoulder to Alaric, who grumbled, staring at the board, chin in hand. “He’s far too impatient. He’s bound t’make a mistake.”

  “Yer so overconfident.” Griff chuckled. “I’ve got ’im in check.”

  “I’m t’one who’s overconfident?” Bridget sniffed, raising her eyebrows, but she smiled back at him. He liked making her smile, in spite of himself.

  “Oh damn!” Bridget swore, dropping the needle and thread and holding her finger. A drop of blood appeared on her pale skin.

  “Distractible,” Alaric grumbled from the table, not looking over.

  “Aye.” Bridget sighed, agreeing.

  “Lemme see.” Griff took her hand, holding her finger up in the firelight, and without thinking, he put it into his mouth
.

  It was a normal, wulver thing to do—a wulver could lick his wounds well in minutes, even bad ones—but Bridget cried out in surprise.

  Their eyes locked and she tried to pull away, but he held her fast, tasting her essence against his tongue, salty sweet, intoxicating. It was just a tiny pinprick, a miniscule wound, but he couldn’t bear to see her hurt. Slowly, she withdrew her index finger from between his lips, her own slightly parted as she traced the line of his mouth, her gaze never leaving his.

  He felt Aleesa watching them, breath held. He felt Alaric’s gaze, too. And still, he couldn’t look away, couldn’t for a moment pretend he wasn’t feeling it. He didn’t care if her parents were in the room—the woman was his, and he wanted her. The urge to take her was almost uncontrollable. His hands actually shook with the effort it took to hold himself back. His cock was like an iron bar under his plaid, pointing at her like an arrow.

  “Does it still hurt?” he asked as she slowly pulled her finger away, putting her hands in her lap. Her breath was shallow, face flushed. He wanted to see the rest of her in the firelight, like he had that first night. He wanted to watch her nipples turn rosy and get hard. He wanted to gaze at the fiery hair between her thighs, to bury his face in her soft wetness.

  “I’m a’righ’,” Bridget breathed, glancing over and seeing Aleesa’s face. Her mother was wide-eyed, looking between them like she’d just seen something that really, truly frightened her. “I… I think I need t’lie down fer a while…”

  Bridget stood, her mending falling to the floor, but she paid it no mind.

  “Call me t’help wit’ supper,” Bridget said faintly over her shoulder to her mother, moving past him, heading out of the kitchen.

  “Do’na toy wit’ her,” Aleesa managed after a moment, reaching down to pick up Bridget’s mending. Her eyes burned into his. “If y’intend t’leave ’ere after tonight, if y’intend to find t’lost packs… please, Griff, do’na toy wit’ her.”