by Selena Kitt
“But is that what ye want?” Griff asked, lacing his fingers with hers. Just his touch made her melt, gave her so many doubts about the course her life had taken thus far. “I will’na stand in t’way if that’s really what ye want, lass. I’ll leave righ’ now...”
Griff made the move to go, and that’s when she knew.
“No!” she cried, grabbing his tunic and pulling him back.
He settled back onto the mattress, looking down at her, smiling.
“I think ye wan’ more than this life,” he murmured. “More than what ye’d ’ave ’ere in this temple.”
“How d’ye know that?” She jutted her chin out, defiant.
“I jus’ know.” He touched her chin with one finger, still smiling that knowing, arrogant smile. “I know ye, Bridget.”
“Ye do’na know me,” she said with a shake of her head. “Y’only think ye know me. I’m t’woman ye can’na have. If I gave m’self t’ye, ye’d be gone in t’mornin’ wit’out a second thought.”
His look darkened, and she saw something in his eyes. They turned dark, from gold to the deepest amber.
“Not wit’out ye,” he growled.
“Griff, I can’na leave t’temple,” she whispered. And that was the crux of it, truly. Even if she wanted to go with him, how could she? “I can’na leave Aleesa’n’Alaric alone ’ere.”
“Can’na...?” His finger moved from her chin, trailing down to the hollow of her throat, his touch melting her. “Or will’na?”
“Ye know, I was left ’ere by someone who wanted me t’be trained as priestess and guardian.”
Griff made a face. “Ye do’na know that...”
“But I do,” she protested. “Just like ye knew t’come ’ere t’Skara Brae, t’look fer t’lost packs. I know I’m meant t’be ’ere, fer the marriage of Asher’n’Ardis, when the eclipse comes... I can feel it in m’bones.”
“Och!” Griff rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “More magic and rituals?”
“I know ye do’na understand it, but...” Bridget touched his chin, bringing his face around so she could look into his eyes. “Did ye feel it?”
He frowned. “What d’ye mean?”
“When ye were looking a’me, across t’pool tonight...” she breathed, remembering, her whole body filled with the memory. “Did ye feel that?”
Griff shook his head, eyes clouded, but then, she saw something. Just a flicker.
And finally, he broke.
“Aye,” he whispered. His mouth quivered with his confession. “I felt ye. Ye looked a’me, an’ it cracked m’heart wide open, lass.”
“Oh Griff...” She felt tears coming to her eyes, knowing how difficult it was for him to admit the truth. She’d felt it, too.
“How can I leave ’ere on t’morrow wit’out ye?” he croaked out, lowering his head to her breast. Bridget stroked his hair, feeling tears slipping down her temples at his words. “It’ll be like leavin’ m’heart behind.”
“Mayhaps…” She swallowed, taking a deep breath. “Mayhaps we’re only meant t’have this.”
“This?” He lifted his face to look at her in the firelight.
“This moment.” She touched his cheek, shifting against him, so they were belly to belly. “Tonight. Now.”
“I wan’ more,” he admitted. “I want ye—I want ye t’be mine.”
“Aye.” She nodded. “I want ye, too...”
She bridged the gap between them, easily, lifting her face and pressing her lips to his. They were soft, warm. But she felt him hesitating, felt his body stiffen, holding back as she ran her hands over his chest, putting them up around his neck.
“Och, we can’na do this,” he whispered as they parted, and Bridget slid her soft, bare thigh between his. “I promised yer mother...”
“There are no laws ’ere in this temple or among t’wulvers that say we can’na be joined this way,” she reminded him as she rolled toward him on the mattress, pinning him beneath her.
“Nay, but...” Griff protested, moaning when she wiggled her way fully onto him, trapping his erection between them. “Och, lass, if we do this, are ye gonna accuse me of leavin’ ye in t’morning...?”
“We hafta follow our destinies,” she whispered, sitting up on him in a straddle. “Tis as it should be, always.”
He gasped when she unpinned her plaid, pulling it away from her body and tossing it aside. His eyes went from that deep, dark, amber color to a rich, bright red when she pulled her tunic off over her head and threw that aside too.
“Always as it should be, eh?” he asked, as Bridget took his hands in hers, putting them at her waist. His hands moved over her skin and she shivered.
“Always,” she agreed with a nod, moving her hips, feeling his shaft against the seam of her sex through his plaid.
“Then I should be doin’ this...?” His hands moved up to cup her breasts. They were full and ripe, never touched, and he plucked at her nipples like little cherries.
“Oh, aye...” Bridget breathed, rocking faster.
“And this...?” One hand slipped up behind her head and pulled her down to him for a kiss. This was no soft, hesitant thing, but something hard, hot, demanding. His tongue stroked and tickled the roof of her mouth, caressed the velvet walls of her cheeks from the inside, and Bridget looked at him with glazed, lust filled eyes as they parted.
“Oh, aye, aye, definitely that...” She nodded eagerly, wanting more, aching for something, although she wasn’t quite sure what.
“And this?” His mouth moved down to capture her nipple, suckling like a babe, and Bridget almost sobbed at the sensation.
“Aye, aye,” she cried as Griff rolled her to her back.
She ran her hands over him, greedy, mapping his chest and belly with her palms, memorizing every glorious inch of him. She hadn’t been able to get the image of his nude body out of her mind, and now she drank him in as he knelt up to divest himself of tunic and plaid, and she saw him again, stripped bare for her.
“Please, please,” she begged him, reaching for the part of him she hadn’t dared touch the other day. “I want ye inside me.”
Griff hissed through his teeth when she squeezed him, a sound that filled Bridgit with an incredible, feminine power.
“Not yet, lass.” He gave a low groan as he leaned over to kiss her and she felt the full weight of him crushing her against the mattress. She gasped and reveled in it, rocking up, wanting more.
“Please,” she begged, but that would be just the start to her pleas.
Griff spent eons—it was at least that long, she was sure—kissing and touching her body. He explored every inch of her, from nose to navel, front and back, with fingers, then tongue. She felt like a newborn kitten being given a bath, and all the while, she begged him for more.
Please, Griff, please…
She didn’t even know anymore what she wanted, what it was she was asking for.
Then his mouth went lower. He skipped her sex and went to her thighs, rubbing his whiskers there until she was red and raw. Then he turned her over and did the same to her bottom. Her cheeks—the ones on her face—were just as red when he finally rolled her to her back, pushing her knees to her chest, and burying his face in her sex.
“Griff!” Bridget nearly screamed. She bit her lip, remembering Alaric and Aleesa might hear, but soon she forgot all about them. She forgot everything as he pressed his tongue between her aching, swollen lips, flicking a spot at the top of her cleft that made her shake all over when he did.
And then, something happened.
One moment she was trembling all over, crying out as if in pain—because whatever he was doing with his mouth and tongue down there was pure, blissful torture—and then, she flew, or jumped, or mayhaps was pushed, over a shuddering, delicious precipice.
Her hips bucked up off the mattress, her hands reached for something to hold onto, sure she was tumbling, falling, flying, and Griff let her grab his hands. Squeezing them hard, she felt her sex co
ntracting, squeezing too, again and again, quivering waves crashing through her, an ocean of them, all at once.
“What was that?” she asked in wonder, and Griff came up to kiss her.
He tasted strange, musky, and she realized that was how she must taste.
“This may hurt, lass,” he whispered, and she felt him at her entrance, pressing slowly.
Oh, it was big!
Bridget cried out as her sex opened to him, the first painful stretch, a slight burn. She put her arms around his neck, clinging to him, and he held her, holding still, waiting. He was inside her now, she felt him, completely filling her. He kissed her, soft, slow. His mouth was entrancing, drawing her out, drawing her against him.
She felt herself untensing, her body unfurling, opening to him.
Then, slowly, he began to move.
“Oh! Griff!” His movements were easy, practiced. She had a moment to wonder if he’d done this before—how many times, with how many other women—but when she looked up into his eyes and saw the light there, she didn’t care anymore.
He was hers. In that moment, he was hers. That was all that mattered.
“Och, Bridget,” he cried, hips moving faster, rocking into her pelvis, the two of them moving together, like water, flowing over one another.
“Aye,” she breathed, meeting him. It was like a dance, a beautiful, perfect dance. “Aye, Griff, oh, aye! Do’na stop!”
He groaned at that, driving her into the mattress with such fury she could scarce draw a breath, not that she cared. Bridget felt it again, that delicious tickle building up to a glorious climax. His shaft created such heat, such friction, everything between them was on fire.
“Look a’me, lass,” he whispered, holding himself above her as he thrust. His eyes were pure fire and she cried out as the feeling washed through her again, her sex clamping down on his length. “Och! Bridget!”
He gave one last, hard, thrust, burying himself deep in her womb, and she felt the first wave of his pleasure flowing into her. She clasped him to her, and they rolled, breathless, on the bed, until they were wrapped up together in the coverlet.
When he asked if she regretted what they’d done, she laughed.
“I won’t e’er regret that,” she murmured against his neck. “Not if I died t’morrow.”
“Come wit’ me,” he asked her again.
But she knew she couldn’t. They had this, now, and that was all.
“Ye can’na stay?” she asked him. Griff sighed, and she knew.
They had to follow their paths, each their own.
She didn’t know how many times they made love. She lost count. And still, she clung to him, wanting more. If this was all they had, this one night, then she wanted it to last a lifetime in her memory.
But they didn’t just make love. They talked. They laughed. They fed each other fruit and drank wine and told each other stories. Bridget told him about the time Alaric thought she’d drowned in the sacred pool—when she’d really been hiding among the rocks. Griff told her about the time his aunt, Laina—Darrow’s mate—had turned into she-wolf form and had nearly eaten him when he crept up on her while she was sleeping.
“Surely she would n’have hurt ye?” Bridgit asked, shocked at the thought.
“Wulver women can’na control their cycles.” Griff sighed. “E’en their own bairns aren’t always safe ’round ’em during their moon time. T’other wulver women take the bairns, and they go somewhere during their moon blood, away from t’pack.”
“That’s… terrible.” Bridgit shuddered. She knew her own mother and father locked themselves in their room—this very room, in fact—during Aleesa’s moon cycle. Now she knew why. She couldn’t imagine not being in control of your own body in that way. As a human woman, bleeding once a month was bad enough. But turning into a wolf, and not being able to turn back until your moon time was over? Not knowing if you might do something to someone you cared about?
“T’be fair, I should’na been where I was,” Griff replied with a shrug. “T’would’ve been m’own fault if she’d torn m’throat out.”
Bridget shook her head, sighing. Even so, she couldn’t imagine. Poor Laina—what if such a thing had happened, and she came back knowing she’d done something so awful?
“So, d’ye still think e’erythin’s always as it should be?” Griff asked, raising an eyebrow at her.
“I can’na explain t’terrible things that ’appen in t’world,” she admitted. “I do’na know t’reason fer ’em. But sometimes ye jus’ have t’accept what is.”
Griff snorted. “Ye sound like m’father.”
“He’s a wise man.”
Griff snorted at that, too, rolling her over to spank her bottom, just once, making her cry out and laugh at him.
“Ye can’na spank t’truth out,” she teased.
“No?” His eyes flashed red as he leapt for her, pouncing, making her giggle and thrash underneath him. “Mayhaps I can do somethin’ else t’ye ’til ye forget…”
His hand reached between them to cup her sex and she moaned. She was sore there, they’d been together so many times, but she rocked up against him anyway.
She realized, when he slid inside her again, that although they only had this one night to be together, she’d never get enough of him.
Even if they had a lifetime.
“I thought we might find ye ’ere.” Aleesa knelt down beside Bridget at the scrying pool.
“I jus’ wanted to watch him go...” Bridget kept the tremble from her voice and was proud of herself for doing it.
She didn’t want to tell them they’d already said goodbye. Watching Griff ride away to the south, she felt as if she was watching her future get smaller and smaller in the distance.
“He’s a mighty warrior.” Aleesa stroked her daughter’s hair. “I b’lieve he’ll lead t’packs, like t’prophecy says.”
Bridget said nothing, just hugged her knees to her chest and rocked, watching him disappear from her life. The scrying pool could only see up to the horizon, and Griff was almost out of sight.
“Aleesa...!” Alaric said his mate’s name with alarm, staring into the pool at the other end.
“What is it?” she asked, frowning.
“Riders from t’north.” The gray-haired wulver pointed into the pool, peering more closely. “Wulvers… I think… tis Raife.”
“Raife?” Bridget’s head came up at the sound of Griff’s father’s name. The man had come after his son? How had he known he would be there?
“I’ll saddle up an’ go meet ’em.” Alaric was already heading toward the exit.
“I wanna come!” Bridget called, jumping up, thinking of meeting Griff’s father.
Any way to stay connected with him…
Then a sudden motion in the pool at her feet caught her eye and she stopped, staring at the sight unfolding before her. Bridget cried out, dropping to her knees, peering into the pool, her nose so close, it almost touched the water.
“What is it?” Aleesa looked over the edge and saw, too, her eyes going wide with alarm.
“Griff!” Bridget cried, and then Alaric was there beside her, all three of them watching the events unfold in the scrying pool, unable to do anything but witness the scene.
Griff had been intercepted by a massive band of both men and wulvers.
Not the party approaching from the north, but another one coming in from the south. They were being led by a man—not a wulver, at least, not that Bridget could tell—who yelled orders to men and wulver alike as they surrounded Griff on his horse. They could hear no words, of course—they could only watch.
“No,” Bridget whispered, her heart dropping to her toes as she saw how outnumbered he was. What in the world could they want of him?
Suddenly, Griff’s horse bolted. He urged it forward, through the mass of wulvers and men, and just as suddenly as it had happened, it was over. They were out of sight of the scrying pool’s reach. The water was clear again.
“I’ll go after ’im.” Alaric’s voice was hoarse as he turned to go, but Bridget was up again in a flash, grabbing her father’s arm.
“No, I’ll go,” she insisted. “You mus’ ride out an’ meet t’wulvers coming from t’north. They know who ye are, they’ll trust ye an’ follow ye. Ye must bring ’em t’help Griff.”
“Aye.” Alaric hesitated, brow knit, torn. “But I do’na wan’ ye t’ go anywhere, lass. Ye stay ’ere wit’ yer mother.”
“That’s not what ye trained me fer.” Bridgit drew herself up to her full height, eyes flashing. “I’ll follow an’ track ’em. I promise, I will’na get t’close.”
“Jus’ track ’em, lass,” he warned, shaking a finger at her. “Leave a trail fer us t’follow.”
“Aye, I will.” She nodded, her heart already beating hard in her throat.
Aleesa put her arms around her daughter and Bridget let herself take comfort, for just a moment.
“Mother...” she whispered, thinking of Griff, of him in danger, and couldn’t bear it.
“T’prophecy says days’ll be dark before t’Blood Reign of t’Red Wulver.” Aleesa kissed her daughter’s forehead softly. “Nothing’s certain. Fate’ll ’ave its way.”
“All is as it should be?” Bridget whispered.
Aleesa nodded, but her eyes were cloudy. “I hope so...”
Chapter Seven
If he hadn’t been thinking so much about leaving Bridget, he might have seen them coming. He should have at least smelled them—a few hundred wulvers and men—but he was lost in thought. He cursed himself for it later, of course, being just as moony as Rory over Maire or Garaith over Eilis. He’d never been one to moon about over some female, but instead of tearing over the hills of Skara Brae to meet the ship that would take him to the mainland, he was plodding along, heart heavy. The further he got from the temple, the slower he seemed to go. Uri, impatient with his master’s pace, had tried several times to pick it up, but Griff had reined him in.
It was as if there was an invisible string tied from him to the temple—nay, to the lass, Bridget—and it grew more and more taut as he distanced himself. He had to admit, he was daydreaming. He was remembering the press of her full body against his, the creamy expanse of her thighs, the soft press of her lips. Not to mention how quickly lightning flashed in those sea-green eyes. The memory of the way she’d fought him as the guardian, how she’d rallied and come back again and again, made him smile. Little spitfire.
