

# BECOMING RED

### The Becoming Novels: Book One

##

### JESS RAVEN & PAULA BLACK

###  www.ravenandblack.blogspot.com

### twitter @RavenandBlack

### Published by Raven & Black.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Jess Raven and Paula Black

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

"Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again."

C.S. Lewis

"Alas for those girls who've refused the truth: The sweetest tongue has the sharpest tooth."

Jack Zipes

Should you find yourself lost in the Becoming world, please remember there is a glossary at the end of the book to help. You can access it from the interactive table of contents. Beware though, as it has some spoilers.

##  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Front cover images: Copyright Serg Zastavkin,

SVLuma, Jures 2012

All images used under license from Shutterstock.com.

Wolf image used with permission from Lupas-Deva on Deviantart.com

With heartfelt thanks to our families, friends, twitter supporters and beta readers - for your encouragement, continued support and much-valued feedback

## CHAPTER ONE

##

Tossing her carry-on across the back seat, sea legs from the flight had Ash sinking into the seats of the tobacco-musted taxi. It was steadying, even with her head all off-kilter. Arriving back in Ireland after so long felt like stepping into her past.

'American?' the driver asked in a thick Irish accent, his eyes settling on her through the rear-view mirror.

Ash nodded, though that wasn't strictly true. She'd moved to the States from here when she was nine years old.

'Here on business or pleasure?' he enquired.

'I'm here on a family matter,' Ash replied. Breaking eye-contact, she turned to watch the city streets flow by like liquid through the rain-dropped windows. She could have been in any rainy city, but no other place made her feel this young, this unsettled, or this scared.

Just one portentous phone call, and she was back to the beginning. The mail had fallen from her hand, bills and precious job offers forgotten with the news that her grandmother had suffered a debilitating stroke requiring nursing home care, and Ash was her only point of contact. She'd very nearly dropped the phone as memories of those bizarre months spent in her grandmother's care as a child came crawling into the light.

She was that small girl once more, with a mass of black hair escaping from the blood-red hood of her cape-coat as she was taken away. A holiday gone wrong, the press had said. A homicide-suicide that resulted in a small girl being whisked away in the dead of night to hide on another land, far from the gore that imprinted the soles of her white slippers. She still couldn't stand the colour. It absorbed too much, was never as pure as it seemed and could be corrupted so easily.

She'd been corrupted, by nightmares and mental 'delusions.' But she knew her stepfather hadn't been man enough to take his own life, and that the 'people' who really killed her mother were still out there, abandoned by authorities too eager to blame it on a dead man. While they may have given up all those years ago, she still found herself searching the shadows in her head for some semblance of truth, for a look at the real face of who, or what, took her family from her.

Her grandmother was the only family she had left now. Granted Power of Attorney and in charge of the old woman's affairs, Ash had got on the next plane to Dublin in a haze.

Her reflection blinked in the glass of the cab's window and she re-focussed to watch the shadows beyond lengthen. Darkness reached for the car in a flash under a streetlight and a slow terror crept up her spine. No reason for it, she thought, closing her eyes and berating herself. No reason at all. The newspapers had played with words: kidnapping, suspicious deaths, child slavery; the same things the doctors had fixed into her head after she'd been retrieved from her grandmother's arms. They were the only logical explanations. Yet the darkness still stirred, trying to convince her, from the cage she had the shadows locked in, that she had it wrong, that those words were lies.

When she blinked again, the dial above the car's radio read an hour on, the fare had greatly increased and they were stationary, parked up outside a large facade of brick and an unkempt garden. Black metal gates branched around the property in a Celtic knot of iron protection. With overhanging weeping willows and a deflowered blossom tree, the place looked as absent as its owner apparently was. Pressing a handful of colourful notes into the driver's palm, Ash slid from the seats and stepped into the cold Irish air. Her cases followed silently, the driver surely a mute, eyeing her warily as though she was to be distrusted when he was the one being all weird and mysterious. She assumed her solicitor had sent him. The woman had said she'd arrange the transfer and get her settled into the house. For now, this hulk of brick and iron was hers. It had been home once, however briefly. She'd endeavour to find that in it again.

Ash waved the cabby off, winning the battle to trundle her cases up the path to the door, a mess of exhaustion and trepidation. Every second she spent in this country brought her past into a haze of light, a light she thought had been turned off through years of therapy. Childhood memories, happy or otherwise, had never proved to be the most stable of experiences for her to draw from. She could never truly decipher what was real and not.

'You got me back. You always said you would.' Spoken to the sudden whip of wind that whistled its agreement through strands of her hair, Ash huddled into the warm, red velvet of her coat and fished the keys from the envelope the driver had given her.

From the parking lot, it looked like any other nursing home: old brick under white paint, with one floor and a sloping roof. Bars on the windows protected the glass from the outside and kept the insiders in. _Tír na nÓg_. The name struck Ash as ironic. Naming a place for a mythical land of eternal youth, when the inmates were more living-dead than living seemed like a sick joke.

'Your grandmother is right this way, Miss DeMorgan. She's had a good morning. You picked a nice day to come in. The sun makes her calmer.' The middle-aged nurse, with her little cup of pills ready for administering, was all cheer. _Lying through her teeth, no doubt,_ Ash thought. To say that medical institutions made her uneasy was an understatement.

The residents she passed as she followed the nurse down the corridor were old husks sat in even older chairs, folding into the pattern of the fabric until the chairs breathed and their oxygen tanks rattled. Ash offered smiles to the ones that looked up, listening to their faint heartbeats in the bleeps from their mechanical guardians.

'Anann?' The nurse had stopped beside a large chair facing the windows of the sun-dappled conservatory.

Its occupant muttered in answer and a gnarled hand fell twitching over the arm of the blue floral chair.

'She may not be all that welcoming, dear,' the nurse explained, 'and the stroke has affected her speech. Don't expect too much. Just press this button if you need us.' Her lined face crinkled up in a smile and Ash nodded, taking a deep breath.

'Grandma?' The word felt foreign, but the woman in front of her was familiar. Her memories were accurate, down to the taloned fingernails and wrinkled features. Hard and sharp as a hawk, the stroke had only softened one side of the old woman who sat staring out of the window. 'Grandma?'

Vexation flickered in that gaze as it swung to pin Ash with a frown that was all eyes.

'It's Ashling.'

There was no recognition that she could discern, but her grandmother's focus was on her.

'I don't know if you remember me, I was very young.'

'Rayvn,' the old lady mumbled.

She thought she'd misheard, but her grandmother's fingers managed to move enough to snag a loose-hanging curl that had escaped Ash's messy bun.

'Rayvn,' she said again.

'I'm not Rayvn, Grandma. I'm Ashling, her daughter.' It made Ash happier than it should have, that she looked like her mother.

As the news seeped in, her grandmother's eyes widened, her hand slipped from the black curl to grip Ash's forearm with surprising strength. Her mouth struggled to form words, hissing syllables that warped with her mounting frustration. Squeezing the crinkled hand in her own, Ash pressed the button to call the nurse.

'What is she saying?' she asked quietly.

The uniformed woman bent to the old woman's ear. 'I believe it to be _Dubh Linn_ , Miss. She says it a lot. The ravens are a trigger.' She gestured at the birds littering the lawn, their black feathers glossed with green and blue under the sun.

So, not her mother's name, merely the birds, Ash thought, feeling deflated.

'The feathery buggers are always about. They agitate her,' the nurse smiled.

Ash's mouth curved in response, hiding her disappointment. She didn't know what she'd been expecting, some revelation, some sense, but it was clear she wasn't going to get it. The grandmother she'd known had deteriorated into this, and pitying her was helping no one.

_What are you even doing here, Ash? She doesn't know who you are._ Her inner dejection cut off at the old woman's screech, a garbled flurry of sound rushing from her mouth as the knotted knuckles of her fingers dug into Ash's hand. 'Connal, Connal Savage, Connal,' she repeated insistently.

_What..?_ 'Who?' Ash asked, struggling in the old lady's iron grip.

A burst of energy bleeped through the machines with her elevated heart rate and the nurse quickly hustled to ease Anann's clawed grip from Ash's arm. 'I think it best you go, dear. It won't help for her blood pressure to rise, it could push her into another stroke. We'll look after her.' Ash was dismissed with another glance, her grandmother's attention back on the birds outside, stumbling her two-word vocabulary to her reflection in the window. There was no one home again. And Ash had never felt more alone.

## CHAPTER TWO

###

Ratatatatatatatatat...Ratatatatatatatat... Bzzzzzzzzz ... Bzzzzzzz...

Ash surfaced from her nightmare with a jerk, lashing her arm out to ward off the attack of the giant creature pounding on her door. Okay, maybe not pounding. Her head was thumping and the knocks at the door came in quick, gentle succession interspersed with the rumble of the ... doorbell?

Yeah, doorbell.

No freaky thing trying to gain entrance to the house, just a regular old alert to company.

Ash stretched out, pushing her feet onto the worn floorboards, wavering a second as her senses aligned with reality. Wading through the occult paraphernalia littering the halls of her grandmother's house, she peered through the covered peephole and unbolted the front door with a curious smile. She didn't even get a 'Can I help you?' from her lips before the hoop of a leash was pushed into her hand and the flustered smile of the woman on the doorstep changed to an uptilt of surprise.

'Oh ...' Huffing a blonde strand from her face, the woman paused, gathering some semblance of thought as she bounced a small boy on her hip. 'Hi, I'm really sorry to be doing this to you ...'

'Ash. Ashling DeMorgan.'

'Ashling, right. I'm Liath.' Just a name by way of introduction. 'I gotta go, and I can't leave the mutt in my house alone for one more shift. He's like a bull in a china shop, and he eats more than an elephant. I'll drop over with what's left of his food when I get off this night shift, but I really can't keep him another day. I'm sorry.'

Ash nodded along through the exhaled rush of words, trying to fathom who the hell the woman was and why she suddenly found herself owner of a small fluffy horse that slobbered kisses to her hands, its large paws clawing at her hip as the beast pounced up to reach her face with the drool-drenched rasp of an excited tongue. Batting at the ... _fuck is it a dog?_ Ash pushed the creature down sternly, flicking laces of saliva from her skin with an amused shiver.

'You want me to take your dog?' Ash asked. She could feel the pull of confusion furrowing her brow and tried to wipe the frown away before Liath looked back up.

'Not my dog, Mrs DeMorgan's dog. He's yours now.' Her smile was sympathetic as she brushed back a lock of dark blonde hair. 'I just can't cope anymore, not with Josh.' She jostled the little boy in her arms and smiled when his face lit up with giggles.

_Ahhh_ , so this was her grandmother's dog, the one that alerted the neighbours to something being amiss. Ash tugged gently on the lead, encouraging the pony-sized canine to seat himself beside her.

'At least he'll be good protection. With the crime in this city, you'll want all the protection you can get. If he was smaller ...'

_She'd be keeping him_. Ash read the silence. The woman dipped a little, shifting her weight, jade green eyes roaming Ash head to toe with a purely feminine look. Ash stepped into the silence she'd left hanging.

'Well ... umm ... thank you for the dog.' Awkward didn't begin to cover it. Liath was way too interested, too curious, looking her over. Did she have drool on her top? She brushed at the length of her braid self-consciously. 'You said you have to go?' Ash was getting uneasy. Too much staring, not enough talking.

'Oh feck ... yes ...' Spurred from whatever had gripped her curiosity, Liath turned on a practiced, bright smile. Pushing down the upturned hem on her uniform, she cuddled the little boy close as she about-faced with a soft spoken good luck and goodbye.

A wave and a crunch of stone underfoot later and she was off into the dark Friday evening, leaving Ash with the mammoth puppy and finger waving back at the small-handed wave the cherubic boy offered from his perch at his mother's hip.

'Now, what to do with you, huh, boy?' She scratched the top of the dog's silky grey head, unclipping the leash and ushering the loping animal into the bowels of the house she now called home. He disappeared and she secured the locks before seeking him out. If her neighbour, Liath, feared leaving him alone, she could only imagine what he could break in the craziness of her grandmother's house.

'What are you chewing, boy?' The silver beast raised his massive head and pulled out all the stops on the puppy dog look. Big brown eyes implored her to let him gnaw on the fluffy slipper dangling from his mouth, his kill spilling its foamy innards. Her lips curved, laughter twitching at the corners as she watched him from the door. She moved slow and dropped down beside him, tunnelling her hands through his fur. Ash got lost for a while, rhythmically petting the creature. God, she must be lonely if she was planning on keeping the giant lump.

She was still cooing over the dog when a flash of scarlet caught her eye through the window. To anyone else it would have been nothing, but to her, it was the lure fishermen threw out, and she got nice and hooked.

A girl, around Ash's age, was fighting to free the bright red spike of a stiletto from the gridding where it was trapped.

The shoes were whatever, the colour was... brilliant. Hypnotising, it danced for her eyes. The dog's eyes followed her creep to the curtains where she drew one back, stealing a closer look. The way the shadows ate up the red only to reveal it seconds later had her mesmerised.

'I'm going completely insane,' she muttered to the animal at her side.

Doe-eyed and beautiful, the owner of the shoe cursed loud enough for Ash to hear it through the glass. Her friends were a bit away, keeping a close eye on the fight with the manhole but clearly too tipsy to want to linger long.

'I should be like that,' Ash told the dog, 'out there, dolled-up to the nines with fake nails and barely-there clothes, freezing my ass off, and tottering drunkenly into every man I meet.'

Yeah ... Party!!

Not ...

Instead, she was enthralled by the colour on the bottom of the girl's shoes and planning a night in with an equine-sized canine and some mind-numbing TV.

She didn't need people around her.

She kinda needed those heels.

Ash shook the thoughts off as the girl wrenched the shoe free and whipped her head up in triumph. Her gaze locked to Ash's in a clash of Bambi brown and startled sapphire. Just that split second of haughty disdain had Ash dropping the curtain faster than a breath. That girl probably didn't have a scrap of awkward in her closet. But she had damn nice heels. So Ash didn't have a lot of tumbling party nights out with girlfriends. She could, if she wanted them.

Shrugging off a wistful sigh, the spell from the red-soled shoes was broken. Ash resisted the urge to watch the colour _tap tap_ down the street, falling instead into the plump squishy cushions of the couch with a huff and scrolling down until she hit a Spartacus re-run and drowned in a sea of buff men in loincloths.

## CHAPTER THREE

###

An island in a sea of heaving bodies, Connal sat on the barstool and felt the beat vibrate through the soles of his boots. He'd been coming back to the club every night for the past week, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Anann DeMorgan had charged him with locating the new _latent_ , and odds were the one he sought would eventually show up here, in _Form_. Once they reached sexual maturity, the pull of their latent genetics inevitably lured the women to where the highest concentration of potential mates was to be found. Not that they ever knew what really attracted them to Dublin's fair city.

_Withered old crone_ , Connal growled. Taking care of DeMorgan's blow-ins wasn't in his job description. She knew how he felt about handling females. If this one was so different, why couldn't she just take care of it herself? She'd struck him, hard, for that insolent comment, after reminding him of the debt he owed her. He wouldn't have thought her arthritis-ravaged body capable of the brutality, but Anann DeMorgan was to be underestimated at your peril. Her flesh might be slowly mummifying around the bird-like skeleton of her crumbling bones, but underneath she was sharp as a blade, and just as lethal. She was like a cockroach. Indestructible. He wasn't buying the oatmeal-drooling, invalid pretence. He'd been to see her at the nursing home and she'd thrown that oatmeal in his damn face. She might be mute, but hellfire still blazed in her milky, cataract-blind eyes. He knew well if he defied her, she'd come back from the bloody grave to wreak her vengeance.

Elbows propped on the bar, his roughened fingertips worked a circling pressure on his temples. The muscles fanning the breadth of his shoulders were tensed beneath his leather jacket. His eyes were trained on the rippling surface of the drink in front of him: Midleton Redbreast, mark five, all doubles. A waste of fine whiskey, but alcohol dulled his edges and the way he saw it, life was too fucking long to spend it drinking piss-water.

' _Just look at the state of yourself, Connal the Savage,'_ the old woman's words hounded him now, ' _a sorry sight you are, reeking of the drink and that den of sin and vice. If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.'_

Connal tossed back the drink and slid the empty glass in the direction of Doyle, the bar-man. With his hair gelled back at the temples and the tight white tee, and even tighter expression, the guy was channelling James Dean, circa _Rebel Without a Fucking Clue_ , complete with guy-liner and a pack of smokes tucked into his sleeve. Doyle paused in the middle of polishing the glass in his hand to look at the empty one pushed under his nose. 'You're not welcome here, Slayer,' he said.

'You're fixing to make me leave?' Connal smiled coldly, glazed eyes fixing the guy with a challenge he knew he couldn't accept.

'You know I can't,' Doyle sneered.

Connal sucked on his teeth. 'That's right, bud. By Haven Law I'm as free to walk in here as the next son of a bitch and there's not a sodding thing you, nor I, can do about that. So how about that drink?' He plastered a smile on his mug. The sacred ground on which the club was built had its perks. Nobody was willing to spill Fomorian blood here and risk an apocalypse. Whether Doyle liked it or not, and regardless of which side Connal fought on, his blood was one-hundred proof, which was more than could be said for the runt _thegn_.

'No law says I have to _serve_ you,' Doyle replied, his jaw clenched like he was nursing a bad dose of constipation.

Christ, but the _thegn_ were all so uptight. It was a trademark, an affliction as distinctive as the brand they wore on their chests. Enforced celibacy was unnatural, even if it was to ensure the purity of the race's bloodlines. All that pent up frustration, all those retained sexual fluids, needed a release valve, and Doyle looked ready to blow his stack.

'Lighten up, would you, man. You'll live longer. It's just a damn drink.' Connal slurred his words, lifting the empty glass and moving to catch the attention of the nearest bar girl, but something caught his attention first.

He smelled the female before he saw her, singled out the scent of her approach, cutting through the raft of stale sweat and smoke churning out of the inadequate air-con. Like a distilled single malt, she smelled good, fresh and primed, all laced up with that delicious lick of fear that never failed to get him hard. _Fresh meat_. The stray thought was tamped down with a mental snarl. _Let's try to play nice_.

He took his time, taming the hunger, stroking it into submission while the waitress refilled his glass. He shot the amber liquid, savouring the burn, before lifting hooded eyes from the counter. His gaze slid sidelong down the bar, following the direction of that scent. He started from the floor and worked his way up, drinking her in, and the visual, set against the backdrop of the pulsing club lights, was up to the mark. The red-soled heels and the vertiginous hem, combined with the slight wobble in her step, gave her a coltish appearance. A long mane of brown waves skimmed the small of her back. Just the way he liked it. _All the better to rein you in_.

She wasn't 'the one'. The eyes weren't right, but who the hell cared? He was happy to whet his appetite while he waited for his mark to show. Didn't want to wind up like that tight-ass Doyle, behind the bar now, did he? Besides, the new latent was strictly off limits. Anann DeMorgan had been very graphic when she informed him that under no circumstances was he to fuck the girl.

This one did have a look about her. English? Almost certainly. It was a rare local girl that would bare that much flesh to the Irish elements. These British girls blew into the city for a weekend of anonymous debauchery and drifted out again on the tide. _Perfect._

A predatorial darkness came down over his eyes as he swivelled on the barstool to face her. His thighs widened to accommodate the strain of his arousal. She was nervous, a little tongue-tied, eyes darting from the floor and back up to the penetrating intensity of his stare, and he liked that too. She looked ready to bolt. _Run, rabbit, run_. Instead, she held her ground, wetting her lower lip and dragging the pink flesh through even, white teeth. That stirred something in him. He mirrored her mouth action, moistening his own lips with the tip of his tongue, running it along the sharp edges of his teeth. The ghost of a smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. 'Don't you look fetching.' _Positively fucking edible_.

Why the hell was he so juiced tonight? Sure, he'd hit on random strangers in clubs. Many, many times. He was a male with itches that wanted scratching and these ship in the night, foreign girls were easy, willing prey. Uncomplicated. He never gave his number and he never promised to call. But this? It wasn't natural, like his anchor had been pulled and his control was drifting out. He was ravenous, the need clawing at him from the inside, demanding a release. He was on the edge and humming with some intractable energy he couldn't pin down. _You can pin her down,_ he thought. Even as he made his move, he was stuck with the grim conviction that this _rendez vous_ wasn't going to end well, but he was horse-bolted, way beyond caring.

As he led her down through the dark labyrinth of corridors, the exchange of words was minimal. The exchange of names was none. The insistent beat of the music above grew muffled and the ceilings got lower the deeper they wound down into the core of the club's dark heart. The edge of nerves in the female's breathless laughter was proof that alcohol only bolstered courage to a point. Beyond that point, you had to rely on instinct, and if hers were not clouded by lust, they should be screaming for her to run. Instead, she clung to him.

Connal's hand curled around a door handle and he tackled the girl into the darkness of Doyle's office. Without warning, he wheeled her around and pushed her up against the desk. His stubble scratched her nape as he growled in her ear. 'I'm hungry. Are you hungry?'

'Insatiable,' she laughed breathily, rolling her ass into the grind of his hips. Her head fell back, opening up the vulnerable line of her neck to his wandering mouth.

He slipped his fingers beneath the hem of that impossibly short dress and rode it up her hips, guiding her back onto the hard press of his arousal. As his teeth closed around the soft flesh of her earlobe, he growled the words. 'Hunger sharpens the senses.'

'Yes.' Her spine bowed from the centre span of his palm, arching up and writhing in his hands.

He laved a wet, shivery stroke to the pulse in her throat. Pounding on his tongue, her heartbeat matched the rapid pace of his own. His hand cupped the taut lace between her thighs and a low moan escaped his throat.

She danced into his palm, urging him on. 'Your plan is to kill me isn't it?' she breathed.

'I could eat you alive.' The words rasped from his throat on a sound more animal than human. _She had no idea_. In the span of a heartbeat, her lace panties were sacrificed to a slice of bared claws. Thighs slammed up to the desk, a rough hand to her spine bent her forward, crushing her cheek to the smooth leather of the desk. Trapped by the solid wedge of his lower body, his growl was lusty. 'You're going to like it better this way. Trust me.' He pinned her with his thighs, freeing his hands to manacle her wrists at the base of her spine, the ripped lace of the panties wound around their slim circumference and knotted to a firm ligature.

'I trust you. Please ...'

She hadn't even asked about protection, but where he was concerned, protection didn't come in little foil packets. Her fingers splayed over his lower stomach, blindly straining to touch what she could. He muttered a ragged profanity, claws scoring down polished mahogany, canines elongating as he rode the underside of his erection through her fingertips. Dangerously close to the edge, he craved the slap of flesh, pictured the pummelling force of his thrusts and how they would ride her sex-flushed body up the sweat-slick desk.

He never got that far.

His teeth closed around the delicious yield of her skin and it was game over. He tasted blood, laced with the sweetness of whatever cocktails had loosened her up enough to follow a stranger into the nether reaches of this dark club, to let him tie her up with her own panties and fuck her senseless. Inhaling deep, he caught the scent of her panic. His lids slammed down on a wash of crimson vision, and even as she gasped, he knew he'd fucked it up. Again.

He could already feel the climax coiling in her body begin to derail as she choked out a nervous bravado. 'My,' she said, 'what big teeth you have ...'

## CHAPTER FOUR

###

'My ... what big teeth you have.'

He barely heard her lame attempt to diffuse the tension with humour. Animal aggression pumped off him in waves, fuelled by the scent of the girl's fear. But then, ironically, the faintly ridiculous Big Bad reference hit him, like a slap of humanity to his killer instinct. Repelled by her words, he jerked away, panic and adrenaline flooding his veins, his lids peeled wide on wild, crimson eyes. _Fight or flight_.

His body chose flight. Stumbling out into the corridor, Connal slammed the door on the female within, leaving her, and her rapidly cooling ardor, bent over the desk. He'd pulled out in time, hadn't he? Numbed by the alcohol, the bruise to her ego would hurt more than his bite. She'd wriggle free and stagger back to her friends, convincing herself that what she'd felt was just the product of her over-sexed, cocktail-drenched imagination. Funny how that human mind-eraser worked, editing out the details that failed to fit the accepted reality. He hadn't actually broken her skin with his teeth, had he? Connal wiped his mouth and it came away bloody. _Fuck._

He wrestled his shirt back into the waistband of his jeans, struggling to focus on anything but what had just gone down inside that room. He was seriously losing his shit. Ever since DeMorgan had checked out with the stroke, it was as though some external force was exerting its draw on him, luring the animal to the bars of its cage. And its pull was growing more powerful with every passing day. Heart thumping against his ribs, his breaths came in snarled grunts. Long canines prevented him from fully closing his mouth, and when he cranked his head up to orientate himself, a curtain of red bled down the canvas of his vision.

He turned and bolted, instinct guiding him through the crimson-hued labyrinth of tunnels, until finally he was punching his way out through an emergency exit. Momentum spilled him into the alley at the rear of the club, where he'd parked his Shadow earlier in the night. Bracing his arms on the saddle of the motorcycle, he growled a string of curses. He worked his lungs, sucking in the night air like a man drowning, diluting the female's scent, willing his body to come to heel.

He hadn't been this unstable since those early, feral days, before DeMorgan had broken him in. Back then, the simplest emotion could pull his trigger. He was never, ever, going back to that.

Footfalls echoed off the walls of the alley. Connal blinked. A long shadow rounded the corner, climbing the street-lit stone as the owner of the footsteps stepped from the shadows.

'Liath,' he growled. _Shit. Bad timing._

Head hung low, Connal's long dreads concealed distorted facial features as he struggled to find equilibrium. His vision was clearing, but his canines hadn't fully retracted, so he wrapped his lips around his teeth to conceal them, before turning his head in his neighbour's direction.

Liath's barmaid outfit left little to the imagination. _Form_ liked to push flesh to sell drinks, and judging by the holdall slung over one shoulder and the stilettos dangling from her hand, Liath was on a late-shift. He'd tried to talk her out of taking the job, but the pay and tips were like velvet handcuffs to a cash-strapped single mother. She lived for that child. Right now, though, Connal was the one on the receiving end of her parental concern.

'Christ, Connal. Are you okay? I haven't seen you in days. I-' she corrected herself, chagrin creeping into her cheeks. '-We were worried. Shit, you look like death warmed-over.'

Shielding his mouth in a passable imitation of drunken nausea, he nodded and mumbled words distorted by huge fangs. 'Nah, I'm okay. Bit of a bender. Just not feeling so hot, know what I mean?'

Liath's pretty face hardened. Her choice specimen of an ex had been a nasty, abusive drunk. Emphasis on the 'had been'. These days, thanks to Connal, he was worm food.

'Get home to bed, Connal, and sleep it off. I don't have time for this. I'm already late for my shift.'

'S'okay, Liath, you go on. I'm grand. Just needed some air.' Keeping his eyes shielded, Connal nodded, raising a palm to her.

She hesitated a moment, shifting on her feet, before hefting open the door and stepping into the pool of light spilling from the club.

'Can I ask you something, Conn?' Liath turned back to him, her face scrunched up like she was embarrassed. 'I was thinking maybe I'd ask out the bartender, Doyle? He's never mentioned a girlfriend. You think I'd have a chance with him?'

'Yeah, fuck, Liath,' Connal replied, 'I think you might be barking up the wrong tree with that one, know what I mean?'

'He's gay, isn't he?' Her brow creased in consternation. 'I should have known. Guess my gaydar's all out of whack. I thought, well, never mind... ' She batted at the air.

'He's not gay, Liath, least not that I'm aware. It's more of a religious thing. He doesn't do sex. Sworn to celibacy, sort of like a monk.'

Liath's eyes peeled anime wide. 'Seriously? Crap, so he's one of those born-again virgins or something? I got enough religion at Convent School to last me ten lifetimes, you know? But I'll say this,' she smiled, 'that is the hottest damn monk I've ever set eyes on. Maybe I can convert him to the dark side.' She gave Connal a wink, licked her lips and strutted off in the direction of the staff door, swinging the stilettos in her hand.

'Good luck with that.' Connal muttered to her departing back. He wasn't sure she'd even heard him, but she pivoted one last time in his direction.

'You take care of yourself, Conn, and when you get a chance, I've left the dog back at Mrs DeMorgan's. I'm sorry. Too much on my plate already, yeah?'

She smiled apologetically and was already closing the door behind her as he spoke. 'You left the mutt alone in the house?'

'No, 'course not. I handed him over to the girl ... Ashling? I really gotta go, Conn. Work on my cure for celibacy, know what I mean? Catch you later, 'K? And don't you even think of driving that bike home. I'll have it locked up in the staff garage 'til morning.'

'Appreciate it, Liath. Later, yeah?' His voice trailed off as he spoke to the closed door, thoughts already six steps ahead of the conversation. He'd been waiting for his mark in the wrong place.

Fishing Anann DeMorgan's house key from his pocket, he reeled on his feet, whether from the whiskey or the close encounter in the basement he couldn't say. But the walk to the house would leave him plenty of time to find his stride. It was time to confront this _latent_ that had gotten DeMorgan's knickers in such a twist.

## CHAPTER FIVE

###

It was not her imagination. The creak of floor-boards, the horror _cliché_ of a young female, alone in the house, being murdered by a man in a _Scream_ mask, seemed not so far off the mark as Ash gripped the handle of the first thing she came in contact with. Every breath sounded loud, like she'd been plugged into an amplifier and was broadcasting her heartbeat around the entire house. How had they got in? She'd locked the door. She was pretty sure she'd locked the door. Fuck, had she locked it? She held her breath as another board protested the weight stepping closer, and as she listened, her anger swelled from a bud of fear and tightened her fist on the wooden handle. The arrogant ass wasn't even sneaking! He was just waltzing into the house like he owned the damn thing. Her heartbeat pounded her - probably very soon to be ended - life between her ears.

_I'm gonna die_ ...

Her hold trembled and she steeled it with a ' _no you're damn well not._ ' He was getting closer. The footsteps echoed as he moved, large boots, too heavy to be female, and so she assumed the stance everyone seemed to take when wielding an object as a weapon. With the implement raised high, her legs were shaking, braced apart for support, jelly wobbling as she moved forward tentatively, inching out of the protection of the kitchen. If she was in a slasher movie, she'd be screaming at herself for being so stupid. But she would not sit and wait to be discovered. Maybe surprise would be on her side and she could actually pull off this stunt.

On second thought ... _Whoa_ ... he was a hulking figure, fondling her coat like he'd never felt velvet before, all dreadlocked and massive, blocking her hallway. Blocking the door. Ash shrunk a little, folding into herself. Anyone else would have said fear. And a small portion of it really, really was. But the voice that drowned out her quaking said ' _Strike!_ '

She drew back, and her presence registered. His head whipped in her direction, gifting her a glimpse of rugged jaw under a fall of dreads that looked wickedly soft, but she'd already hauled off on a hit that ricocheted pain through her bones and jacked her elbow back so hard that if her teeth hadn't firmly embedded themselves in her lip, she would have cried out. Her intruder hit the floor with a tree-falling-in-the-forest thump of leather.

_Mother of-!_ She'd actually hit someone. Feeling like she should have a comic book THWACK! hovering above her head, Ash stared, wide-eyed and panting softly. She was beyond freaked out. Whatever had given her the balls to hit out shrivelled up in a blast of fear.

Oh God, she'd killed him! That's what you got for taking tips from Disney movies and arming yourself with a frying pan. No happy, birds singing, bunnies hopping ending. Just a giant mass of man to dispose of before her neighbours complained of the smell.

'Fuuuck ...' she whined. He'd gone down like a stone, and as she'd danced a little victory jig at incapacitating her burglar, it slowly dawned on her that she didn't think he was breathing. So now she faced the sprawl of leather and denim. Setting the pan down, she tiptoed around the ... corpse? God, she hoped not, and gingerly bent to put her ear to his mouth. Nothing. She stepped across him, leant closer. Dead, definitely dead. With another whine, Ash crouched to the task of pocket inspector. If she had to bury the fucker, she should at least know who he was.

Planting her knees either side of his hips, she hovered, her hair falling to obscure her face as she fumbled around in his jeans pockets. A spasm of muscle moved under her palm and her eyes flicked to his face. Steel grey eyes stared up at her. Ash let out a little hiss and jerked her hands from his pockets.

'You know, Beautiful, if you wanted to sit in my lap, you only had to ask nicely.'

The intruder was awake. And she was stupid. Had she expected him to just stay dead? Of course not. In horror movies, the crazy guy always came back. He looked a little stunned, though, and she played the advantage. She reached for his hands like she was reaching for a cobra. One wrong move and he could have her neck snapped like a chicken's. Settling her weight into her ass, Ash pounced. In a strike that looked far easier in the movies, she pinned his wrists over his head.

She let herself be deluded that it was her super-strength keeping the giant man on her floor, but in the back of her mind she knew her attempts were futile. He must be three times her size, at least. His lips quirked in what looked like amusement. No burglar should look so kissable. The bastard was playing with her, letting her believe she had the upper hand, when in reality, he was probably planning to kill her.

'I'm all for a little rough foreplay,' he said huskily, 'but don't you think knocking me out defeats the purpose? Unless you're into the seriously kinky shit ... Is that it, angel? You like it kinky?' His tone was pure mischief. 'You know I could have you on your back in a heartbeat, and I wouldn't even break a sweat?' he said.

'Why don't you then?' she challenged.

'Oh I'm going nowhere,' he smirked. 'I like the view from where I am. Just. Fine.'

Her furious gaze snapped to his, and the heat in his eyes had a flush crawling up her throat.

'Care to tell me with whom I have the pleasure?' he drawled, his lids hooding eyes that darkened perceptibly the longer he stared at her.

Ash glared back at him, hoping to burn a hole in his ... _do not think ridiculously handsome_ ... face. Man breaks into her house, and she was the one being interrogated? The guy had some nerve. 'Who the hell are _you_?' she demanded.

'I would be the one you just assaulted with a deadly -' his gaze whipped to where the weapon lay abandoned on the floor, '-frying pan? God damn... Crazy girl.' His lips pursed, and she knew he was fighting the urge to laugh out loud.

'This crazy girl will happily use it again to bludgeon that smirk off your face,' she retorted.

Their eyes connected and their wills locked horns. He gave in to his amusement and laughed in her face.

_Oooohhhh ... infuriating burglar!_ Ash shoved at him hard, his laughter flexing his arms in her grip until he slipped her restraint completely. Her hands collided with a wall of packed muscle that belonged in mythology. Even through the fabric of his shirt, the man was clearly ripped. No Musclemania steroid bulk, but hard, chiselled power, the kind of muscle a tiger owned, honed by hunting and killing and ... _Probably not the best thread to follow there, girl. If he's a killer, he isn't going to start purring for you._

'You can let me go, angel,' he said, 'I promise not to bite.'

Right, like she was falling for that. He didn't sound like a man who kept his promises. Trouble was, Ash was starting to really like how he fit at her hips, how his weight shifted between her thighs and the falls of his dreads tickled her bare arms when she struggled to stop his movements. She had to readjust her hold to keep the ... _please don't let that be a gun_ ... in his pocket from digging into her flesh.

It was bizarre. Her fear was right up there with her anger, spitting and hissing, mentally scratching his eyes out like a cat with its tail stepped on, but she also had the weirdest urge to rub up on him, to pull on his shirt instead of push at his shoulders and attempt to pin him still long enough so she could smack the fucker with her frying pan. Again.

He looked long and deep into her eyes and her brain was suddenly bombarded with filthy impulses. It was like a fantasy projector in her head, fast-forwarding to them ripping each other's clothes off in a panting, sweaty frenzy and going at it like candidates for the fucking _Discovery Channel_. Somehow she knew, those were his thoughts.

'How are you doing that?' Cheeks burning, she glowered at him.

'Doing what, exactly?' he replied, his lips pulling into a smug, lazy smile.

Bastard. Ash backed off him slowly. She had the feeling the smooth talk was an act to lull her into a sense of false security, that she was, in fact, releasing a wild animal, of the cornered and pissed variety. He stilled as she sat back.

Right onto something rigid and iron.

She shifted her weight, trying to reposition, and got nowhere. She was trapped, straddling his hips, fighting to disentangle her legs from where she'd locked them to pin him, when his moan rumbled into the air. Louder than a growl of thunder, it rolled between her thighs and shimmied up her spine.

Later, she'd convince herself it was some sort of quick-fix Stockholm deal that had her attacking him. A brain aneurysm or a temporary blackout. When in reality she just couldn't pick one thing to feel, and it cocktailed into the insanity of a feral kiss that rocked tall, dark and klepto right at the centre of her and crushed them into a grind so close that she could feel the steely hard press of his ... gun ... in shocking detail at the apex of her thighs. Yeah. Aneurysm for sure.

Her hands got tangled in his hair ... _so soft_... clawed at his nape and tore down the neck of his tee to reach skin as her mouth got familiar with his, a biting, tongue-duelling, lip-bruising assault that panted her frustration, her fear and her lust into shared breaths. He was raw and animal, tasting of rain in the forest, moonlight on water, fresh and primal. Fire to her ice.

His rough hands were all over her, hungrily seeking every inch of her skin, riding her tank top up the straining cage of her ribs to palm the soft swells of her breasts, grazing the tight peaks of her nipples that begged the wet suction of his mouth, his teeth.

She was pliant, bowing into his hands. A low moan escaped his throat. His hips pumped up between her thighs with shallow fuck-thrusts and his hands grappled blindly at the waistband of her sweats.

Feeling the friction of his straining zipper, she drove down with her hips, making rough circles as she melted through the thin fabric of her sweats. Hardly protection, right now, they were too much. She panted aroused frustration, needing him naked. Forcing herself from their kiss on a gasp from bruised lips, her breasts, bereft of his warmth, chilled to the air and her nipples ached a protest. Left unattended, she throbbed. He groaned a protest while she set to her struggle with his clothing ... _No stopping_ ...

Ash tugged on his zipper so hard she thought she'd rip the thing right out of the fabric, but it didn't budge. _Come on!_ She needed skin.

Her fingers hooked into the neck of his shirt, hauling him back to her mouth with a satisfying growl. There was a rip as the fabric gave way to her clawing lust. _Grrrrrr_ ... Her own passion amused her. The strength of an emotion she usually couldn't stoke up enough to want to kiss someone had poured out of her. And all it had taken was an intruder, a frying pan and rough hands.

_Ooooh, skin!_ Her eyes caught on the flash and her fingers splayed over the taut muscles of his chest. If he got to touch, Ash was damn well not going to be denied. She grasped ... _Metal?_ ... _Yes_ ... Small hoops pierced through his nipples. Her smile was hungry on his lips, her fingers hooking in and tugging hard in a twist that ripped a snarl from his mouth and shot her gaze to watch. He liked that. She did it again, hips winding, shimmying to help him divest her of her sweats. Molten, she was a volcano of need strung tight and ready to ... Freeze.

The crack of ice as it formed should have been audible, it spread so quickly to chill her ardour, imprisoning her in a frozen block of terror that stopped her heart and stamped it into a roaring Grand National gallop of panic. Ash jolted back as the flames between her thighs recoiled, extinguished by a brand she saw every night on the waves of darkness.

She'd never thought to see it again. Not on living flesh and blood, anyway. Dream bodies didn't count. But it was here, larger than life, lying between her thighs. A tattoo scarred straight into muscle: a stylised, Celtic wolf.

Death, how she remembered it.

'No...' She was talking to the man beneath her, but she was addressing the demons from her nightmares, her undulations switched to frantic, thrashing attempts at escape.

'What exactly is your problem, beautiful?' His growl was as ragged as the torn shreds of his shirt.

All she could do was stare, her eyes wild with terror, fixated on the wolf-brand on his chest. Pallor drained her cheeks of what little colour they had. The sexual heat that had sizzled between them not a moment before shrivelled and died, leaving only fear in its wake.

Her burglar retreated, dragging his ass back until his shoulders hit the wall. He pinned her in the hard glare of his breathless frustration.

'Get away from me!' she demanded. Even to herself, she sounded one scream from a straight jacket and a padded cell.

'I'm nowhere near you,' he replied, eyeing her suspiciously. 'What are you doing in Anann DeMorgan's house?' he asked.

'Granddaughter ...' The word was thready as hell. _Breathe, Ash, breathe. You die and they win_.

'You're Anann DeMorgan's granddaughter?' he asked, incredulous, raking her with a gaze that seemed to be seeking out a resemblance.

Ash nodded.

'You might have told me,' he growled, 'Nan DeMorgan would have my bollocks in a jar if she knew how close we'd been to....' he trailed off, pushing a hand through his dreads. 'So you're the new _latent_?' he said, looking up at her. 'She wasn't messing when she said you were different to the others.'

'What others? What's a _latent_?' she asked warily.

'Hasn't your grandmother told you anything?'

'My grandmother is in a nursing home. She can't speak.' Ash backed further away. She should have trusted her first instincts. The guy was a delusional psychopath.

He tapped a hand to the wolf branded into his chest, addressing her like she was a cornered animal. 'You're afraid of me, because of _this_ , right?'

She couldn't peel her eyes away, couldn't blink, damn it, she couldn't even gather breath enough to scream. He was talking, but only certain words filtered through. Her brain was on a dimmer switch, dizzying out and coming back on in flickers. Her heart was one beat away from hammering itself right out of her chest and flip-flopping on the ground until that demon from her nightmares gobbled it off the floor in the guise of an intruder. 'You're here to kill me,' she stammered.

He shook his head.

'Get out ...' she croaked. Not even a mouse would obey such a weak, reedy line of command. But here she was, expecting tall, dark and probably homicidal to just up and leave her be.

He scrubbed a hand down his rough jaw, coolly observing her from beneath hooded eyes. 'Fuck me,' he said. 'DeMorgan's own flesh and blood, home alone, and cowering under the mark of the wolf. What is the old bitch playing at?'

'Get out!' she repeated, slightly stronger. Her entire body was pulsing with her frantic heartbeat, her skin chilled under the cold sweat of fear. He needed to leave. She needed to pass out.

He hesitated, then taking a step forward, he yanked up the zipper of his leather jacket to hide the ravaged mess of his shirt. He ran his fingers down the thin silver chain around his neck and grasped the engraved disc that hung from it, stroking the metal along his lower lip. Head tilted slightly to one side, he took a long look at her. 'I'll go,' he said, 'but know this: I'm the least of your worries. Come full moon, every male in the city will be gunning for you. Don't say I didn't warn you. This isn't finished, angel,' he said, then turned his back on her and walked away.

## CHAPTER SIX

###

She collapsed. For a second, or damn, it could have been an hour. The world was as black as the shadows, her eyes blinkered down, her body weak and huddled where he left her. Shit. He left. He left her and he didn't touch her. God, how she'd wanted him to touch her.

Stupid, stupid, Ash! Urging your nightmare to just climb up on you and hump you 'til you scream. Solid plan at defeating those demons.

Great, she was mocking herself now. Something cold touched her cheek and she flinched, fearing the worst. The wet kiss of a chilled, blood-stained blade, an icy claw ... a doggy nose, snuffling at her scrunched face. She batted the soft muzzle away and was rewarded with an attack of warm, drooling licks.

'Silly, mutt. You couldn't have come when I was being invaded? Fat lot of good you are, you can't even keep the wolves from my door.' Muttering about shitty guard-dogs, Ash pulled herself up and cautiously let her eyes wander, seeking out a hulk of man in the shadows. There was no-one there. The wolfhound settled his weight into her side, following her gaze with curious brown eyes and a cock of that large, silver head.

'Now you choose to protect me? When the psycho has left?'

Ruffling his fur, her sigh was shaky with adrenaline and fear. She pushed off the floor, using the dog as leverage for her wobbling limbs and wound her fingers into his moonlight pelt as they padded warily to check the bolt on the door. With trembling fingers she secured the chain and turned the key, petting the door, as though a kind touch could persuade the wood to keep any further demons from her threshold. It would at least keep her from groping any other burglars that might wander into the hoarder's paradise she found herself tied to. Any number of people could be living among the stacks. Maybe that's where he'd come from. She'd moved just enough paper to uncover his den and he had to kill her. Like the tribes in the Amazon rainforest. Except her pygmy warriors were giant man-mountains that somehow bore the mark of her past. Mmmhmm. Tomorrow she would admit herself into the nearest insane asylum and blame it all on inhaled poison fungi spores.

Shit.

Her breath was still coming harsh. Ash could taste fear, could feel it chipping away at the barriers her therapy had set up. Dublin had already stuffed a crowbar in the smallest crack and was prying it open. And now that tattoo, that damn Celtic wolf had cranked something wide and let the darkness out.

A whine broke through the sound of her breathing. The thump of a tail beat against her leg.

'How about you come to bed with me and you can hunt the wolves if the Sandman lets them in?' Another tail wag swished against her ankle and Ash about faced with her furry guardian at her heels, navigating through occult nick-nacks to the relative serenity of the bedroom. It couldn't have been her grandmother's, it was too pristine, in gentle shades of blue and black, a large bathtub in the centre of the room. She'd slowly bled into this room, her clothes creeping out to fill the empty wardrobe, cosmetics and books littering the dark wood desk.

She could breathe here. Pretend that it wasn't Dublin outside her window, but Cambridge. She wasn't in a house full of strange totems; she was in an upscale apartment. Ash stamped down the strain of fear, shaking off the memory of his hands on her. She dove onto the giant mahogany four-poster bed, rolling in the sheets. The mutt barked and she had to fend off the dog paws bouncing all over her cuddled-up form.

'Settle, mutt, or I'll rethink my need for a bed mate.' Ash scruffed behind his ears as his huge head landed on her stomach, pillowing himself there. 'And you need a name.' Drowsy now, the words felt heavy, her eyes locked to the ceiling, watching the occasional shadow dance across the Robin-egg blue painted into the stippling.

Her eyes drooped and the night took the opportunity to steal a figure into her bedroom. Black crossed her lidded vision; fur caressed her hands and weighed her down. A kiss silenced her scream with a hot-tongued invasion. A familiar mass settled between thighs that spread far too eagerly. He was back. Ash moaned as her hands snaked up the broad expanse of her phantom intruder's back, sculpting naked muscle with her fingertips and pulling him closer. Crazy, she was crazy, but the heat had her in its grasp, fending off the chill of an oncoming nightmare with a hard grinding pleasure. She half-hoped she wasn't dreaming. He was at her throat, speaking kisses to her pulse. His palms urged her thighs wider. Ash toyed with the rings hooked through his flesh and her spine arched, seeking friction.

She immersed herself in this break in reality; prayed the fire of his presence could keep the demons away.

But no good thing lasted forever, and she was pushing it, falling deeper into this erotic meeting she'd conjured with no way out. She was getting lost, so lost that when fur brushed her skin again she didn't notice it, the hard grind of his body distracting her until it was too late. Hands, that had caressed her, shredded her skin with curved claws. Serrated teeth cut into her flesh, tearing to get to her life.

No!

This wasn't what happened, this hadn't happened. _It's not how it goes!_

Instead of being a little girl in a red cape, she was the one thrashing under a mob of furry bodies, reaching out a bloodied hand to her younger self, pleading with her eyes for the child to get away.

The angle was new. Ash put it down to the lust that had laid her out. She couldn't feel young under all that heat. So the demons had given her another body, one she knew almost as well as her own. One she had cuddled up to, whose shrieks of horror had once been the soft voice that read her bedtime stories. One whose screams were the soundtrack to her recurring nightmares.

She watched her younger self as she fled, her small slippered feet flashing in and out of the pools of light cast by the night-lights lined prettily along the hallway. They were princess ones, illuminating the Disney women against the white of the holiday home's walls. All the while, the man who had let death into her house, the man who bore the brand of a wolf on his chest, the one who was supposed to protect them, stood by and did nothing. Darkness came again in a rush of snapping jaws and she was torn into a twirl of confusion, crimson, almost liquid, flowing out behind her as she fled in circles that only turned her into the flashes of spreading red stains that seeped through the darkness.

Fur brushed against her face and it was the last straw for her terror. She clawed her way into waking, breath sawing, skin clammy. The sheets battled back, winding around her limbs and trapping her in a web of hysteria. Ash was breathing fur in her panic; it was in her mouth, gagging her, muffling her cries, stifling, killing.

Her eyes snapped open.

It was her mutt, just her damn mutt.

Her hands wrapped around the massive head pushing against her face and she inhaled on a choked sob. He lay over her, crushing her chest and rasping the tears from her face. 'Don't let them get me, pup. Please ...'

## CHAPTER SEVEN

###

Sunlight vanquished the shadows and warmed Ash's back as she waited for an answer at her neighbour's door. She ran a restless hand through her hair, shoving it into even more disarray. The fumble of a chain sounded, the click of a lock, two deadbolts being drawn ... _Jeez, am I knocking at Fort Knox?_ ... and then the face of her neighbour appeared in the crack, cut in half by the security chain.

'Hey. Sorry to disturb you.'

'Ashling, right?' Liath closed the door to release the chain and stepped out with a bright smile. 'Is everything okay?'

She nodded, hesitated, trying to organise her thoughts in a coherent sentence. 'Weird question, and I know you said that the dog would help dissuade this, but, does this area get hit a lot? With break-ins?'

'Break-ins? No, never. There's nothing worth taking around here, love.' Her laughter was light, but concern shut the amusement down as her eyes caught the fear straining the lines of Ash's face. 'You got hit? Are you hurt? Did they take anything?'

'I'm not hurt.' Not physically, though her head and hormones had taken a bit of a spin. 'And he didn't take anything. He didn't even seem to be looking for anything.' Nothing but her, anyway.

'Oh, pet,' Liath grasped Ash's hand and squeezed. 'Have you called the Guards yet? What did he look like?'

'Yeah ... um ...' Ash held on a moment longer before letting Liath's hand fall with a strained smile, trying to call up details that were forever imprinted in her desire's eye. 'Tall, ridiculously tall, and broad, giant muscled mass of annoying ...' The noise in the back of her throat was a scoff, remembering his arrogance, his laughter at her choice of weapon, his hands, tongue, teeth. 'He had a little bit of a Jack Sparrow thing going on, with the dreads,' her hands moved to her hair, twisting strands absently, 'grey eyes, like polished steel.' _Could you sound more like a romance novel? Why don't you tell her about the size of his 'gun' too, while you're at it?_

The other woman had gone surprisingly still, regarding Ash strangely with her soft, jade eyes. Had she said the gun part out loud?

'What?' Ash asked.

Liath's brows perked up in immaculately tweezed arches and her smile crept up with them. 'He wasn't a thief.' Four words and Ash's heart hammered up.

'Oh God, he's a drug lord or something, isn't he? Part of the Irish mafia? Do you have an Irish mafia? You know him?' What she really wanted to ask wasn't for polite conversation and something fanged and green-eyed was gnawing at her gut.

'I know him. He lives in the basement of your building. He looked after Mrs DeMorgan's dog for her, walked him, fed him. He helped her with a bunch of stuff. The lady didn't get out much. She'd have given him a key.' No wonder the blonde hesitated. What a thing to tell someone. That a stranger has a key to where they sleep. Looking sheepish, Liath dropped her gaze and cloud-light dread tumble-weeded through Ash's stomach. She waited for a confession. And she wasn't disappointed.

'I ... may have told him you were here. But only so he wouldn't worry after the dog.' The words were rushed and followed by a deep inhale. 'I didn't think he'd go in without knocking, but Connal doesn't always adhere to the rules.'

Ash's brow furrowed at the name, recollection stirring. Her grandmother had said that exact name, the only thing clear in her rambling, and Liath knew him well, it seemed, better than she let on. For a second, Ash contemplated asking her about the tattoo. If she knew what it meant to him. If she'd seen it anywhere else. But that would lead to two things she wasn't sure she wanted to know or be known. Firstly, her neighbour didn't need to know that she'd practically stripped the guy, Connal, before she'd freaked out. Secondly, she didn't want to examine the green beastie whispering that this female may have seen more of him than Ash had.

'Well ...' Slightly mollified that her neighbour didn't seem all that terrified of her intruder, Ash sniffed and cranked her jaw up. More than a little embarrassed she'd caused such a fuss, she forced an edge to her voice. 'He needs to learn some goddamn manners. He can come and apologise whenever he's ready. I promise I won't hit him again.'

'You hit him?' Liath's face blanched. 'With what? Is he okay?'

'With a ...' lowering her voice, she mumbled, 'frying pan.' Ash shook her head. 'He was fine when he left. I doubt I caused any permanent damage.' Though he could be laid out in a hospital somewhere still seeing tweety birds and resting off a concussion. Or suffering a severe case of whiplash. She'd slammed on the brakes of their lust mighty damn hard. 'Maybe,' Ash hesitated, 'if you see him, you could give him my apologies? And teach him how to knock?'

'You can tell him yourself, love. When he isn't getting off his face drunk at Form, he's usually wandering around with a scowl and a hangover. You'll undoubtedly see him.' Liath wore the face of disapproval, but it turned to a smile when she met Ash's eyes. 'He's more bark than bite most of the time, you shouldn't need to hit him again when you see him.'

'Lovely.' Ash snorted, two hands tunnelling her hair back from her face as she exhaled, trying to piece together this woman's obvious affection for something that had seemed terrifying enough to spark her nightmares. 'What's Form?'

Liath raised her face to the sun, basking in the gentle heat. 'It's a club in town. They're always serving, they never close and they pay their girls really well. The tips alone cover my bills.' At Ash's look, a laugh crinkled at the corners of gentle green eyes. 'Oh no, not _that_ , love. Strictly waitressing, though my uniform is more stripper than waitress.' She gave a small shrug as she looked back into her house and its hallway inhabited by an army of toys. 'You should come by some night, even if Connal isn't there.'

'Thanks,' Ash replied. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Sure.'

'Do you know what a _latent_ is?' Connal had called her the 'new _latent_.' Ash could only think it might be local slang for something. If she found out it meant hooker, she'd take more than a frying pan to his head.

Liath looked vacant. 'Not a clue, sorry' she shrugged. 'Why do you ask?'

Any response that might have left Ash's lips at that point was cut off by a child's cry, a loud 'Mammy!' hollered tearily from somewhere within. She smiled at Liath and waved off her apology.

'Go, I'm good. I swear. It's nice to know I didn't get broken into. I'll just invest in some more locks.' By way of reassurance, Ash two thumbs-upped the woman and wandered back, taking the steps down from the doorway with another wave, extra cheery. She returned to the dwellings of insanity to seek out a locksmith and maybe plan what she would say if she ever came across the man-mountain named Connal.

## CHAPTER EIGHT

###

Ash may have lain awake that night, huddled beneath the covers and listening for intruders that never materialised, but eventually, fatigue wore her down and she was dragged into the kind of deep, dead sleep she hadn't enjoyed for months. When she finally awoke to the hound tickling her feet, she wondered at the restorative powers of a dreamless night.

God, she was about to jump out of her skin. When you get up in the morning with the jitters and no caffeine in sight, you have permission to freak out. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet and rolling her shoulders like a prize fighter about to step into the ring. Maybe it was something in the water. She felt powerful and weak, all at the same time. She felt sexy, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, naked. She didn't feel fat with her more than average curves. No, the longer she stared, the more she thought the word _voluptuous_ could actually be applied to her.

She felt high.

Or what she assumed it felt like to be high.

Ash was still buzzing as she pulled on some clothes.

'Mutt!' He came bounding eagerly, streaking through the hallway to skid to a stop at her feet, his muzzle on her chest as he gazed up at her with expectant eyes and a thudding tail. 'We're going for a walk.' The thudding increased, thumping against the wood flooring with enough force to create its own little cyclone of air. Leash clipped to his collar, Ash stepped out into the murky noon that had settled over Dublin and let him off for a run in the small patch of rural overgrown behind the square of houses.

When she would have returned to the house, the skies broke their cover to spear her in shafts of sunlight and it was game over. No sense in wasting the sun to sit indoors and play sorter to a bunch of musty papers. She spun on her heel and tugged the pup into the centre of town to explore.

A light covering of clouds blotted out the sun and she eventually returned home, barrelling through the front door into the cool of the house. Out of breath and sheened in sweat, she felt hot to her very core. His hands, those fiery, light-her-up-and-melt-her-down hands, could have been on her skin again, and she was damn sure she would have scorched her intruder with the flush rising off of her body.

God, why was she thinking of him now, of all times? Because the heat reminded her what he had felt like? 'Damn. I'm more wired than you today, Setanta.' Ash scruffed her newly-named dog behind his ears. The hustling city crowds had had her herding the pup into the shade of the General Post Office's giant columns for a breather. The mutt discovered the bronze statue before she did, slobbering against the glass it was housed behind. The Irish hero Setanta, who'd become Chú Chulainn, Cullen's hound. Seemed apropos and somehow, the name had stuck.

Far from Cullen's hound, her own beast of a dog was shifting restlessly at her side, slavering drool over her hands. Ash wanted to keep moving and in the same breath, she wanted to collapse there in the hallway and just lay until the world righted itself. She couldn't stay in another night, she couldn't ... she probably should. With the way she was vibrating, she'd be snatched up by the police for being drugged-up or get caught by a guy with a giant butterfly net. As her brain spit up some half-command to get out of the house, she caught her image in the mirror.

It was not good.

She looked like an extra from The Walking Dead and she reeled back from the image to scold the dog peering up at her. 'Why didn't you tell me I look one groan away from chowing down on your brains?' She couldn't go outside looking like this. She'd be shot on sight.

Shower. She'd shower. And then she'd wander. And hunt for food. The kitchen cupboards were bare and she'd been too busy scarfing her way through everything like a junkie with the munchies to even notice.

It was later than she'd anticipated when Ash finally emerged from her house and set off, back towards the centre of town. Freshly showered, hair brushed, a little makeup on and she felt good. She felt ... sexy again. Like she was naked and dancing in the mirror all over again. But in public.

_I'm pretty sure that's illegal,_ she thought _._

Ash crossed her arms over her chest, protecting modesty that was already covered by the folds of her coat, and tried her best not to hooker walk. She didn't do the hip-swaying seduction, the straight spine, shoulders back, boobs out strut that women seemed to adopt when they were out. But she wanted to.

She didn't know where she'd wandered, maybe a mile from the bars, scanning for a place that was serving something high in fat. She didn't find any fast-food joints, only office type buildings ... and a cute little piece of brick face and white-washed walls called the Brazen Head. It looked like a tiny castle, a medieval tavern tucked away between all the modern sprawl. The scents from it were more than divine. She'd found food heaven.

She'd definitely found food heaven. Half way through a bowl of onion rings that should have their own cult worshippers, Ash had set herself up at the bar, a hot, whipped-cream-on-the-top Bailey's coffee and a pint of Guinness in front of her. The first, she'd ordered. The second had been ordered for her. By some guy who still sat with his buddies by the window, leering at her and revving himself up to approach. She'd smiled her blushing thanks and quickly turned back to occupying her mouth so she had some excuse not to talk or encourage his interest. She just wanted to eat.

'Damn, you're putting that away. Has someone been starving you?' The pretty blonde waitress laughed as she set another bowl at her side and spun off with Ash's latest order.

Ash had never eaten so much in her entire life but she couldn't find the will to care about all the calories. She just enjoyed, bouncing all the while to the music filtering through the continuous stream of voices, trying to ignore the gaze that crept over her body like hot fingers. Someone had their eyes on her. Intense, powerful, heavy. It could be any one of the men in the room. But this one was different. She tried, she really did try to ignore them.

'Hey!' She started, turned wide eyes to the man at her ear and leaned back as he leaned in. 'I like your coat!' He was yelling to be heard and she focussed on his mouth as he shaped the words.

What was it about her damn coat? She forced a smile, kind of flattered, even though half of her brain was focussed on the waitress every time she appeared from the kitchen.

'Where are you from?' the guy asked, his hand falling to her thigh. Ash flicked his touch off, feeling greased like a pig in a wrasslin' contest from the sudden pawing. She wasn't a goddamn petting zoo.

'Cambridge, Massachusetts!' She yelled back. He got all happy that she'd answered, and Ash dimmed her smile a little.

'Is that in England?'

Her brow quirked. Seriously? She shook her head, letting her hair curtain her features and promptly picked up another onion ring. 'America,' she said, and that was his shut down.

Her tone was solid, not breathy and flirty. She didn't like to think of England. His confused expression was overshadowed by the arrival of her burger, and Ash was three bites in when he wandered off, looking a little lost.

Like a fly, he came back, a persistent nuisance obviously as thick in the head as he was around his middle. He encroached on her space until she felt stifled, her burger-gasm delayed as every chew and swallow was filled with a new topic of random conversation, his every thought spoken aloud. Her words got terser, edged in steel as she batted him from her presence with near growled irritation. She just wanted to eat her burger.

## CHAPTER NINE

###

Connal watched the young Polish waitress weave her way through the crowd to his table. It was quite a display of balance and reflexes to see how she dodged the randomly gesticulating punters caught up in the Friday night revelry. She pulled it off with grace and an enthusiastic smile, setting the pint of Guinness and fully loaded plate of Dublin Bay Prawns down on the table in front of him.

'Landed fresh off the boat this morning,' she said, shouting to make her accented words heard above the clamour.

The Brazen Head was heaving, layer upon layer of conversations creating the buzz that was the soundtrack to pub culture in Dublin. Connal thanked the girl and tipped her generously for the table. Discreet, tucked away in the shadows, it afforded him a direct eyeline to the bar and the object of his attention for the night ... who currently had some tall, dark and sleazy draping an arm over her shoulder and putting his mouth to her ear on the pretence of making himself heard over the din.

The waitress, was hovering, probably contemplating something reckless, like maybe asking out the cute, scruffy guy who gave big tips and crooked smiles. She looked to be plucking up the courage to speak to him again when a dangerous sound, that could only be described as a growl, ripped from his throat, his handsome expression darkening to a glower. She started, snapped from her brief moment of impulsiveness, bundled up her tray and retreated back to the bar with considerably less grace than when she had arrived.

Connal watched intently as Ashling DeMorgan mouthed something to the guy, and Mr. Sleaze backed off. As he did, Connal let go of the tension stringing his body. She sank her teeth into a burger that was at least four times as big as her mouth. A smile hovered on his lips and he turned his attention to his own plate, taking a long draft of the bitter Guinness. He tapped the head of a giant prawn with the tines of his fork. 'Don't suppose you came across a crabby old woman's brain out there in the bay, Shrimpy?' He picked up the big, ugly crustacean by its curled body and stared down its beady black eyes, dangling the pincers in mid-air. 'Is that you in there, Anann?' He danced the creature's legs like some macabre puppet, parodying Anann DeMorgan's last, mocking, words to him. 'Don't play the cute hoor with me, Connal Savage. If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas ... and above all you will not fuck her ...'

Not fuck her, yeah. He lifted darkly dilated eyes to the woman at the bar, lids dropping to half-mast as his mind replayed how her hands had felt on his body, ripping, clawing, how he'd come in the shower, on her command. She was oblivious to the weight of his stare, chain-feeding chunky chips into her lush mouth. So far, he'd lived up to the deal by watching her from a distance. He had motion sickness from watching her. Sure, it was a rare latent that didn't succumb to the highs of the moon fever, but this girl? Energetic didn't begin to cover it. She had spent the day in a state of such giddy, perpetual motion that not even the mutt could keep pace with her manic, energiser bunny impersonation. And all he could think about was fucking her. Talk about reverse psychology. He doubted he'd have even considered the fucking if Nan DeMorgan hadn't planted that little timebomb of an idea in his head. No. That was a bare-arsed lie, and he knew it. This girl, Ashling, pushed all his buttons, tapped into his most primal of male instincts.

Speaking of, Mr. Sleaze was back, sniffing around her, with his sticky, wandering hands. Connal ripped the head off the prawn, tore away the legs and sank his teeth into the sweet flesh, all the while glaring daggers across the crowded bar. He could garrotte that bastard just for breathing her scent.

This night was seriously starting to piss him off. Connal took out a measure of his aggression on the unsuspecting food. The ravaged skeletons of the prawns littered the plate as, one by one, he mentally decapitated the heads and tore the limbs from the procession of tom-catting males who mauled her with their eyes. He drained the pint glass, blotted his mouth on the napkin and pushed the plate away, but the whole time he ate, his eyes never left the bar. Every leery expression and drunken grope looked, to him, like justifiable homicide. He went for the pint glass, found it empty, planted it back on the table in frustration, told himself it wasn't about her, it was because he was out of his natural environment, cooped up in this crowded pub playing babysitter-slash-stalker, when he should be out hunting. _Yeah, and would you like a side of denial with your super sized plate of self-deluded bullshit, Sir?_

He looked about for the waitress, wondering why she hadn't come back to ask if he wanted dessert. When his gaze tracked back to the bar, Ashling DeMorgan was on the move. The napkin fell to the floor as he stood, pushing his way through the jostling crowd, following the back of her red coat as she headed toward the exit door.

## CHAPTER TEN

###

_Freedom._ She stepped into the cool night air and exhaled hard, cuddling her red coat back around her. The darkness had closed in while Ash had feasted, the moon fuller than her stomach and casting a natural street-lamp to illuminate her way home. What had Connal Savage said to her about the full moon? Tipping her head back to stare at the sky, tension rode up her spine and an odd heat flushed her cheeks. She put it down to nerves as she stepped from the relative safety of the crowded pub into the insane quiet of the street. No one made a move to follow.

Good. She wasn't in the mood. She was still hungry.

The city looked mystical in the dark, shadows cloaking the corners and tendrils of red creeping from the manhole covers like they were steaming and lit up from within. She wondered strangely if Dublin lit its manholes as a warning.

She stepped over to one, waving her hand through the red mist, mesmerised and standing across the grid like she was Marilyn Monroe in colour. It was pretty, and slightly horror B-Movie. Ash scooted back at the sounds of footsteps, a party troupe of people closing in on Temple Bar. They wore clothes she longed to possess, flashes of red, bright and loud, beautiful hues of scarlet and crimson. Ash's brow furrowed watching them, her eyes on wild hands and twirling bodies. They came like a pack of cheer and high-floating ecstasy, happy, laughing and all she noticed, when she managed to tear her eyes from the red, was the fingernails, half-mooned in black. A trend resurrected perhaps. It seemed to be everywhere, the fashion of Dublin from old to young.

They moved off into the night and as the minutes trekked on, the darkness seemed to be growing, stalking her with lengthening shadows. A twitch in her senses said she was still being watched. She put it down to the moon, the great Eye of Sauron presence in the sky keeping guard over her. Ash shivered, pulled her coat tighter and wandered on, pretending she was tracking her own footsteps.

Fingers trailing the wall, her gaze was seeking out the next grid when she came up against a glossy poster. The design was backlit by a blood red moon, a half-crescent of black served as a banner for the proclamation of 'Full Moon Party! We'll Make You Howl At FORM!!!' and then the address in silver, glittering in one corner. Form. Ash tilted her head, looking down the street, and for the first time noticed that the posters covered every wall in a long line of colour. _How did I not see that earlier?_

Ash was so concentrated on the path of posters and where they might lead that she tripped over something small that had been left on the path. Stumbling around a corner, she fell right into something that was definitely not a grungy alley wall.

'Hey, whoa there. You okay, Miss?' A guy came out of the brickwork to stop her face planting, his strong hands holding her shoulders as she righted herself against the wall.

'I'm fine.' Ash shrugged his hands from her with a shiver. 'You always leave cans in the middle of walkways? Is that how you draw poor unsuspectings down dark alleys?' She huffed, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Brushing dust and damp moss from her coat, her palms throbbed, but she was too aware of being alone in a side street with a stranger to care.

'I'm sorry.' He was laughing at her, and she scowled. 'It was an empty can, I didn't need it. Didn't think you were going to walk right into it. It's not invisible.'

Eyes rolling, she flushed a bit more and waved at the posters he'd slipped up to the graffiti'd wall, already papered with shreds of 'Missing Person' flyers and 'Have you seen this Girl?' pleas that got lost under his advertising. 'Are these parties good? Form seems to be a bit of a name around town.' Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't, but Liath had mentioned it and she didn't think this guy would protest her bigging up his workplace.

His head cocked, dark eyes crinkling as he assessed her, dirty blonde hair flopping around on his forehead in a carefully styled mess. 'You're not from around here, are you? Form's the best place in town bar none. And no party beats a Full Moon party. This shit right here is why people are meant to be on this earth. This is happiness, sweetheart.'

He shifted his weight and she shifted hers, leaning away as he came in closer. His words were over-confident and a little put on. It was his tone and the way his eyes travelled her head to breasts to toe to breasts again that got her hackles up and gave her the slick feeling all over. He towered over her, whispering close like he had some secret to impart, only to her.

'I could show you, teach you how we party in Form.' It was issued as an offer and spoken like a demand. His eyes threatened as his lips entreated. 'It's not far, just up by Dublin Castle. Not far at all.'

He could have been the Cheshire Cat for all the wide smiling and purring. But she wasn't Alice and when his fingers spread out across the velvet arm of her coat, she didn't trust in him to take her to Wonderland.

'I'm not dressed for clubbing ...' Ash forced a playful laugh from her throat as she danced out of his reach, ducking around him to take a step towards the opening of the alley.

He moved quicker than she could, hands planted either side of her head, walling her in against the brick with a leering, toothy grin. The exit seemed so damn far away as her face turned from his and she batted at the hand that slipped to once more stroke his fingers down her coat. 'You don't need to be dressed at all ...'

Ash went cold. The dread that had been swirling in her stomach dropped a ton of rocks to weigh her down in panic. She should have got the hell out of Dodge when she'd first stumbled into him, when she'd got the heebies under his gaze, when the twitching energy that had possessed her body all week had suddenly up and frozen solid in her veins. His hands were moving, one squeezing her jaw as his face leaned close and he inhaled with a Hannibal intensity. _Fava beans and Chianti to go with a slice of freaking out female, Sir?_

'You smell ...' He groaned, and her eyes popped wide. Shit, he really was going to cook her! Ash was flailing now. The second time since she'd been in this godforsaken city that she was being surprised by a man intent on doing her harm. If this shit came in threes ... She fought, bursting into an explosion of fear that had her struggling to reach something, anything, to crow-bar the idiot off her.

'You smell too,' she hissed, muffling a whimper as his fingers clawed into her hip, his face still buried against her throat with those wet, breathing inhales, like he was trying to breathe her in through his own saliva. One hand pushing at his face, she fumbled, his weight leaning her into the wall and leaving barely an inch for her to fight into the insides of her bag.

Whereisitwhereisitwhereisit?

She'd thought it a funny thing to buy, a pretty little piece of Celtic, engraved silver. The street vendor had even given her a velvet bag to go with it. Ash whimpered again, her fingers sliding right off the fabric as his body crowded hers, harder, pressing into her like he could convince her to play along to his tune and dance for his lusts.

FINALLY! The metal slipped free and Ash flicked it out, jerking her hand from the bag to brandish the small blade at the guy's throat. Her hand shook, slightly dimming the threat factor as she stuffed the point into the skin under his jaw, pressing to him as hard as he advanced into her. Far from confident, Ash was psyching herself up to do what she had to, but suddenly, arming herself didn't seem like such a brilliant idea.

'Back off, fucker.' Her fear laid stress to the syllables. 'I don't want to go to your club and I'd really like to keep my clothes on.' How had it come to this? Ash could barely keep pace with the world around her, she was moving too fast, or it was, or something like that.

He laughed, tilting his jaw into the point, letting her bleed him some as he bore down on her with a gleam in his eye, all manic. 'You think I give a damn about what you'd like?' All mirth, all unhinged, the switch had been flipped and she hadn't even noticed the tipping point.

She was pinned in an alley with a madman who got off on her little blade being in his skin. Ash swallowed. Then the world went dark as shadows took possession of the alley.

Connal's hulking form blocked out the light as he rounded the corner.

His lip curled and when he spoke, his voice had the edge of a razor blade. 'Now would be a really good time to back the fuck off.'

Ash could only watch as Blondie's head whipped around in Connal's direction, a twisted smirk contorting what might otherwise be a conventionally handsome face. Whatever smart-ass remark had been forming in his mind crumbled to dust, though, as recognition wiped the confidence off his face. She wasn't the only one scared anymore.

'Hey, hey now, chillax there, my man, just helping out a lost tourist, showing her the meaning of the _céad míle fáilte_ , know what I mean?' Blondie plastered on a fake smile and released Ash's face, patting her cheek. 'Isn't that right, sweetheart?'

Connal's eyes narrowed to slits. Ash felt herself trembling, the little blade she held amplifying her fear like a seismograph.

'Uhhhuh,' Connal sneered, 'and I suppose she's cultivating these cross-cultural relations by teaching you to shave with her nail file?'

Blondie's hand shot up to his throat and came away bloodied. 'Crazy foreign bitch pulled a knife on me!'

'Good for her.' Connal's mouth curved into the hint of a smile. 'You know nothing would turn this shitty night around better than carving the self-righteous smirk off your face, asshole,' he said, 'but you've traumatised the girl enough for one night. She doesn't need to watch me go Freddy Krueger on you, does she?' Grinding his molars, Connal stepped aside and growled at the guy to get gone.

Blondie scuttled by, hugging the wall of the alley furthest away from Connal. If he'd said boo to the creep, he'd have jumped out of his own skin.

Approaching her slowly, he wrapped a hand around her fisted knife grip. 'You can let go now,' he said. 'Wouldn't want you giving yourself a paper-cut with that ... letter opener?' He stroked his thumb down her clenched knuckles and levelled steely eyes on her face. She stared back, wide-eyed, imprinting her panic onto him.

Ash barely felt his hand on hers. If she let go of the knife ... She wouldn't be safe. He was talking, and she forced herself to follow the shape of his words as she waited for her heart to stop pounding enough that she could hear over the din.

From one nightmare to another. She could feel her body trembling up a storm of adrenaline, crashing from the fight that had battled her to knife-point. When she finally persuaded her mouth to work, what breached her lips wasn't a scream but an indignant huff of a verbal stomped foot.

'It's not a letter opener, it's a pocket knife,' she said, brandishing it in front of his eyes. The silver flashed in a way that would have been cool if she hadn't been so damn terrified. 'And you were following me, weren't you?' Ash's heartbeat hammered back up to a flat out gallop. She was mentally writing his _résumé_. Breaking and entering. Check. Stalking. Check. Homicidal maniac was pencilled in. With the way blond fucktard had legged it, she wasn't crossing it off just yet. After all, what monsters fear, she figured she certainly should. 'How long were you standing there? Did you enjoy the show?'

Arms folded across his chest, he regarded her from behind his defensive posture. 'Seems like you should be grateful I was here,' he said.

Her exhale could have been a language all its own, heavy with annoyance and a hint of embarrassment. But defiance had a louder voice. What did the creepy stalker expect? A red carpet, hero's welcome? Hell, she didn't think she could spit up a 'thank you' if it had been jammed down her throat covered in rat poison. 'I was handling myself perfectly well before you showed up.'

One dark slash of a brow quirked up and there was amusement in Connal's voice. 'So I noticed. Your grand plan being to poke the bad guy with your pointy nail file thingy?'

'Oh, right, and that's the technical term, is it?' Ash scoffed, brushing invisible dirt from her coat. She shifted her weight and looked back up at him. Fuming didn't begin to cover it, but laughter was a step behind and she would not let it out. 'I drew blood. I cut him.' Her chin raised up a notch and she dared him to laugh. Her blade may not be more than a toothpick against his bulk but even a toothpick could hurt if it was jabbed in one's eye.

He tilted his head slightly and the corners of his mouth twitched. 'And how was that working out for you?'

'Look, dude,' the knife stabbed in his direction, emphasising her point, 'I can take care of myself, I don't need a babysitter.' Ash bit down on the slice of vulnerability that threatened to filter through. She was not a child, and she didn't need to be watched.

'And yet you're out alone, wandering the streets of Dublin city, dressed like bait. You might as well hang a sign around your neck saying 'fresh meat.''

Her brows shot up into her hairline, eyes wide with incredulity. Her words were clipped with a growing vexation. 'There is absolutely nothing wrong with the way I'm dressed.'

As though she'd commanded him to see for himself, his gaze rode a heated track up the length of her body and the crimson velvet of her jacket. His Adam's apple bobbed in a hard swallow, before he settled his low-lidded eyes on hers. 'Right, and those guys at the pub weren't all over you like flies on sugar?' Connal seemed to recoil from his own words and his tone was biting when he next spoke. 'Nice coat.'

Ash flinched. 'What is it with you people and my coat?'

This time, he didn't look her in the eye. Jaw set hard as marble, he had his focus trained on the posters lining the wall instead, with their symmetrical rows of black crescent moons. 'Like I said. Bait, Little Red.'

What was this, the dark ages of male chauvinism? A woman shows a few inches of flesh and she's a Jezebel seducing poor innocent men who can't keep it in their pants.

Eyes narrowed dangerously, Ash pocketed the knife lest she actually did pluck out those ridiculously pretty eyes of his with the point. 'Little Red? I suppose that would make you the Big Bad?'

Now his eyes lifted to her, pinned her with a stare of penetrating intensity. 'Oh, you have no idea ...'

She was really tempted to get all up in his face and let her knee tell his balls just how his words riled her beyond pissed. But that would mean touching him, and Ash bottled that thought before it sprouted flames. 'How did you even know about the guys? How long have you been stalking me?' She took a step closer. 'Leave. Me. Alone. Just because they want me and I don't want you doesn't give you the right to monitor my interactions.'

'You seemed plenty interested back at the house. As I recall it, you were the one ripping my clothes off.'

She flushed, ashamed and taken aback by his crudity.

'Don't get your knickers in a twist, angel. I'm probably the only bloke in this city that doesn't want to fuck you.'

His blunt rejection stung and she was regretting aiming her own barbs at his ego even as she hissed her anger. 'Where do you get off talking to me like that, you Neanderthal, sexist pig? You're implying I was asking for it?' He all but calls her a whore and he has the gall to look hurt? Ash wasn't usually the type to wish people ill, but right now, she was envisioning all sorts of bad falling down on his head.

'You have no idea what you are encouraging here,' he growled. 'You play with fire, Little Red, don't come crying to me when you get yourself burned.'

His words were apt, given he'd set her alight. Again. Ash hedged, her shoulders hunching. To say it touched on a sensitive spot was an understatement, but she'd done nothing wrong, enjoying the attention a little. Not like she was walking around in a dress as skimpy as her best underwear and throwing herself at guys. Even her insides were angry, raging a churn in her stomach. He barely knew her, where did he get off calling her a slut? 'Fuck you,' she said.

The curse that left his lips then was more a growl than a word and she shook her head. She was too angry to enjoy the fact that she seemed to infuriate him as much as he did her. But somehow, Ash couldn't turn her tongue back onto the rails of more scathing 'fuck you's,' not when there was this look on his face ...

Light from a passing vehicle had coloured Connal's dark grey eyes with a bright glaze of crimson. Ash blinked. Definitely a trick of the shadows.

She watched him warily when he made no move to respond, their argumentative banter going silent. Jeez, he couldn't have looked more rigid if someone had just rammed a stick up his ass. She could have sworn she could see the aggression shimmering in the air around his body. He looked feral. The shadows cut lines across his face, distorting angles and shaping him until she was squinting, trying to find something familiar.

Before she could ask if he was okay, he bolted. Left her standing. Just walked away. _How dare he_.

'Arrogant, jerk-ass ... grrr ...' Ash started over on her insults, feeling the irritation roll off her tongue. 'Infuriating, tall, giant lump of ...' There were no words in her head violently abusive enough to express her frustration. Who the hell did he think he was? Self-appointed stalker and saviour? She never thought those words could be used in the same description of someone. He'd been following her all along. The eyes that she had felt on her had probably been his.

No wonder they burned her.

## CHAPTER ELEVEN

###

Ash kicked at the cobbles and her boot heel scraped over the ground with a loud crack, like gunfire, aggressive as what was building up inside her, but not half good enough to make it dissipate. He'd wound her up something good, and she was struggling to maintain a level of composure that wouldn't reduce her to messy, angry tears in the middle of the street. Home, she had to get home, and then she could dissolve. All the fear, all the anger, and helplessness, at Connal and the blond asshole who thought she was just a hot foreign piece of ass for him to take by force, was just simmering there under the surface. The latter, she could have handled. A little more force on the blade threatening to spear his jugular and Ash was pretty sure the guy would have backed off. The former? She was out of her depth and floundering for sense in the not so clear cut emotions that he riled up inside her. The man was a blowtorch hissing relentless heat against her carefully glaciered feelings and striking the exposed, thawed out emotions with a stick. Prodding her where she didn't want to be prodded. Especially not by him.

Who the hell did he think he was? That seemed to be the universal question today, she'd asked it so many times and was still no closer to the answer. Her feet were kicking the ground as she walked. Scuff, step, scuff, step, scuff, step. Angry and stubborn, she was in her own head as her body wandered on without her until she looked up and realised she had absolutely no idea where she was.

Ash had somehow turned from the street, into the middle of nowhere. The buildings looked dark, the streets swollen with shadows. There was no one. She couldn't even hear the laughter anymore. Ash had her internal GPS all out of fritz, and she blamed Connal and his heated stare for burning her systems down.

She spun to get her bearings, the night suddenly closing around her as her panic surged up for the second time in short hours. Pivoting on her heels, she swallowed down the anxiety and felt around for the anger. That would surely keep the fear at bay until she sorted herself, but she couldn't seem to find a measure of calm anywhere. This night was just too much.

She breathed deep, caught the faint scent of seawater and salt musk, heard the distant thud of the music from clubs nearby. Good. She hadn't turned off too far from the main thoroughfare. Her head cocked, tipping curls of thick black hair to bar her vision as she listened. There was something else, and she was hoping, praying that it was her newfound stalker. _Better the evil you know_. She drew the blade from her bag, just in case. When nothing leapt from the shadows, Ash shook the noise off as lingering adrenaline and kicked herself into walking on. She must be close to home by now.

There it went again!

This time when Ash turned, there was nothing to block her vision of what was crashing towards her, but her brain still convinced her it wasn't what she saw. Her throat opened up in a scream and she jerked violently to the side, knocked into a spin that reeled her brain around in her head like she was trapped in a tumble dryer. There was a tearing of fabric and then three burning gouges screamed through her body in blinding, white-hot pain. She'd spun into the attack, turning too soon, or not soon enough, to avoid the damage. Her pretty blade didn't look silver anymore, whipped out in furious panic and stained red before her brain even realised she'd made contact. Ash panted, her legs tottering her into a drunken run, away from the throb of agony riding around her shoulder, away from whatever the fuck it was, all golden fur and sabre fangs snapping inches from her face as she'd been forced off to the side by its razor blow. Some kind of feral wolverine had crept up on her and tried to take her out.

It was not what she thought it was, it was not, was not! If she let herself believe that it was, Ash knew without a doubt she'd be just as crumpled as she'd been when she'd seen the brand on the chest of her stalker. She daren't look back, she could hear the thing coming back for her. Her dazed, pain-gripped brain prayed for her stalker now.

A rattling hiss of a second growl startled her as she staggered past a side-street. There was a flash of movement in her peripheral and next she knew she was tossed onto her ass at the side of the road, staring at her attacker. The creature yelped, its golden fur bleeding a spot of red as it tangled with a giant white mass of hairy. Shit! Another one? She'd heard of packs of wild dogs coming into cities and running people to ground, but this?

She didn't know where the heads were, but she could hear the teeth as they went to town, ripping into fur and flesh. All she could do was stare. She could run, and get the hell away, but she was rooted to the spot, fascinated and terrified and bleeding the colour of her coat until the shredded fabric couldn't even be seen against the torn-up skin beneath.

A loud whimper cut through the air, a chainsaw buzz of growls turned on in the animal storm that was rolling in blood in front of her.

It was as though she had slo-mo reactions. She looked to the tussle of animals, fighting over the right to eat her, and locked eyes with the white beast. It must have been native Dublin, because nothing she had ever seen had eyes like that. Its blood-red gaze fixed on her from the ravage of fighting. It didn't look away, and for precious seconds, neither could she.

It was that look, and the kick in the teeth rip of a machine gun snarl that finally set her feet into motion. With sawing breaths and screaming muscles, she fled, legging it hell for leather in the opposite direction.

Only a backward glance told her that those red eyes never ever left her.

## CHAPTER TWELVE

###

Ow ... owowowow.' _Wuss, you're a goddamn wuss. Put some alcohol on it and be done with it._ Ash winced. The thought of putting anything on it made her want to cry, and the tears welled up even as she fought them back with a vicious head shake and tried to clear her watery vision enough to look at the damage. The lacerations were deep, long and thin, raking from her nape to curve slashes down her arm. She shouldn't have spun, not while his pitchfork or whatever the fuck it was, had still been in her skin. But it was twist or lose her goddamn head. And the cuts throbbed like she couldn't believe; the pain had taken on a life of its own and was slowly weeding through her system. Her knees ached. She'd hit the ground hard and as she tried to come up with something to tell the nurses, traipsing into the Accident and Emergency room at too-damn-early-in-the-morning, she watched the bruises paint themselves over her skin. Falling down the stairs wasn't going to cut it.

'Can I help you, Miss?' The nurse's blonde brow creased, her expression bright with concern and ready to pounce Ash into a chair if she swayed one more time.

She steeled her spine, took a grip of her pain, and forced herself to walk up to the desk. It wasn't even the injury making her lightheaded. It was the hospital. Another demon, dragging her weaknesses kicking and screaming into the light. The shrinks had brought her to a place just like this after the whole trauma, to 'recover in peace' while they ran checks for signs of abuse and neglect. Even then, young and afraid, and rattling off fairytale stories of wolves, she hadn't been stupid, and she remembered telling them, 'it wasn't Mummy, Mummy didn't hurt me.' _This_ , clean and sterile and buzzing with the heartbeat of death and pain, had slowly removed the shards of fairytale stabbing through the truth of her childhood memories.

Shaking off the shiver that crept up her spine, Ash turned on a smile slightly agonised and a whole lot nervous. 'I ... I walked into a dog fight. One of them got me pretty bad, and I don't know about rabies shots and whatnot, but I think I'd really, really like one.'

She wasn't surprised when the nurse lost her eyebrows in her hairline and looked her over with the 'oh God, another addict' look. But disapproval cleared into full-blown concern as the woman noted not all the red on Ash was the coat. 'A standard question, Miss, and I mean no offence... Have you taken anything recently?'

Ash answered in the negative. She didn't do drugs, hated taking anything that could affect her perception. She figured leaving out the few drinks she'd had at the pub wasn't going to change the outcome. No way on earth had she hallucinated the giant hairy beasts out of alcohol. The pain in her arm and the tears in her flesh were all too real.

'Alright then. Perfect. We'll get you looked at right away, I'll take care of you myself.' Ash followed where the nurse led. Silently.

True to her word, after she had assessed and questioned, peering over-curiously at her nails, and seemingly not finding what she searched for, the nurse didn't leave her long in the waiting room. The place was packed for so late, with weaving drunks and slobbering maniacs yelling at the walls. One guy was handcuffed to the bench of chairs, nails half black, chipped polish or nail bed bruises rising from the cuticle. He bled from a gash in his forehead as another railed at him from across the room, a jagged shard of glass poking from his forearm. A bar fight no doubt, but the energy in the place was almost a madness. They were mainly women, with skin bloodied from scratch marks, makeup out of place and clothes barely there and torn.

'I hate working the Full Moon shifts, I've been bitten twice already,' a passing nurse said to her colleague.

'It's an insanity, lunar-tics, all of them.'

'At least weed mellows them out, this Rave drug ...' There was disbelief and a tinge of horror to their laughing voices.

'Miss?' Ash's head jerked up so hard she twinged the base of her spine. The gentle nurse who had admitted her smiled, a new strain around her eyes as the waiting room filled. 'If you'd like to come with me, we'll get you sorted.'

The place was sterile, Hell for any bacteria and the depths of Hell for Ash. Clean was good, hospital clean was freaky. Ash perched on the bed in her butt-flashing hospital gown, eyeing the implements as she waited. She waited some more, until the silence was interrupted by Burly and Stout in uniforms. They were efficient if a little hurried, their radios spazzing out of control every couple of seconds. She'd bunched the pillows up behind her in case any one of them saw fit to stand at her back. Her panties were not flattering. She answered as honestly as she could with what she remembered. The cops had just looked at each other until she felt like she was wasting their time. Even as the words came spilling out, she was aware she risked losing any witness credibility she'd had. She was going to blame her loose tongue on the painkillers they hadn't given her yet. Even to her it sounded crazy. The cops had left on a promise to call her if they found anything. Ash highly doubted they would.

The clock ticked around slowly, every minute feeling like an hour and leaving her alone with her own head.

What the hell was that, Ash? I mean, seriously. That was NOT what we thought it was, right?

She was officially insane. She'd always talked to herself, but this switched her shit up into the turbo stream of crazy-ass. Her nightmares were walking the real world with her now. No longer content to prowl the darkness of her sleep, they were infecting her waking hours with their ice-pick claws.

'No, it was a pack of dogs, a rabid pack of dogs.'

'Excuse me?'

Shit. She wasn't alone. The curtains had drawn on her one-man conversation to admit a tall, clean-cut member of the male doctor variety. _Jeez, where is all this tall coming from?_ Ash had to look up ... and up to meet the newcomer's eyes. If she stayed in Dublin any longer, she'd be getting a crick in her neck. They made their men TALL.

'I was talking to myself.' Not the best first impression. She seemed to be stuck in a rut of terribly bad first meets. 'But not in a lunatic way.'

'That's good to know.' He laughed and she relaxed a little. Normal. He was perfectly normal. A refreshing balm after the crazy in the waiting room. 'I'm Dr. Madden and my nurse tells me you got into a bit of a scrape.'

His eyes were too gentle, and she had to look away as she answered. 'I walked into a dog fight, they were scrapping and I got caught up in it.' Ash was sticking to that story if it killed her. She would not be sleeping in a padded cell talking about her nightmares come to life.

'You should be careful. I've heard it takes practice to safely walk these streets.' He hummed and ahhh'd, his fingers gently probing the swelling around the lacerations. 'These are pretty deep, you'll need stitches, but they're clean and there are no signs of infection, so we'll dose you up with some antibiotics, give you a rabies shot and bandage the injured area to give it time to heal.' He spoke calmly, simply, no over-technical doctor's terms that would rocket up her wariness. That was good.

'Will do, Doc,' Ash said. 'Load me up.'

He nodded, bid her an 'I'll be back once you've been stitched up' and exited her cubicle with a silent gait.

She let out a hard exhale wishing they'd given her a little more painkiller to numb her while she waited. Her head flopped back on the not so soft pillows and she idly braided her hair, watching the clock hand tick around the face. When a skinny guy in scrubs passed through the curtains with a trayful of implements, Ash tried to hypnotise herself into not thinking. About the pain. About her near misses. About fangs and fur and hands all over her. About Connal. The stitches had barely begun weaving through her flesh when she realised she was trying to do the impossible.

The longer the guy worked, the more Connal filled her head. Arrogant and stalkery and too sexy for his own good, out there somewhere. Hopefully he thought she was dead. Was he worried? Her brows pulled down and she ground her teeth. Mr. Scrubs glanced at her, tugging the wire through her skin a little more gently. As though he was the cause of her suffering. After everything, he was ice cream and rainbows on her level of distress.

Connal. She spat the name in her head, breath hissing between her teeth as Mr. Scrubs pulled too hard and tied off the end of the thread. Connal was the king of her confusion, the reigning leader of her irritation and sole holder of her anger. She blamed him for her being here, for pissing her off and getting her lost.

Her room was empty once more, the curtain falling back into place and the squeaky wheels of a clattery tray leaving her alone with her internal grumblings.

When the Doctor returned holding her file, she couldn't even muster up a smile. 'You're not from around here, are you?' he asked.

She shook her head, drawing the length of her hair over one shoulder, self-conscious under the new scrutiny of his gaze. He smiled, brightly, and she blinked.

'We won't keep you too long, Miss.' He was so professional, but there was something in his eyes that unsettled her. Call it a long night, call her paranoid, but he wasn't looking at her with a doctor's eye anymore.

Ash scowled and he stepped back in confusion. She'd been making guys do that a bit today.

'I'd just like to run through some simple neurological tests, Miss DeMorgan. Routine checks after any trauma. Could you hold out your hands please, palms down?'

Ash's fingers trembled as the doctor examined her nail beds, before lifting his head to look her in the eye.

'That's quite a shake you've got. Do you drink a lot of coffee, Miss DeMorgan? Or are you simply terrified of me? I won't bite, I assure you.' His smile was meant to be reassuring, but his eyes were still unnerving. Ash couldn't pinpoint it. The doctor's hand clasped her right wrist, seeking her pulse, which kicked to a gallop at his touch.

'I drink a lot of energy drinks, guzzle them like a monster truck does fuel, otherwise I'm barely functional in the day.' She listened to the voice that told her not to divulge that the vivid dreams keeping her awake at night were the reason she was dead on her feet without hourly jolts of caffeine.

Yeah. He'd definitely been looking at her strangely, because now, he was back to cold, clinical professionalism and whatever she'd seen in his eyes was gone. He scrubbed a hand over his clean, too chiselled to be natural jaw.

'Interesting.' He released her hand and turned his back to her. 'I'm going to dim the lights so I can examine your eyes.'

The cubicle fell into darkness, save for the intense beam of the ophthalmoscope. He swept the light back and forth across each of her eyes in turn, before leaning in close. It burned her retinas and she felt the prick of tears as she fought the urge to blink while he examined the back of her eye. His mouth was so close to her ear that she heard his sharp intake of breath.

'Fascinating.' He murmured.

She frowned.

'Do you see well in the dark, Miss DeMorgan?'

'I ...' She figured maybe she'd taken it for granted, that it had been there all along and it had been so normal for her she hadn't given it a second thought. But now that he mentioned it, she recalled her foster parents finding her reading her book of fairytales in the dark after a nightmare, flicking on lights she hadn't been aware were off. 'I never gave it much thought.'

'Were you aware of the retinal anomaly affecting your eyes?'

'Excuse me?'

' _Tapetum lucidum_ , sometimes referred to as eyeshine. Your eyes glow in the dark when a light is shone on them, Miss DeMorgan. Rather like a cat's eye. It is a trait possessed by many nocturnal hunting animals that affords them exceptional night vision. Amongst humans, however, such a finding is vanishingly rare. There have only ever been a handful of unsubstantiated cases in the medical literature.'

'What causes it? Why do I have this?'

'It is most likely a throwback to our evolutionary past, Miss DeMorgan. A primitive, vestigial gene resurfacing. Totally harmless, but fascinating nonetheless.'

Her eyes went wide. 'You're saying I'm related to a cat? I don't recall an Uncle Garfield.'

'Of course not.' His eyes crinkled in amusement, but his words were deadly serious. 'Cats in general have blue or green eyeshine. Yours is red, in common with a number of ancient species, suggesting a more primordial genetic lineage. The scientific research potential is intriguing ...'

She recoiled a little, fisting the material of her johnny as his eyes shone with a near maniacal zeal. He was getting carried away and he scared her. He wanted her in a lab, a guinea pig to shine lights at and stick with more needles.

'Would you be prepared to let me take some blood samples for further genetic analysis?' he asked.

Ash just wanted this done with. 'Take whatever you have to so I can leave.' The words came from her lips a little more strained than she'd hoped for. She watched him wheel a little cart of sharp and pointies up to her side. Her face felt hot and cold at the same time, her head a little woozy as her vision blinked.

'Are you okay?' His hand was warm lifting her chin and Ash nearly swam back away from him through the fear swamping her senses.

'Not so good with needles, Doc.'

'I'll be gentle.' And for the most part he was, though Ash was pretty sure she dropped out of consciousness a few times. She was exhausted. The night had gone from fun and playful to dark, dangerous and scary beyond belief.

'Miss DeMorgan? Ashling?' She fluttered her lashes open and focused on the caramel brown of his eyes. 'We're done.' He shook the little vials of her blood, the liquid sloshing a deep red.

'You have everything?'

He nodded and ran through the list of what he still had to pump her with, what he'd taken from her and why. 'I'd really like a specialist to come and look at you,' he said.

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN

###

To a casual observer, the guy on the bench in the open necked shirt was just any other city worker, on a break and tossing the crusts of his lunch to the birds who scavenged the park, picking over the human leftovers. Except for a few incongruities, like the fact it was after midnight, and instead of the sun's rays on his back it was the cold light of the moon illuminating this patch of urban greenery in the heart of the city. Then there was the small detail that ravens were not supposed to be nocturnal creatures, and yet the birds flocked to the grass, inching ever closer, drawn by the murmured incantations that fell from his lips with barely perceptible movements.

There were no casual observers. He made sure of it as he waited for the perfect opportunity, that outward air of infinite calm belying the furious knocking of his heart against his ribcage. It was the same urgency that had seen him abandon the bustling emergency department at a flat out run, stuffing the vials of her blood into his pockets as he broke out into the cool night. Dr. Robert Madden was not a patient man. He'd floored the accelerator of his beamer and hared it out of the staff car park like the Grim Reaper was breathing down his shirt collar. And the man with the scythe was MacTire. He was going to kill him for letting her slip out of his hands.

She had seemed so damn compliant, and he'd left her barely five minutes while he locked himself into the cramped clinic room, away from prying nurses' eyes. As he'd jabbed the hypodermic needle into the vial, he'd let that smugness wash through him, imagining it like a drug high. Even as the sedative sucked up into the syringe on its liquid rush, he'd been thinking he might not need the drugs to subdue her. He had won her trust. This one would come willingly. All these years and finally he'd hit pay dirt, right there in his ER. He'd conjured up MacTire's face and how it would look when Madden held him to his end of their deal, had to tame the smirk curling his lips as he drew back the curtain, the syringe slipped discreetly into the pocket of his white coat. But then his gaze had fallen to the rumpled sheets of her abandoned bed, the IV bleeding a stain to the white sheet where she'd ripped it from her vein, the bedside locker gaping open, the plastic bag containing her possessions noticeable by its absence.

The flimsy curtain rail came down in his blanched fist. He wheeled on the young Filipino nurse in the corridor, veins standing out on his forehead, glaring daggers, demanding to know where his patient had gone, reducing her to a lip-quivering, teary mess. Shoving her aside, he stormed through the ER, sequentially jerking back curtains and flinging open doors on bewildered staff and patients, coat-tails flapping as he barged through the chaotic waiting room. She was gone. Fucking gone.

Punching through the security doors, he sucked in the night air, fuelling the frustrated roar that greeted the breeze-blown, deserted ambulance bays. Gone. He was a dead man walking. Gross basic error, allowing his brain to cross the victory line before his feet had carried him over. MacTire was ruthless. Panic flooded in over the crest of his anger, neurons firing frantically, scrambling for an out like a maze rat. Nobody else had seen her or knew what she was. He could destroy the vials of blood, cover up the records. MacTire need never know. But her genes could be his golden ticket, and he was damned if he was going to drop her and let some other son of a bitch pick her up off the streets. This was his chance to escape the cesspit of a life his own screwed up chromosomes had landed him in. He had her blood, he knew where she lived and her innocence would work to his advantage. It was gambling with his skin, but he was going to come clean to MacTire. A bird in the hand and all that.

So, yeah, despite the enforced outer calm, internally, Dr. Robert Madden was positively vibrating, juiced up on a potent cocktail of adrenaline and sympathetic nervous system overdrive. Unfortunately, catching a bird demanded stillness. A successful hunt was as much about patience as a strong arm. It was a principle that could be employed to ensnare an unsuspecting girl as easily as a wary bird. Damn, he couldn't believe this one just walked into his emergency room. Fate was indeed one warped bitch.

As he'd stepped casually through the privacy curtain of the exam cubicle, he'd flipped open the chart and the name all but leapt off the page. He'd felt the sweat break across his brow, throat suddenly constricted by the ferocity of his own heartbeat. Lifting dark eyes from the chart, he'd half expected to see Anann DeMorgan herself, but was greeted instead by a pretty face of youthful innocence. Did she notice the momentary lapse in composure before he'd had time to rearrange himself into a mask of cool professionalism? Probably not. She had been open with him, mostly, when he steered the conversation towards the circumstances of her grandmother's stroke. Granted, she'd lied about her injuries, but probably only because she imagined any legit doctor would have her signed off to a padded cell if she spilled the truth behind what had scored those lacerations down her arm. He had been open with her, to a degree. She made no effort to avoid his examination, offered her blood willingly. The girl genuinely had no clue what she was. All the better to catch her. Something had spooked her. With luck, she would put it down to needle phobia. This one had instincts hard-wired in her brain that even she herself knew nothing about. He would not underestimate her again, and he was not going for her without reinforcements.

A swift lunge and a flutter of black feathers and the bird was trapped in the folds of the green scrub top he'd appropriated from the hospital for just this purpose. He felt the flap of its wings against his palms and tightened his grip, tucking the struggling quarry under one arm while he popped the trunk of his car and fished out a tire iron. The manhole cover grated over the cobbles as he hefted it aside to peer down into a vast well of black, oily nothingness. The switchblade drawn from his pocket flicked open on a snap, moonlight glinting off steel. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he dragged the struggling bundle from under his arm, opening up the fabric just enough to expose the raven's breast. He felt the flutter of the bird's panicked heart, the desperate battle for freedom, even as he plunged the blade deep into the creature's chest.

Without hesitation, he fell to his knees at the lip of the manhole and began chanting the words his Thegn Master had taught him, words in that ancient, forgotten tongue. As he voiced the rights of passage and entreated the great ancestor Elatha, one hand fisted the dying bird's body, guiding the droplets of blood to fall into the murky waters, offering up its lifeblood to the underground lake. The waters answered him as they had every time before, with a sinister plume of red mist that curled up through the opening in the ground, carrying with it the vague scent of sulphur. The window of opportunity was narrow, and ignoring the flaring instincts that bade him run from this evil gateway, Madden dropped down into the waters.

## CHAPTER FOURTEEN

###

Connal unclipped the jump leads from the battery and dropped the bonnet on the ancient Cadillac, wiping the sweat from his brow on a bicep. It was one of those muggy, overcast days when the air clung to your body like a second skin. Didn't help that he'd been cooped up in Nan DeMorgan's dusty garage for the whole day attempting to resurrect her old jalopy. The sun was beaming through the cracks in the mud-frosted windows, effectively turning the cramped basement room into a hothouse. He tossed the oily rag from his hand and stared through the light shafts with their spinning dust motes, eyes settling on the tarpaulin-covered mound in the corner. Already, the body under the plastic sheeting was starting to stink. He needed to get it dealt with. No way he could transport that thing on the back of the bike, just getting it here to the house had been a full-scale cloak and dagger, under cover of darkness routine.

The car was the perfect mode of transportation, custom made for the job, you might say, but she'd been out of service for decades. Anann had always taken care of the clean-up and Connal had taken it for granted. Now she was out of the equation, and much as he hated to admit it, his routine, all the shit he took as a given, was uprooted right along with her. Pissed off and resentful didn't exactly cover it. In her place? This impossible granddaughter, who was hotter than the hinges of Hades and wound tighter than a clockwork monkey. She was crashing around the streets like Godzilla on crack, clueless to the ticking time bomb she was or the potential havoc she could wreak. It was unsustainable. He wasn't sure she could survive another night of moon fever. Sooner or later she had to come down from this high she was riding, and he expected it would be an ugly crash. Eventually, he'd tracked her down to the hospital, reassured himself she would live, followed her home and stuck tight to the shadows until she was deadlock bolted-shut indoors. She would be safe there at least. The mutt would have her back while she slept it off and Connal got down to the messy business of cleaning up.

He planted a kiss to the metal coin hanging from his neck and sat half-in, half-out of the open driver door, turning over the engine and ... Halle-fucking-lujah, his prayers were answered. The starter motor coughed to raspy, spluttering life. Before fate decided to pull a U-turn, he flung open the wooden garage doors and coaxed the rust bucket out into the overgrown jungle of a back yard. It was a hulking snarl of briars and bindweed that he shared with the main house. And wasn't that some ugly metaphor for how his whole existence had become tangled up with the ancient resident who lived above him? He stared up at the window, thought he caught sight of a fleeting shadow, but put it down to the glare of the sun off the old glass panes. He ducked back inside the garage and hefted the tarpaulin and its grim contents over his shoulder. Popping the rear doors, he dumped his cargo into the belly of the hearse, grunting under the strain and wrangling his gag reflex into check. Blondie was one heavy son of a bitch. He threw the spades in on top and slammed the doors, kicking at the rear tyres, hoping to hell the worn treads would get him as far as the Dublin Mountains.

Ash was nursing an iced coffee she'd put together herself, as close to Starbucks as she could get without leaving the house. And she really didn't want to leave the house. Her body was trying to convince her she'd been on a month long binge-drinking party, with dreams she hoped to hell weren't memories and a banging headache. A normally heavenly shower had been a nightmare of pain as the hot water rushed over lacerated skin, her shoulder corseted in ugly black stitches from throat to elbow. She stood in front of the hallway mirror, mug in hand, phone in the other, red tank bright against her pale skin. She turned slightly, watching the curve that made the attack so much more than a figment of her imagination. Three long lines. A pack of dogs. Wolverine. The cops had called to say they had found nothing. As she expected. They did, however, promise to let her know if they caught the dogs, and offered their services if her stalker problem arose again. To be honest, Ash wasn't so sure of how much help they'd be in that department. Though Connal in handcuffs was an unusually nice image.

Her thoughts made no sense and too much, and she kneaded her temples with one hand as she peeked at her reflection. At least she didn't look too haggard from her adventure. It must have been the dreams invigorating her. Ash could still feel the caress of leather, the heavy drilling pound of muscled hips. It had been like something out of Animal Planet, raw and vicious and all consuming. She'd woken with a headache and bruises. Not at all freaked.

She was still pretty sure she was up and moving simply from the adrenaline of the night before. Ash felt like a spy as she folded the thin floral johnny and stuffed it behind a clutter of plastic containers. There was no solid reason for her bolting from the hospital, stolen gown and coat barely covering her as she'd run home. Just a feeling, a push in her head, a blaring WARNING sign painted across her brain as the doctor left and she felt steady enough to stretch her legs around the room. She put the tingling down to the after-effects of her shock, throwing her off balance and flushing her with queasy heat until she sought the cool of the glass window.

Her brain was still trying to convince her it had been some hallucination from the blood loss, but her gut told her what she had seen with her own eyes. It had just been curiosity, forehead to the cool of the glass, eyes open, looking for the flicker of ... Tapeworm Lucite? No ... Wait ... eyeshine, in the reflective surface, judging the shimmer of red that passed through jewelled blue with every beam of headlights. It was there, dimmed somewhat in the glass, but she caught it. Like looking at a moving picture with red eye.

Moving slowly, Setanta glued to her side like he was worried she'd topple over at any moment, Ash set the emptied mug on the kitchen counter and stared absently out of the window, no light to catch the red now, but she could just see what had been that night. Another pair of eyes; not hers looking out, but crimson red, looking in. It had been the source of her fear and paranoia, strengthening gut instinct until it was a siren in her head screaming at her in a high-pitched, out of control radio buzz to get out of the hospital and lock herself home as fast as she could. It had left no room to disobey and she hadn't questioned it. She questioned the sanity of it now.

The night slowly lifted from her vision, the howling speech in her head giving way to the twitter of birds. She blinked. The day was clear, easing into evening, but there was something out there that wasn't all that pretty. A coughing mechanical hack, a Transformer with the flu waking up somewhere at the back of her house. She peered out, hands gripping the sides of the sink as she craned, looking for the source of the sound through the tangled up web of briars and thorns that made up the back half of a garden she hadn't yet dared to explore.

Sonofabitch!

She recognised that dread-locked head, the breadth of shoulders dipping down and back up as he hefted something about into the back of a ... by God, is that a hearse?

So now the asshole thought he could come to her house and take her stuff and what she assumed was her grandmother's car without saying even a word to her? No. Just no. Ash pushed off from the counter, chugged down the painkillers she'd set aside, grabbed some discarded sweats from the banister and hopped into them as she snatched up the hooded jacket hooked by the door. Stuffing her feet into her walking boots, she was done and out the front before she could even second guess going after a guy three times her size and scary as all get out. Ash had her car keys in hand and was lamenting the loss of her red coat when she saw the front of the hearse poke out from the street. Too many cop shows had her waiting until it pulled the corner onto the main road before she eased the cute blue Morris Minor out and concentrated on not veering to the other side of the road. Driving stick wasn't her strong suit and she battled to keep the thing from stalling as she tried to tail from a safe distance. A start-stop follower surely wouldn't arouse his suspicions. Eyes rolling, Ash swerved just in time to get back on the wrong side of the road before she drove herself into a ditch and made his stalking mission obsolete.

This was going to be a very long drive.

## CHAPTER FIFTEEN

###

Connal was maybe a mile on the road when he copped he was being followed. His eyes focused on the vehicle three cars back in his rear-view mirror. Nan DeMorgan's nineteen fifty three blue Morris Minor was pretty un-missable, and you didn't need a certificate from MENSA to know who was behind the wheel. Ashling DeMorgan might have been headed someplace else, their routes converging by coincidence, but the benefit of the doubt died when the traffic thinned and they were virtually the only two cars on the road headed out of the city. He debated losing her, diverting, stopping even, just to see what her reaction would be when he confronted her, but he was more than a little intrigued, and weighing up the situation, he concluded that he preferred her on his tail than lost and alone in the labyrinthine suburbs of Dublin. While she'd slept and he'd tinkered with the engine of the old bone wagon, Connal had come to a decision of sorts. If Nan's strategy of keeping her granddaughter ignorant of their world had been a move to protect her, clearly that plan wasn't working. It was one thing to be a walking time-bomb, it was quite another to be parading around with a big red self-destruct button and a sign on your forehead proclaiming 'push me.' So he cranked the radio up and the windows down and amused himself on the journey, spying on his company through the rear-view mirror, twitching a smile at her expressions of deep, brow-knitted concentration as she grappled with the stick shift and the alien concept of driving on the 'wrong side of the road.'

Their odd little classic car rally drew more than a few curious looks from the rubber-neckers on the streets. When they passed through Rathfarnham village, a pious-faced clutch of old ladies hobbling out of Saturday evening Mass saw the hearse approach and made the sign of the cross. Their efforts to ward off evil redoubled when their whistling hearing aids picked up on the strains of My Darkest Days' _Pornstar Dancing_ carried through the open passenger window. With his dreads and leather and the cruel cut of his face, Connal was definitely more Grim Reaper than sombre undertaker.

The houses thinned out and the roads narrowed until their only spectators were the shadowy trunks of the oaks and firs lining the route that wended them high up Montpelier Hill and deep into the thick of Massy's woods. What with the ruins of the notorious Hell Fire Club looming from the summit and the encroaching isolation, Connal figured 'round about now would be when Ashling DeMorgan should be having serious doubts about the sanity of her decision to follow him up to this place of occult myths and shallow graves. Then again, he wasn't entirely certain the girl was sane, and what she was about to witness probably wouldn't do much to help her headcase status.

He brought the old Cadillac to an abrupt stop in a sun-dappled dirt clearing just at the edge of the woods. She tentatively pulled up the Morris Minor alongside him. He killed the engine, popped the door and sauntered over to the driver side of her car. One hand thrust deep into the pocket of his jeans, he made a motion for her to roll down the window with the other. She seemed to think about it for a moment, hands clutching the wheel like she was debating flooring the gas and reversing the hell out of Dodge, but her cat's curiosity won out and the glass barrier between them dropped. The corners of his mouth turned up in a crooked grin.

'Well, Miss Ashling DeMorgan. We meet again. If I didn't know better, I might think you'd followed me.'

'Ash,' she started at the sound of her name on his lips, even as she corrected it, but recovered enough to inject a bit of annoyance into her words. 'About time someone gave you a taste of your own medicine, don'tcha think, Mister Connal?'

_Touché_. She knew his name. That pleased him. 'I already warned you, Ash, this is a dangerous game you're playing.' Her hand reached for the door but he got to it first, swinging it wide and stepping aside to give her space to exit the car.

She edged out, chin notched up high, plastered as close to the paintwork as she could get without touching him, despite his all gentlemanly actions. Tugging on the hem of her jacket, she toyed with the zip, missing the security of her velvet. Sadly, her crimson coat had taken as much a beating as she had. 'You took something from my grandmother's house. Give it back.'

He rocked back on his heels and regarded her. 'You know you've got nerves of steel to follow a guy like me up into the woods and accuse me of thieving. Then again, you are DeMorgan's granddaughter. Ballbreaker is in your DNA,' he smirked. 'I wasn't stealing from your grandmother. I work ... worked, for Anann DeMorgan. And before you go calling the Guards, you might want to take a look at what it is I've got in there.'

Oh God ... this was the part where she looked in the hearse and ended up being one of many dead bodies dumped in the back. She eyed the door warily, discreetly trying to peer through the window against the glare of the sun. She saw nothing but a mass of something. 'Tell me, then I'll look. What's in there?'

Connal eased his ass back against the side of the Minor and buried his hands in his pockets, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his boot. He never took his eyes off her. 'A wolf.'

Ash scoffed. 'Wolves have been extinct in Ireland since the seventeen hundreds.' She raised a sceptical brow, her gaze judging the lines of his face like the truth would be written there somewhere.

'See for yourself.' He simply shrugged and leaned forward to pop the lock on the back doors of the hearse.

'Shit.' It was the only thing that came to mind when the tarpaulin fell away from a furry flank. She'd been half right. He did have a body in there. But it wasn't human. Her eyes narrowed in confusion, brow knitted as she lifted her gaze to his and backed off from the door. A soft breeze lifted the blooming stench of death from the carcass and she coughed, hand to her mouth holding down the gag that rose in her throat. She would not hurl her cookies in front of this guy. She'd smelled worse in her friend's dorms. 'But ...' Ash tentatively pulled on the fallen corner, trying to tip more of the sheeting away with minimal touching, breathing in the fabric of her jacket and the flowery detergent that barely cloaked the scent of the dead animal. She jerked it too hard, snagged it in her fingers and sent the body on a small lurch, but it was enough. Enough to show the dainty blade she didn't realise she'd lost pierced deep into a thick pelted shoulder.

It was a faint whimper. 'Oh wow, I killed it?'

The great brute laughed and if she hadn't been too busy gaping, Ash would have smacked him. But uncovering the blade exposed something else, revealing just enough to show the torn flesh and mutilated muscled trunk of a neck and ... _Oh God_ ... Ash spun and staggered away from the grisly sight, but not before she heard the head hit the ground with a grass-muffled, sickly wet thud.

A tree provided solace, it was stable and sturdy and her spine slid easily down it as her legs went a little weak and she took to the shade to let her stomach calm and the shivers stop. She may have killed it, but she sure as hell hadn't hacked its head off. 'They can't be real. Honest to God damn real.' _My mother ... Wild dogs? Homicidal step-father? No. I was right?_

He eyed her with peaked curiosity. 'You've seen these creatures before? I mean, before last night?'

'I ... yes ... well no, not really.' _Shut up, crazy, or he'll be calling the white coats on you_ ... 'Not in person, you know. I'm writing my thesis on these things, debunking the myths and existence of mythical creatures.' Her hand went, waving her half-lie into something that sounded plausible. 'Yeti's, Chupacabras, Werewolves ...' Her eyes drifted back to the covered body and squeezed shut. 'There are an extraordinary number of reports of large, wolf-like, canine creatures all over Europe. All unsubstantiated sightings -' she was talking like a text-book, the way she'd proposed the idea to her professor '- and Dublin accounts for more than its fair share of those.'

'And you're out to prove to the world that these things don't exist?' His brows popped, incredulous as he motioned to the very real, grisly and blood-matted proof. 'How do you do that?' He challenged. 'Absence of evidence is not the same as evidence of absence.'

A scoff in the back of her throat emphasised her disbelief, clouded the doubt. 'It's the twenty-first century, not the Dark Ages, Dude. When I hear hooves, I'm going to think horses, not unicorns and bloody centaurs.'

'Jesus,' he peeled himself away from the tree trunk supporting his spine. 'Whoever lobotomised your sense of wonder did a real number on you, Little Red.'

Now that stung, and Ash had to shake off the hurt before she could speak, reciting something that allowed her to make sense of her own nightmares. 'I believe what I can see with my own eyes, I believe all mythical creatures have logical explanations, grounded in the real world. That _thing_ is an animal, just a wild animal. What's so crazy about that?'

'You want to know what I believe?' he countered. 'A creative mind is a powerful illusionist. Sometimes you have to open up, look beyond the smoke and mirrors, to see what's really there, not what you want to see, not the comfortable explanation for what you can't comprehend.'

Her voice tremored, breaking at the end as her theories spun out to shape the truth in front of her, shaking her to the foundations. 'There is a perfectly rational explanation for what that thing is,' and she'd find it, she had to, because if not ... _my nightmare has come to life._

'These creatures are very real.' Connal approached as you might a spooked animal, slow, deliberate, reaching into his back pocket, holding her frightened gaze. 'You want a drink?' He sank down on his ass a safe distance from her and drew out a hip flask, offering it like it was an olive branch. 'You look like you could use a stiff one.'

Her fingers shook as she reached out and carefully took the flask from his hand. A stiff one? Yeah, but what her head went to could no way in hell fit in a flask. Ash's gaze fell for a second as her thoughts directed her eyes. And then her throat was burning and she coughed up whatever she'd just swallowed.

'God! What is in here?' It tasted how paint stripper smelled. With a bit of smoke thrown into the mix. But it was warm, and she took another swig before handing the flask back, her eyes travelling past him to where a corner of the tarpaulin just showed. She couldn't see the head. Ash settled back into the bark and exhaled. 'That's not a normal wolf under there.'

'It's whiskey, very good whiskey, and no -' he turned his head, his expression hidden from her, and reached out to snap a twig from a nearby tree, taking to scratching random patterns in the dirt '- technically, it's not a wolf at all.'

'What is it then?'

Connal lifted his eyes to regard her. 'Something much, much older. An indigenous species to Ireland.'

'You admit it's not a werewolf then? There was a full moon when ...' Trailing off, her fingers sought out the ridges of stitches lining her flesh beneath the jacket, startled eyes jumping to his. 'Holy hell! Am I going to turn into one of those things?!' She sought reassurance that she wouldn't be eating from the mutt's bowl three nights of the month.

He let out a short laugh and his eyes shot to hers, brows betraying his incredulity. 'Werewolves don't exist. You said so yourself.'

Her eyes rolled so hard she thought she heard her brain protest. 'That makes me feel so much better.'

'These creatures may have propagated the myth.'

Ash slumped back with a sigh and waved her fingers for the flask, drinking deep now she was prepared for the choking burn. 'If it's not a wolf, why did you call it that?'

He hesitated, as though gauging his words carefully. 'They look like wolves, and 'Fomorian' doesn't exactly trip off the tongue.' He held out his hand for the flask with a wry smile.

Her brain tweaked, perking up. Finally, something she knew. 'Fomorian? As in semi-divine creatures, first inhabitants of ancient Ireland, preceding even the Gods?' It was a fight not to look at him as though he was the crazy one as she passed the thing over, focus trained on his mouth and the way his lips looked ridiculously soft compared to the stubbled skin around.

He brought the neck of the flask to his lips. Closing his eyes, he threw back a hard swallow, exhaled and extended the thing back in her direction. 'You do know your mythology, even if you don't believe in it.'

A shrug. 'Harvard. Folklore and Mythology.' As if it was the most normal thing to study in a place known for much grander degrees.

'Harvard. Cambridge, Massachusetts?'

'You do know your Ivy League. You've been there?'

He shook his head. 'What is it they say? You can always tell a Harvard man, but you can't tell him much.'

'I'm not a man.' Slightly put out, Ash turned her attention to the dull grey shapelessness of her sweats, picking at a loose thread on the knee.

'Yeah. I noticed.' The words came out on a growl.

'Well ...' Gathering where they'd left off, before her schooling had come into the mix, Ash tried and failed to ignore the heat of his gaze as it sculpted her form in steel. She inhaled and spoke on a sigh. 'You just can't be serious. You expect me to believe these ancient myths are actually roaming the streets of Dublin, and it's not all over Prime Time?' Her head shook, eyes landing on him warily.

'Believe what you want.' He drew his knees up a little higher towards his chest.

Poking seemed to get him talking, like he answered just so she'd stop asking. She would trade the flask for answers. 'Why the full moon? That was a coincidence?'

'No,' he took what she offered and drew deep from the flask, 'the high tide washes them up to the surface.'

'The surface of what?' Her head cocked in question, watching him discreetly through her lashes.

'You know how Dublin got her name, Harvard girl?' His smile was questioning, challenging.

Ash bristled and arrowed a scowl at him. ' _Dubh Linn_ , the black lake,' even as the words took off, something drew her back. A puzzle piece trying to fit in with the angle all wrong. Is that what her grandmother had been trying to tell her? Those two small words had been some of the woman's only communication since the stroke. That and Connal Savage's name. That Ash was repeating them now? It made his answers a little more believable. 'You're saying these things live in the water?'

He quirked a brow, impressed at her knowledge. 'Not exactly in it. Beneath the water. The black lake is a conduit.'

When she dragged up the swamped knowledge she had of the Fomorians, it was of a story within a story, of creatures cast from the land by the _Tuatha Dé_ and exiled, driven out to dwell beneath the sea and never lay threat to the islanders again.

'But there is no actual black lake in Dublin City,' she said.

'Not anymore, no. The lake was filled-in in the early eighteen hundreds. The black waters are all subterranean now, beneath Dublin Castle.'

She stole the flask back, warmth spreading down her limbs and tingling under her skin until she buzzed. Dublin Castle? Hadn't her would-be rapist said that was near that club, Form? 'Let's say for a moment that you're not completely off your rocker, and there is some rare species of wild dog with a habitat close to the source of this underground black lake. You killed this animal. What does that make you?'

'I suppose that would make me a hunter.'

She was edging into a freak out. Everything was digging little holes in her carefully arranged mental armour. She was confronted by two things from her past she never thought she'd have to face again. It could be no coincidence that she had found them together. She couldn't find the sense in it, this man and his hunting. He wore a mark that had let these _wolves_ into her home once upon a time and she was having a rough time fitting him in the same mould as her stepfather. Connal was anything but passive, he killed the things, he didn't invite them in for dinner. 'That wolf on your chest. What does that mean? What are you?'

He stared intently at her. Blinked slowly. When he opened his eyes, he had shut down. No entry, _cul de sac_ , turn back now if you know what's good for you. 'Nothing you want to know about. Trust me.'

And that was the issue. She didn't. Not quite. Ash pressed on, going around the tattoo. She could always drive back to it later. 'So, you hunt these creatures. Why?'

He cleared his throat and got back in the game of verbal tennis. 'They bite. They spread disease.'

'What disease, like rabies?' Now she swore she could feel her wounds itch with an infestation of something that would turn her into Cujo. 'Oh God, am I infected? I got a shot ...' The small dose of whatever seemed ridiculously useless compared to a mutant strain of mythological lycanthropy. She folded her hands in her lap and forced herself not to scratch.

His steely gaze tracked the press of her hands between her thighs. 'Yeah, something like rabies. _Rave_ rabies. But you're good. They got you with a scratch, the bite is the carrier. You're safe until they get their teeth in you.'

Her relief softened the lines of her face, absently stroking the stitched ridges of the clawed marks as she thought. 'Rave? But that's the drug circulating around the city. Doc Rob and the nurses were talking about it.'

'Idiots. That's what they choose to believe. The infection behaves like a drug. I suppose it is a drug, just not one that's administered in a conventional way.'

Ash's head tipped back as she swigged a mouthful more from the flask, aware that the bottom was probably very close, and shifted her shoulders into a more comfortable spot on the bark. 'So, let's say what you're saying is true, and these prehistoric animals are infesting the streets of Dublin. Why don't they just call in Rentokil, or whatever, and have them exterminated?'

'These things are smart. They've found ways to hide amongst the population, they have people who help them.'

'Help them? Like the WWF or the ASPCA, or whatever it's called here? They must _really_ love you.'

'Not exactly.' Connal propped his forearms across his knees and played the twig between his fingers.

'Not exactly like the WWF, or they don't exactly love you?' She was fiddling with the lid of the flask, gaze trained on him expectantly.

'Both. Neither ... I don't know, damnit. My brain hurts.'

She waved his pain off. 'What do you expect? I got attacked by those prehistoric wolf, beasts, whatever. I need answers. Why do you kill them?'

'You could say your grandmother is ... was ... Rentokil in this neck of the woods, and I was contracted to work for her.'

My grandmother? Ash frowned. 'Why did they attack me?'

Connal exhaled, twirled the stick and met her eyes. 'Your red coat didn't help.'

'They're attracted to red?' That explained all the inappropriate touching ... maybe.

'They are subterranean creatures, with limitations in colour vision, but they can see red very vividly.'

'So when you said I looked like bait ...' A blush crept up her cheeks and her hair fell forward to conceal the embarrassed infusion.

'Yeah.' He offered her a sheepish, half smile. 'I didn't mean to imply you were ...'

Her hand went, waving him off as her cheeks blazed. Throat clearing, she launched off again. 'There were two of them. What happened to the other one?'

'There was only one when I got there.'

Leaning forward, her elbows met her knees and her eyes found metal grey under raised brows. 'Yeah, about that, you were following me.' Again.

'I was.' His head nodded on his shoulders.

'Mind telling me why?'

He levelled her with a penetrating stare. 'Because your grandmother ordered me to watch out for you.'

Well, damn if that answer didn't have her brows flying up to totally disappear in her hairline, and then they creased, worry creeping her features in a frown. 'She what? Why?'

'Your grandmother has been waging a war against these things for a very, very long time. They won't hesitate to use you to get to her.' He made a move to get up, levering stiff limbs from the forest floor and dusting down his thighs. 'This thing won't bury itself.'

Ash was transfixed as he unravelled himself up from the ground opposite her, and she was focussed on that more than anything he said after. Her grandmother? What was she doing? Issuing garbled commands from a hospital bed? Even when her brain logged onto the fact that she was near eye level with something she'd only ever felt, her frown wouldn't budge and she sat stupidly looking up at him for a time. 'But ... my grandmother isn't a threat.'

'No, she isn't, is she.' Connal strode back towards the hearse, bending to fist the decapitated head up off the forest floor. He tossed the spades out onto the earth and set to work hauling the tarp out of the car.

## CHAPTER SIXTEEN

###

No matter how many times Madden took the gross-express to Fomor, he never got used to the horrible, disorientating claustrophobia of it. It was akin to dying and being born at the same time, like drowning in tar that engulfed all your senses. Its force, like strangely warped gravity, stretched you infinitely long while simultaneously crushing your bones, churning you into so much pulp before finally coughing you out. It left you helpless, on the shores of a landscape that was both familiar and unnaturally surreal. Not to mention very bloody dangerous. He might have threads of wolf woven into his DNA, but the natural habitat of all the _Thegn_ was on the surface, walking the earth as men, not down this putrid hellhole.

Sprawled prostrate on the rough shore, red-tinged waves lapped his body and ran off through his hair, plastering the dark strands to his clean-shaven cheeks. His designer suit was shredded. Ragged remnants clung to shivering gooseflesh. The ambient temperature down in this vast cave consistently ran at least ten degrees below what it was on the surface. Like Hell froze over. He imagined the vulnerability as similar to anaesthesia awareness, having your brain fully online while your flaccid body can do damn all to shield you from whatever sadistic intent the world holds for you. A spineless jellyfish tossed ashore. Never failed to scare the ever living crap out of him. In the fear stakes, being paralysed ranked right up there with the cramped spaces. His eyes stared up, fixed on the red sky stretched out above him. No stars to look up to from this choice gutter, only the black silhouettes of the raveners soaring above the rugged cliff tops in the distance. Worse than nails on a blackboard, their nightmarish cries had a way of clawing their way into your deepest terrors. The raveners were the Great Levellers of Fomor. From the lowest varg to MacTire himself, all harboured a healthy fear of the bringers of death. And if those bastard vargs didn't come to drag him to the caverns soon, Madden would be nothing but carrion, to be eaten alive by their serrated beaks and barbed claws. Anxiety fixed his wild eyes on their vast, black wingspans, gauging their distance from the shore. He was loath to move, lest their laser-sharp sight detect his struggle. At least the scent of his fear would not betray him. There wasn't a breath of wind down here. Never was.

His fingers twitched in the strange, rough sands that washed up on the shore. The texture reminded him of the powdered coral lining the beach of a tropical island, except this stuff was black, like volcanic sand. Madden had once made the mistake of examining a handful at close range. What he saw sickened him. The tiny shards were recognisable to his trained physician's eyes as the crushed fragments of bone. The grisly sand had filtered through his fingers as he'd stood, horrified, struggling with his memories of the massacre that had produced such a vast and dominant feature of this macabre landscape.

They were memories that reeked of blood and terror, his people fleeing before the Savage's horde of untame. Somewhere here, in this mass, unmarked grave, lay the scattered remains of his mother and his two beloved sisters. It shamed him that the strongest of the race, himself amongst them, had retreated from the chaos to seek refuge in the caves, leaving their dead and injured strewn across this wasteland, at the mercy of the raveners. Not a soul amongst them had proposed going out there. He could still feel MacTire's arms, physically holding him back, when he screamed to go to his sister and the baby. Though he'd resented the restraint at the time, and they had never spoken of it again, long years of reflection had brought him to the conclusion that the King had saved his life that day.

From the time he'd made the grim connection with the sand, whenever the sea spat him onto the shore, Madden had lain purse-lipped, for fear of ingesting the salty water whose unusual taste he now recognised as carrying the distinctive tang of blood.

He had just closed his eyes to try to relax, a surreal sunbather without a sun, attempting to meditate himself into a Zen state when ominous black shadows darkened the red glow behind his lids. He felt the remains of his shirt torn from his chest and he hesitated, frozen in dread anticipation that the raveners had found him and his number was finally up. He mustered the courage to look his nemesis in the eye, cracked his lids, only to find himself staring up into the grotesque faces of two of MacTire's guard dogs. Man, he was never so happy to see those ugly bastards. But gratitude was not an emotion you expressed in Fomor. Ever. Least not if you valued keeping your cock and balls attached to your body in any way nature intended.

'Hey, Hey! Less of the manhandling, you idiots, I'm not one of your _thralls_.'

Varg one drew back a fist accessorised with a wickedly sharp set of knuckle blades. He punched into Madden's face, the razor tips coming to an abrupt stop only millimetres from saucer-wide, dilated pupils. The beast snarled, saliva dripping down an unholy set of daggered fangs. Terror wasn't an emotion you really wanted to express here either.

As least when they got above ground, the Fomorians had the decency to cloak their hideous appearance in human form. Down here, there was no need for the pretence. MacTire, of course, and his _skuldalid_ , were the exceptions. Madden suspected it was less about them being more civilised than the common vargs, and more about MacTire being a vain son of a bitch.

'If you're done playing chicken with my eyeballs, you gobshite evolutionary reject, use your own and see what I am.' Madden mustered enough strength to slap a hand to his pecs and rip what was left of the shirt aside, bringing the vargs' attention to the symbol of the _Thegn_ -wolf carved in the centre of his chest.'

'That's right, Tweedle-dumb and dumber, I am your Master's eyes and ears up there. Don't see him taking kindly to you mutilating those eyes, do you?'

Madden's lips curled into a sadistic grin and the creature growled its fetid breath right into his face. 'No offence, baby, but I never kiss on a first date, and you could really use a breath-mint.' Varg two poked at the Celtic symbol in his skin with the point of a blade and grunted in the other's direction.

'That's right, gorgeous, pro-tected status. Lay a hand on me and it's bye bye surface privileges for you. No more balling all that willing and nubile _thrall_ ass.' He managed to wink at the creature, pleased his motor functions were finally starting to return.

The Fomorians, in this primitive form, were a race of few words, but actions spoke louder. The blades retracted from Madden's face and after a bit of sand kicking, powerful claws hooked into his armpits. He found himself being dragged across the sands, heels cutting deep furrows in the graveyard of bone dust. Grunted protests filled his ears as the pace picked up in response to the increasing urgency of the shrill cries echoing around the rocky cliff-tops. The raveners were hungry and the need to reach shelter was one Madden shared with his surly litter bearers.

The doors flung open, and Madden's groggy eyes followed suit, to be greeted by the distinctive silhouette of MacTire darkening his doorway. Madden let loose an exaggerated groan, attempting to hinge stiff limbs up off the rock mattress.

'Haven't you heard of Memory Foam down here in the ghetto?' This bed the vargs had dumped him on to recover from the paralysis was little more than a ledge, badly hewn from the indigenous stone.

'Robbie, my boy.' The low, gravelly register of MacTire's voice resonated around the small quarters. Giant fisted knuckles rapped down hard on Madden's skull, and like a kicked vending machine spewing coins, he spat out a low string of profanities, quite possibly a few teeth too. Laughter ricocheted off the rough walls. _Fucking A_ , Madden thought. The only thing worse than MacTire in a bad mood? MacTire in a fit of the jolly back-slapping happies. That superficial charm was a thin skin barely concealing the psychopath beneath.

'Get some clothes on, you look like Robinson bloody Crusoe.'

Madden scowled, eyeing the wolf carcass MacTire had slung about his shoulders, complete with paws and rabid teeth fixed in a death-mask perma-snarl.

'Given roadkill stoles went out with Adolph Hitler, you are in no position to be doling out sartorial advice to me.' He swung his legs over the side of the bedding platform and began stripping out of the remnants of his bespoke tailored pants. 'You owe me another suit.'

Madden was treading a fine line, but he was under no illusions. MacTire allowed him to take liberties solely because he was of use to him, enduring his insolence only for as long as it amused. Regardless of appearances, MacTire was the King of this godforsaken realm and Madden would never rise above runt status in any of the vargs' eyes. It didn't matter that Madden's family had been high-born, or that his sister, Aoife, had been the King's consort. Once he'd hit maturity, not even the Queen could disguise his inability to shift form. Their dirty family secret was exposed, and Madden was destined for sacred orders. In spite of their ceremonial pomp and trappings of importance, the _thegn_ were nothing more than genetic flotsam, left overs from an ancient experiment in sink or swim survival. Too human to ever be accepted as equals, his kind were tolerated as servants, provided they towed the line and swore to the monk-like celibacy that ensured their corrupt bloodlines were severed. If the King demanded a show of submission, Madden would be reduced to putting his lips to the male's nipples, like any other runt _thegn_ in his service. But subservience was not in Rob Madden's nature. For him, it was a means to an end, just as he hoped this girl could be the means to releasing him from his infernal vows.

Unselfconscious, Madden strode naked across the room, shrugged into the dark red robe suspended from a hook on the wall, knotted the sash low on his hips, then retraced his path to retrieve the vials of blood from his ravaged suit, burying them deep in the pockets of the robe. Behind him, MacTire had gone uncharacteristically quiet. When he turned back to face the doorway, the expression on the King's face had changed, already dark eyes now black as pitch beneath heavy lids. His lips were parted slightly and his breathing had deepened. It made Madden uncomfortable. It made him feel like prey. Rumour had it MacTire's sexual preferences ran to the extreme. He cleared his throat loudly and the tension snapped.

'You have something for me, Robbie?' MacTire's ridiculously handsome mouth curled in a wolfish grin.

_Yes, and it absofuckinglutely does not involve a mutual show and tell of our penises, big boy_.

'Come with me,' the King growled. 'The others will want to watch this.'

Madden coughed, shuffling the vials in his pocket and following after MacTire as he strode off down the warren of passageways carved out of the rock. The breadth of the walls and ceiling height were more than adequate for any average man, but the King's frame dwarfed the tunnels. Coarse blond hair hung down his back in a twisted braid that grazed the small of his exposed back. He was built like an Olympic swimmer, massive shoulders triangulating down to narrow hips that barely kept the low-slung waistband of his leather trousers decent. Arrogant bastard preferred to go shirtless, with only gold bracelets adorning the bulk of his upper arms. And there was the road-kill cravat. You had to hand it to MacTire, he was a prime specimen, with real presence. If you rolled that way. Which Madden didn't. No Sir.

They stopped at a set of carved iron doors that were unfamiliar. The King punched through with a dramatic flourish, the glint of gold pierced through his nipples catching the light like small beacons of royalty. As the doors opened, the scene before him loosened Madden's jaw and struck him uncharacteristically dumb. Naked, save a pair of red-soled spike heels and the chain circling her neck, the human female on her hands and knees was prowling, her back arching with a grace that was almost feline. A purr vibrated in her open throat as she licked and sucked at the male's balls and worshipped the underside of his weighty erection. The clawing of her black, half-mooned nails into the tensed muscle of his powerful thighs did nothing to detract from the kitty cat impression. Madden's eyes ran a slow scroll up from the thrusting mouth to pelvis action to make contact with a familiar set of dark brown eyes. Brandr. One of MacTire's elite Vanguard. With a temper on a short tripwire, hundred-proof testosterone for blood and a homicidal glower, Madden had always pegged the hairy bastard as the hothead of the sextet that formed the King's trusted, inner circle. No, they were no longer six, he mentally corrected himself. Brandr's eyes lit up in recognition, his mouth pulling into a grotesque grin, exposing huge fangs that glistened with the bluish, opalescent liquid Madden recognised as _eitr_. The male's hips didn't miss a thigh-slapping beat as he ground his cock down the throat of the whimpering brunette kneeling before him, fisting handfuls of her silky hair to pump her swollen red lips down to his hilt.

Madden tugged the robe tighter around him. Extreme preferences ran riot through the vargs, and he and MacTire were way overdressed if they were joining this feast. He prayed to all that was holy that the King hadn't brought him here for a practical demonstration.

'You see how we toil in your absence, _Laeknir_?'

Madden arched a brow at MacTire as his laughter ricocheted off the rock walls, addressing him with the pet name of 'healer', reserved for when the King's mood was marginally less than murderous.

'Nice work, if you can get it,' he muttered, but the words were drowned out by the feral grunting and wet, smacking sounds that heralded the triumphant howls of Brandr's powerful climax. The warrior pulled out of her mouth and cracked his palm across the brunette's buttocks with a hard slap that left the red imprint of his hand on her soft flesh. Her hands fell to her lap in a boneless puddle of female supplication, tear-streaked mascara framing huge doe eyes that looked up to him with an expression of undisguised veneration.

'Thank you, Master,' she whimpered, gleaning the remnants of his taste from the corners of her mouth with relish. She ached for him, it was in her every gesture, her hand winding up to stroke the scarred bite mark at her jugular.

The girl was _thrall_ , chosen from amongst the countless numbers that flocked to Form every full moon; a living demonstration of how the bite of a varg could transform a human from sentient, reasoning being to mindless, craving flesh slave. The humans assumed it was a street drug, one they'd called Rave, and the mind-altering, addictive properties of the _eitr_ in their saliva certainly fit the profile. Madden's presence in Dublin's busiest ER was no accident. It suited their purposes to encourage the misconception and deflect attention from the truth of what was happening in the city's dark underworld. In reality, it was a simple biological glitch, an inter-species incompatibility discovered entirely by accident. The effects on humans couldn't have been predicted, but, deprived of any females of their own species, the Fomorian males had simply adapted. Humans provided for their sexual needs, if not their procreative ones. And goddamnit, but Red-Shoes, down on her knees, was providing amply. Lucky for the _thrall_ girl, Brandr was in human form. In their natural, beast physique, there were certain anatomical incompatibilities with human females.

'Good girl. We'll finish this later,' Brandr growled in hoarse, thickly accented words. He strode across the room to stand before MacTire and Madden, a statuesque monolith of broad-shouldered, buck-naked, Norse warrior masculinity. Chest expanded like a damn peacock, it seemed to Madden the guy was consciously flaunting the _félag_ wolf symbol emblazoned across his sternum. To the varg warriors, their individual marks were a brand of fealty, strength, virility. Madden yanked the robe tighter about his body, his lungs suddenly constricted, the symbol fire-branded into his own chest seeming to burn as a familiar shame crept through his veins. Servility, inferiority, celibacy. The symbolism of the two marks could not be more disparate.

'Welcome.' Brandr extended a hand to the doctor and they locked wrists. Madden resisted the impulse to recoil from the contact. You didn't refuse the accepted extension of Fomor hospitality unless you were looking for a front row seat at the feeding of your own entrails to the raveners.

MacTire interjected, the deep, bass tone of his voice resonating around the room. 'Come, _Laeknir_ , Brandr, away to my quarters. Let us convene the _Skuldalid_ , I would have news from the Overworld.'

## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

###

'Sit.' MacTire gestured broadly to the procession of warriors filing into the stone chamber. He sprawled out in the hulking monstrosity of a throne. The Royal seat succeeded in dwarfing even the substantial bulk of the King's frame. His heavy palms stroked the smooth white bone of the ravener skulls that curved to shape its grotesque armrests. Legend held that the man himself took the winged predators down with his bare hands during the battle that saw the Fomorians decimated and driven beneath the waters to this hell-forsaken prison. The Fomori maintained that the throne was constructed from the skeletal remains of the King's glorious victory. _Victory, my arse_ , Madden thought. The Savage's army had been both merciless and brutal, every woman and child hunted down and slaughtered, until the waters ran red with their blood, while the males cowered in the caves. More than a thousand years later and their bones had crumbled to grains of sand, a grisly monument to the terrible genocide that saw the surviving males retreating into a troglodyte existence and living in fear of the black-winged shadows that guarded their prison.

Madden considered the throne's claimed provenance to be so much propagandist bullshit. He had seen what a ravener could do to a man. The retreat had been chaos and the passage of time had eroded the true history. Not that MacTire was the type to dispel a myth that bigged up his own prowess. And not a soul in this hellhole had the balls to challenge the veracity of the King's legendary battle skills. To do so, they would have to go through his _Skuldalid_ , the inner circle of viciously loyal guards, blood sworn to protect their King's life with their own. The word meant family, and Madden supposed it was the closest thing MacTire had had to kin this past millennium. His mate, Madden's sister Aoife, and her newborn son, had been amongst the first to fall to the Savage.

Madden stood as the _Skuldalid_ took their seats at the rough-hewn, circular table. The Chamber, lit by the flames of torches mounted in the walls, functioned as the strategic nerve centre of MacTire's iron rule over Fomor. Brandr, heavy browed, dark and bearded, with the muscle bulk of a pro wrestler, sat at MacTire's right hand. Bare-chested, having hastily commando'd a pair of pants, he was all male. Nothing pretty about him, face rough and masculine, a scowling, growling beast whose wolf showed through with every rapid-fire mood change. He was dangerous, unpredictable and more likely to leap to violence than breathe. Leaning boldly back in his seat, his splayed stance mirrored that of the King, eyes dark as bitter espresso, commanding the room to order.

Rún planted down beside him, a fall of blood-red hair concealing much of his face, eyes downcast and warily watchful, a wolf hidden in the forest, unseen and all seeing. He shifted restlessly and then fell into utter stillness. Broad, but more lithely muscled than Brandr, he would be handsome, beautiful even to females, he drew them easily enough, except for one thing, kept hidden from all. Madden could just make out the jagged scars revealed by the neck of his tunic.

Two seats remained conspicuously empty. Crys had lost his head to the Morrígan's slayer more than a decade ago and in the aftermath, Knutr, Crys' _félag_ , his brother in arms, had lost his mind and was shackled somewhere in the dungeons beneath the caves for his own safety and that of his kind.

The remaining two seats were taken up by Tyr, lean and sinewy with muscle. Madden was shocked to see the male as anything other than his wolf as he inclined his head to the King and took his place beside his blood brother, Fite. The two males exchanged the mark of _félagi_ , each pounding a fist to the other's heart. Madden felt his lip curl and had to straighten it into some semblance of a poker face, strained in lines of green envy as his gaze tracked the greeting, the fists landing solidly over the snarling knot work depiction of their wolf, its front paws reared over their hearts, mirror images of power and status.

It sickened him, roiling in his gut like bad sushi. He couldn't look at those marks, on any of them, without it sticking in his craw.

Faced with the proximity of their massive bulk, all battle-honed brawn and snarled posturing, it was a stark reminder that beneath their human exteriors, there lurked animal minds and instincts. The Fomori were a wild and savage race. Binding themselves to human souls had not lessened their bestial natures, merely clothed them in a disguise that allowed them to walk amongst men. It was to MacTire's credit that he had controlled his people this long, that they hadn't simply annihilated each other. Conflict ran in their veins, violence was their oxygen. The King had been shrewd enough to harness their aggression into the monthly hand to hand combats: Contests that determined who won the right to ride the full moon tides to the surface.

MacTire flicked at a speck of dust on the arm of his throne and settled impatient eyes on Madden. The weight of the King's attention on him pulled his spine rigid. 'Well, speak _Thegn_. My warriors have women to fuck and blood to spill. What news from the Overworld?'

Madden swallowed back his resentment, running his tongue behind his lower lip as he measured up the best way to tell what he knew.

'I'm going to hazard a guess and say you are a wolf down after last night's hunt?'

'Hors.' It was Tyr who spoke.

'Excuse me?' Madden was beginning to think he needed to add Tourette's to the long list of antisocial behaviours that defined the vargs.

'Hors. Arrogant blond bastard? Did the victory lap after the Contest.' The rest of the _Skuldalid_ nodded in recollection. One or two sneered openly. 'He's M.I.A.'

Madden merely nodded his acknowledgement and continued.

'A young woman showed up in my emergency room, freshly clawed, saying she got caught up in the middle of a dogfight on the street.'

Brandr's growl cut through the confines of the enclosed space. 'So you're saying DeMorgan's Slayer took out Hors. Son of a mangy bitch!'

'If Hors broke Haven Law, and was hunting outside of Form, I say that made him fair game.' Tyr, dirty blond, boyish, almost angelic features that belied a shrewd intelligence. On a dark night, he almost passed as civilised.

'He knew the risks. He couldn't handle himself in a fight. He deserved to die.' Fite would say that. He could more than handle himself and was underestimated by many. Silver-haired with hazel green eyes, he looked the gentlemen, distinguished and elegant. All clean-cut lines of muscle and a moustache that bordered on porn-star styled, he was vicious. The snake you never saw coming until it had you dead on the floor from a single strike.

'Fuck Haven Law!' Brandr interjected on a growl. 'It is the law only of our enemy. If we allow DeMorgan to pick us off, one by one, we are extinct, just as sure as if she'd finished the job when she murdered our womenfolk.'

'What difference? We are as good as dead already, entombed in this hell on earth.'

'Speak for yourself, man. For as long as we stand in battle, we are immortal. Alive to bite and screw as many human women as we please. Forever.' Brandr's smirk as he bragged of the screwing wasn't lost on Madden.

'Sterile females, too weak to bear our pups. Do you forget our numbers are finite? The fact remains that every loss brings us a step closer to total extermination.'

The combat of words was by now in full flow, fists pounding the table, teeth bared, volleying counterattacks spitting back and forth until Madden could scarcely tell the voices apart. MacTire stayed silent above the din, his glacial stare focused solely on Madden throughout the dispute. When he spoke, the deep resonance of his voice immediately silenced the rest of the room.

'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 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 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 brutal 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 EIGHTEEN

###

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 to cool herself, and pushed the heavy fall of her hair up off the nape of her neck.

Yes, it was hot out here. It was hot in her, deep within. The restlessness that had had her walking the streets and stumbling into dogfights was back. The edge to her attitude that had made her lap up male attention was a presence coaxing her to claim the attention she really wanted. His. She despised it. Despite the nightmare creature they were burying, her head was filled with lusty thoughts, making her want the man in front of her. The man who had broken into her house, insulted her coat, knew how to bury bodies and made it clear-as-day plain that he wasn't interested in her. Ash hung her head. She had serious issues.

The shock hit in the middle of her mental tirade. Like lightning spearing through her to find ground, the sparks from her inappropriate thoughts earthed at her core and caught fire on the kindling of her lust. It was a jolt that replaced her blood with electric arousal and filled her head with violent, coiling desire. If she'd been naked and pinned under a guy, she could have understood the reaction. However, her body was stoked with no physical stimulus, alight and on 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. Her thighs sawed until they clenched together so hard she swore she felt tendons snap and the carnal wildfire swept her up. The crashing release crested over her and she was drowning in it, fighting to surface and see sense. An invisible cord kept her tethered to something out of reach. It tugged at the core of her, controlling the orgasmic switch, and she didn't think she'd survive the source if she found it. _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 until her ass went numb 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 got unsteadily to her feet, splaying a hand against the rough bark for support as the rush of warmth left her dizzy.

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 about her grandmother.

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. Feeling like a cat in heat, Ash ducked under Connal's arm.

The dirt pile beside the hole was growing steadily. Using the man-mountain as an anchor, she leaned to look into the pit with a raised brow.

'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.

So, he wasn't ignoring her. 'I can think of better ways to work up a sweat,' she said. 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, devilish as she hefted it in her hands. God 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, intent on the snarl of his mouth, and backed 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, her eyes gleaming amusement, and took a step back. And then another step back. Ash spun on her heel and darted in the opposite direction, her footsteps light, leaving only laughter and the dark cape of her hair trailing in her wake.

She knew she'd thrown down the gauntlet when the distinct sound of his spade embedding in the dirt preceded his deep growl. It didn't scare her, it thrilled her, and she lengthened her stride as he pursued. His boots snapped twigs and pounded the earth behind her. She could feel his self-restraint being cast off as he surrendered to her goading and gave in like she had; reducing them to instincts she didn't know anyone really had.

'You can run, but you can't hide,' he called. 'I'm coming for you, Little Red.'

Her laughter rose over the sounds of his footfalls, the world a blur as she raced away.

'You can't catch me.' Hollering back, Ash gracefully 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. She wouldn't risk the momentary lapse in concentration looking over her shoulder would cost her, but damn. She wanted to be caught. 'Too slow, Big Bad!' Breathless, her heart pounded out the nearing beat of his approach, the tiny thrill of her fear hidden in a shiver of wild arousal.

His boots were eating up the dirt behind her, he was gaining distance, but she pushed on, laughing triumphantly when she veered and he cursed at her. He was so close. Ash was fighting to cover more ground when the hot ghost of his breath seared the back of her neck.

Fuckfuckfuck!

His fist snatched her hair into a rough ponytail and her spine arched, reeling her off balance. There was a graze of teeth before his momentum carried them down hard into the leafy floor and he was an animal threat at her back, pinning her.

'Gotcha!' Connal was smirking, she could hear it in the rumbling, satisfied tone of his voice.

Her ass rocked up, pushing against his weight in a futile, feigned struggle to move him. 'Connal ...' She whimpered his name and he panted snarls against her throat, tantalising her nerve endings to fire up in her core.

Ash needed contact, more than the hold he had on her hair or the stubbled kisses bristling her shoulder. He either read her mind or deciphered the heat radiating from her as he yanked her sweat pants down over the cocked invite of her ass and bared her to the cool air and the possessive caress of his hand. 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.'

His words were ragged. '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 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 her underwear, the erotic threat thundering in his growls foreshadowed the utter sexual destruction that awaited her.

A feral noise escaped his throat, and she dimly heard the rasp of a zipper as he tore open the fly of his jeans. Ash whined when he readjusted his fist in her hair and pinned her cheek to the mossy earth. He kicked her knees apart with his muscular thighs and she nearly came from that alone, her body desperate for him to claim it. Ash cried wordlessly as he took mercy on her and buried his erection to the hilt inside her. The single, ruthless penetration filled her so completely, she forgot how to breathe. Connal was all hard, animal male, out of control and taking what was his and screw it, but she loved it.

Stretched to her limits with every thrust, her body was begging for more. Feminine fear arched her spine. He was a predator, pure and simple, and there was danger in being this close to the edge. Ecstasy rose up in a violent storm. Grounding herself, she had his dreads leashed, holding onto something more substantial than the dirt beneath her cheek as Connal responded to her backward grinding demands with hammering thrusts, a powerhouse of bestial need drilling her deep. It was flesh slapping, spine-bowing, whimper-growl fucking and he was destroying her, driving her to a high she feared she wouldn't survive. His free hand dipped into the space between her stomach and the earth, hunting the slick bud that was the nerve-centre of her pleasure. He circled it roughly, keeping tempo with the repeated punches of his cock into that pleasure spot deep inside of her. She could feel his mounting tension at her back, channelled into muscles clenched and on the brink of explosive release.

She surrendered, she fought, she no longer knew. Her body bowed to his demands, gripping the pistoning length of his cock in a twist of drenched inner muscles on every thrust, kicking her hips up to the rhythm of his teasing fingers.

His hips pounded relentlessly against the soft rounds of her ass and Ash trembled. She was stretched to the most exquisite pain and exposed to such raw emotion, such soul-deep fucking she could feel nothing but him, his breath on her neck. It was all too much and she broke. Anything but graceful, she careened over the edge, hurtling into erotic oblivion. Pounded raw, she shattered into shards of hypersensitive female desire on howls. 'Connal!'

His answering bellow sent birds fluttering up through the trees and small animals scurrying for the undergrowth. Connal's muscles quaked around her, flexing surges of male power chasing her orgasm in hard-hitting strokes. Her spine seized, hips rolling, taking every inch of him. He was over her, in her, on her, his hips hammering home his release in punctuated jerks of thigh-trembling climax, filling her with the hot bursts of his passion. The rhythmic clench of her core wrung every last drop from his body and she felt him shiver with the intensity. He opened his throat on a howl of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

Dazed, her body was in chaos. Euphoria dictated the melting of her muscles, the staccato breaths, the rapid fluttering of her heart.

Feeling his heart drum between her shoulder blades, the slowing rhythm hitched and Ash's body stiffened as fur rode up her spine. Razor tipped teeth bit into the curve of her neck, brief and sharp, threatening to pierce through to her heartbeat.

And then it was gone, a dream on the tails of her bliss. No pelt covered her shivering curves, no masculine weight settled across her back, nothing, just cool air licking across her sweat-glistening skin.

Something crashed through the undergrowth, large and heavy, cracking branches and barrelling away from the clearing at a tremendous speed. Ash spun, landing awkwardly and getting trapped in her sweats. Scanning the fallen dark and creeping shadows that clung to the trees, she found nothing. No one. The fur may have been a dream, a nightmare caught on the end of her pleasure, but she was pretty sure Connal had been larger than life and very real.

## CHAPTER NINETEEN

###

He'd left her! For the third time since meeting him, the giant wall of growls had upped and left her! The first time, yeah, she'd screamed at him to. The second, Ash figured that had probably been for the best. Otherwise her knee may have crushed what had just brought her to quivering screams.

But now? He left her now?

Trembling and thumbing a smudge of dirt from her cheek, she wormed her way into her sweats, grateful they hadn't been torn in their collision, though her panties were goners. The forest resumed its night-time soundtrack. There was no trace of him left behind but the scuff of footprints that left large indents in the soft ground. He must have pushed off hard, leverage to get as far away from her as possible.

Shit. What had she done?

Ash replayed the entire encounter, from when her knees had hit the leafy dirt to when she'd cried out his name and felt him climax inside her. She found no trigger for his freak out. Maybe she'd screamed too loud and scared him off? Or he just found her ... Oh God ... easy ... She'd gone down willingly, so very female under his growling possession. Had she lost his attention when she'd let him into her body?

Her legs were quivering, her core resonating with the pounding that had torn her muscles to shudders. She felt like spaghetti, limp and floppy and in no way able to get up just yet. How he had managed to tear himself away from her was beyond her fathoming, and she let herself hate him just a little more. Obviously she hadn't rendered him immobile with her incredible sexual prowess. Ash huffed. She could still smell him on her, a wildness that had nothing to do with the forest around her.

She was ... addicted. Yeah, addicted. It was as good a word as any and it fit the feeling she seemed to get whenever he left her vicinity, as though her body tugged to follow after his presence. She was taffy. It had never been this way before. Ash couldn't understand it. The nerd guys that got her mental motors revving enough to kinda get her body on board had never made her scream down a goddamned forest, and as her head dropped into her hands, she figured there were a few blind animals stumbling through the undergrowth, flashed by her total lack of inhibitions and bare body parts. God, had she really just let a near stranger bring her to such a trembling climax? Judging by the tight ache still clenched in her lower body ... yeah, she had.

Ash forced herself to move. She was out in the middle of a goddamn forest, with a dead body in some direction she couldn't quite remember, and panic crept slowly through the embers of a fire not quite cold.

She jerked upright, snapping in the direction of a faint rustle. 'Connal?'Growing louder, it was too big to be woodland furries. She watched the shadows part in the soft gloom of a descending evening. Definitely not a deer.

'Miss DeMorgan?'

And definitely not Connal.

'Doc.' She smoothed a hand through her hair, worried her cheeks were still a tad too flushed to indicate anything other than one hell of a ride.

'Are you well?' he asked, looking her over. She knew how she must look to him, feverish and glassy-eyed. 'Did he hurt you?'

'I ... I'm fine. No one hurt me, I ...' Her brow furrowed as she looked warily up at the hand he extended in aid. 'What are you doing here, Doc?' Ash tilted her head, brushing down her jacket and securing the zip to her chin before she teetered to her feet and set herself before him, as eye-level as she could get with another man who out-heighted her.

'I was worried. You left the hospital before I could give you your antibiotics. Might I ask what brings you to such an isolated spot, and so late?'

'Research.' Ash frowned, clothing herself in the lie. 'I was meeting with someone who had information, he was helping me with field work for my thesis.' He'd certainly worked her into the field. Mentally shaking her head, she dragged her gaze to the Doc's with a scowl.

'You are associating with a very dangerous man,' he said. 'I came looking for you at the address on your medical file. When I saw you drive by, following him ...' Madden shook his head, shoving his hair back from his face, a frown etching itself into his features. 'I couldn't very well leave you to him.'

A gust of wind threaded through Ash's dark curls, and as her fingers tamed the leaf-ribboned strands into a messy braid, she felt them tremble.

'Dangerous?' she asked nervously. 'Anyone can be dangerous, Doc. You're the one that followed me here. Shouldn't I be more worried about your intentions?' God, was she even making sense? She had fluff in her brain and noodles for legs. Ash swayed a little and the doctor's strong fingers wrapped her upper arm in support.

'We need to get you home, Miss DeMorgan, and I do not recommend driving in your state.' He was already steering her downhill, through the wooded path snaking off from the clearing. She followed, watching the tree line for any sign of the man who had sent her body into meltdown. Nothing. He really had left her. The fucking bastard.

She pushed off from the Doc's arm and attempted an adult walk. It worked. Ish. 'Tell me something,' she asked, waiting until his face turned to hers. 'What's so dangerous about Connal?'

'The man is a killer,' he replied, 'an assassin.'

A quick glance told her the doctor was very serious, his brows pulled down over his eyes, mouth set in a thin line of anger and concern.

Lost for words, Ash followed in silence. The trees gave way to a clearing where the doctor's shining, silver beast of a car was parked.

Shit. Wandering through the woods with him was bad enough but sealing herself in a vehicle with him suddenly seemed all kinds of horror movie. Something inside Ash stirred with warning and halted her footsteps under the branches of a huge tree.

'You know, I have my car. I walked this far, I'm pretty sure I can ...' Drive. Oh hell. Even if she managed to convince the doctor she was fit to drive, he'd still insist on walking her back to her Minor. And there lay the problem. Because next to the Minor was a giant hole and a body in a tarpaulin that would smell just ripe enough to destroy any notion that it could be a tree being planted.

'No,' he said, with no space for argument. Unlocking the car with a robotic bleep, he held the door open for her, all quiet authority as he waited. 'It's getting late, Miss DeMorgan, we can come back and find your car in the morning. You may enjoy tangling with scum like Savage, but I don't. Besides, I have no desire to wind up the victim to a pack of wild dogs. Please. Let me take you home.'

And that's how, a ridiculous amount of awkwardness later, they wound up in front of Ash's house with only the streetlamps and moon for lighting.

Madden cut the engine and her head lifted from its lean against the window, the interior lights flickering on as he stepped from the car. Ash sat up straighter and her neck twinged in protest. Crooked at an unnatural angle for the entire drive, she'd chosen to ignore the doctor as he tried to engage her in talk of 'the Savage'. He'd spoken with a familiarity that unnerved her.

'He's not someone you want as your friend, Miss DeMorgan. He's a wanted man. A known sociopath.'

She'd looked at him then, shocked.

'Yes, you were incredibly lucky. He's suspected of committing a lot more serious crimes than just taking girls into the woods. Your injuries aren't the worst I've seen come through my emergency room. Things people wouldn't _believe_.'

He caught her eyes through the rear-view mirror and his tone caught her curiosity, pulling its tail until her interest came peeking out. It must have shown on her face, the open surprise she wasn't careful enough to hide.

'Yes, I know about _them_ ,' he replied to her unspoken question, 'more than I wish I did.'

Ash didn't know what to do with that. Her brain was already having a hard time reconciling this sociopath Madden painted with the Connal who had talked with her of monsters she couldn't dare believe existed. He'd hunted down the creatures that attacked her. He'd had ample opportunities to kill her if he'd wanted to.

Doc Rob was certain Connal wasn't 'a good man'. To be honest, Ash would have been surprised if he was. But if what the Doc said was to be believed, she'd just fucked a serial killer, willing or not.

Her door clicked open and she half fell against the support of her belt. Legs asleep, arms leaden, she was aching and raw in places she'd forgotten she could ache. While she'd have loved to put her exhaustion down to Connal making her orgasm so hard she'd seen stars, she knew that was simply feeding desires that stirred to be fucked just as hard, again and again. Perhaps the doctor's insinuations were right, and she'd been drugged. Maybe he'd put something in the flask, a fast-working aphrodisiac and a slow-working sedative rendering her sleepy and lolling her in the posh leather interior of the doctor's car. Madden had told her of Connal's violent couplings, his womanising. Made sense he'd fuck before he killed. Except she'd got away. The doctor had arrived in time to interrupt. Oh God.

'What did that bastard do to you?' He whispered angrily into her hair as he half-carried her to the door.

She pushed at him in annoyance. 'No one did anything to me, except you. If I'd known doctors carried their care over into my private life, I never would have gone to the emergency room. Let me go!'

His arms loosened reluctantly. Ash fumbled her key into the lock, grateful the small, jangling bundle hadn't been lost in the middle of the forest, and shoved the door open.

She sighed, toeing off her boots and kicking them into a corner, flattening to the wall as a bounding growl of long limbs and snarling teeth shot out to ward off any advance into her home the doctor might have made. Ash snickered softly, hooked her fingers into the mutt's collar and tugged him off guard duty. But she didn't invite the doc in. 'You were a little slow there, weren't you, pup?' He eyed Madden with a steady threat in his brown gaze. She cast amused eyes up to the doc.

He was wide-eyed and pale, tensed as though he were about to bolt and run for his life.

'This is Setty ... Setanta.' Ash stroked the hound's giant head lovingly. 'I named him for the great defender of Ireland. Couldn't leave the poor guy with a name like Mutt.' Her grin was a little cheeky and a whole lot laughing. 'Fitting, huh? Are you okay?'

'You shouldn't be alone tonight,' he said.

Ah, so that was why he was sticking around. Protecting her honour. Which had been thoroughly fucked out on the leafy carpet of Dublin's mountains. The damage had already been done. She chuckled a little, tossing her keys into the bowl and stretching out a kink in her spine. Her yawn was so wide it made him look blurry, his concern fuzzing as she blinked.

'He knows where you live, Ashling. Look, if you won't believe me, I have friends who will back up everything I've told you. They know about Connal, and about that _thing_ that attacked you. Knowledge is power, and I think you need to be armed.'

Ash frowned. Yes, Connal knew where she lived. He had a damn key. If he really wasn't safe ... If he could make her feel and do ... that ...

'Please,' the doctor pressed. 'I know a place we can talk. It's public, safe. There's a club, Form, I'm a member there, as are my friends. Plus, someone needs to show a pretty girl like you the nightlife, sans feral dogs.' His grin would, under any other circumstance, have had her pretty good and warm, dazzling as it was. He was gorgeous, but her body wanted someone else and his handsome charm was an elephant tromping over all her sex happies.

Despite the war between exhaustion and arousal raging inside her, Ash exhaled and nodded. Her curiosity was rapidly morphing into unease and he dangled this new thread of information in front of her like a shiny carrot. Maybe, just maybe, he knew something about who killed her mother. What killed her mother. That insidious need for truth spread within her, clawing dirty fingers through the remnants of her lust.

'You want me to go now?' Her nose crinkled, everything in her aching, half for her bed, the other half for him. Maybe she shouldn't be alone right now. She'd probably do something stupid like hunt Connal down and beg him to take her again. 'At least let me shower and change.' She was pretty sure she looked like she'd just been ravaged. When he only nodded, she waved him towards his car, and left him to his own devices. The man thought to tell her what to do, he could stuff it. Setty stalked her unwanted guest, pacing in front of the door, growling softly as she bounded up the stairs and locked herself into her bedroom with its en suite.

_Right, Ashling, shower, clothes, out. Don't even look at the bed. You know if you lay down, you'll never get back up and we won't get what Doc knows._ Her logical brain prodded at her as she peeled her sweats from her thighs and unzipped her jacket.

_Quicker, quicker. We're running on sex fumes and curiosity. Neither will fuel us for long._ She shed her tank in a wriggle, twisted the shower's tap to scalding and stepped in, sliding along the tile until her ass hit the floor and she could pull her knees to her chest. It felt so wrong, a betrayal, to be washing his scent from her skin with another man waiting on her downstairs. Her body still throbbed with every thought of Connal, but those feelings were tainted with the suspicions that Madden may have been right, that her reactions weren't natural, but influenced.

Ash shook violently. She couldn't think of the 'R' word that rhymed with grape, couldn't set her mind solely on that idea. It didn't fuse well with how she felt. How could she be aroused if he'd really done that to her? Limply, Ash drew the washcloth towards her, slipped it between her thighs, scrubbed gently. She could still feel him there, a presence within her. The backs of her thighs felt slapped raw, his scent rising up with the wildness of the forest as steam shrouded her in heat and the water swirled threads of mud down the plughole. Ravaged. Thoroughly and completely fucked. In more ways than the obvious.

What if the doc was telling the truth, really?

All her careful calm, her happy bliss, her sex-is-on-fire smoking hot lust, shrivelled into a cold worthy of her ice maiden.

What if he had some weird serial killer diseases?

She scrubbed harder, watching through drenched lashes as her skin pinkened to a bright red.

What if ... Oh God ... What if she was pregnant with a psycho baby?

Ash couldn't remember for the life of her if he'd worn protection and she was pretty sure hers had run out.

The shits in her head streamed out. She could feel herself slowly unravelling at her tightly stitched seams.

_It's done, DeMorgan! Grab the pieces before they sluice down the drain and patch yourself back up. Knowledge is power. And you need your head to gather all the shit the doc knows._ She mentally shrugged into her ice maiden suit, turned the flow of water until it dropped sadly to the tiles and cuddled herself into a towel. _We should rename you Sally, Ashling. Falling apart._

Time meant nothing as she planted her forearm on the wall and breathed, ignoring the feel of her skin, freshly raw, stinging like she'd attacked it with a scouring pad. It could have been hours or mere minutes that allowed her the breaths, the clarity, the cold trickling refreeze of her emotions, to gather herself into something suitable for a club.

## CHAPTER TWENTY

###

W _e make a pretty robot, DeMorgan_. Suddenly, Ash was all hard edges despite the curves she'd hidden under a black and red paisley dress. Setty exploded into barking a second before steady knocks rained against the front door.

'I'm coming! Do not rush me, Asshole.' Muttering curses, Ash jerked the last zipper up on her knee-high boots, tossed the towel to her bed and ran her fingers through drying curls. She'd do. Never really club material, Ash wasn't in the least bit excited, nor did she know how a bar could be quieter than a Starbucks or a park bench for a conversation. Tramping down the stairs, Ash swiped the door open, petted Setty as he lapped at her fingers and barged Madden out of the way so she could secure the door.

'You ... look lovely, Miss DeMorgan.'

'You might as well call me Ash, Doc. I think we're a little past formality.' Brushing him aside, she was halfway down the path to his car before she realised he already had the engine running. He'd known, the bastard had known she'd come with him.

Madden engaged his seatbelt and waited for Ash to follow suit. Cop shows said you were safer in the back seat and as she clipped her belt in and listened with heavy dread to the locks clicking down, she prayed to the gods that they were right.

'Just a precaution, Ash.' He turned to offer her a reassuring smile as he reached up to adjust the rear-view mirror, flashing the gold cufflinks in his formal shirt. The doc had been nothing but gentlemanly, a little overzealous in his care of her, but gentlemanly nonetheless. Yet something wouldn't let her shake the uneasiness that followed her like a cloud, running its fingers through her self-preservation until she wondered if she should be doubting everything and everyone in this damn city. Connal was hardly a good example of trustworthy and safe, and with every second she spent in the doctor's presence, Ash couldn't throw the feeling that he wasn't either.

His eyes seemed to search the darkness and the dim interior lighting failed to disguise the sheen of sweat that broke across his upper lip. 'The club isn't far,' he said, 'but we pass through some rough neighbourhoods, and this car tends to draw attention.'

The engine revved to life and they fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Ash fidgeted. She played with the fastening of her bag, spun her mother's silver band around her finger, tugged at the hem of her dress so it covered a little more thigh as she caught his gaze in the mirror and promptly skipped it back to the outside.

The city swept by in a glimmer of reflections. She let the awkwardness grow into an almost corporeal being, an airbag within the car pressing in on them both, wall filler creeping into every available silence and going rock hard with tension. It wouldn't do for her to freak out without cause. The man was quite probably qualified to have her sectioned.

When the engine halted and the locks flicked up in her peripheral vision, the valve was released on their awkwardness as air rushed to dispel the tension.

'Thanks,' Ash managed to mutter to the valet as he shut her door behind her and stood aside. The doctor handed over the keys and a crisp colourful note before he took to her side with a peacock flourish and an offered hand. It was a facade, feathers to hide the true intention, but she forced her hand into his and let him guide her. Wouldn't do to get lost in a strange place, and the building in front of her was only slightly less strange than the inside of her head. This was the place everyone seemed to be talking about, the place advertised on all the posters.

The name, FORM, hung overhead in a Celtic font. The letters hovered in a pool of black, backlit by the red glow of a graphic blood moon. When the red rope on a smaller side door was lifted for them, Ash stepped through, entranced by the vivid scarlet that slashed claw-marked accents through the otherwise pitch-black decor. It was both a cave and a giant, open space, playing on her spatial awareness and giving her no choice but to clutch at the doctor's hand to avoid tripping over one of the many grinding bodies dry humping on the dance floor. She nearly flattened into a couple trying to dance-fuck into the marble of a column, but was saved when Madden pulled her arm, steering her to the relative, seated safety of a barstool.

Ash let her gaze roam the club, filled to brimming with too much skin and not enough clothing. Young and dressed to ensnare, grinding around like it was perfectly legal to have public sex on a packed dance floor.

Madden lifted a finger to the young man behind the bar and Ash took to watching individual people more closely. It wasn't unlike clubs back home, the way the men dressed, except for an unusual number wearing sunglasses. Pretentious pricks, hiding their eyes 'cause they're too mysterious and important to dwell with the lower, non-shade wearing life-forms.

'Ash?' Her head came up and she locked onto Madden's dark brown eyes. 'May I get you a drink?' The doctor was looking at her strangely and she got the faint impression he'd been saying her name for a while. The bartender was stock still, his eyes pinned to her face, nostrils flared, every muscle tensed so hard she wondered if he'd shatter if she poked him.

His attention made her trip over her words. 'Um, uh, yeah, please, Coke, with ice and a shot of lime cordial. Please.' She watched every second as the barman prepared her drink.

She stirred it with the little red and black candy cane twizzler as Madden watched her from the corner of his eye.

'Tell me.' The words escaped her, wanting to break the silence between them. The music was pounding louder than ever.

His gaze skittered away.

'No, Doc, you brought me here to talk. So talk.' Ash pressed and she could feel him withdrawing even before he pushed off the barstool and started away from her.

'I'll get us somewhere quieter,' he said, and she lost him in the crowds that surged with a new, throbbing dance beat.

'Yeah. Right.' A tiny part of her hoped he didn't come back.

'You know the stick isn't really a candy cane, right?'

'Liath!' Ash's face lit with a smile as she turned to confront the disturber of her thoughts, twizzle stick gnawed at the ends. 'Hey!' It was a relief, a familiar face in a throng of strangers.

'Hi,' Liath replied, her pretty jade eyes kind as she fixed a new drink, setting out the components of Ash's preference on the bar. 'I saw Doyle do it,' she said by way of explanation and Ash chuckled, sipping at lime-less Coke before she mixed it up. Liath lingered, fiddling under the bar as her eyes danced to her boss, watching him wander off before she leant on the wooden top. 'So, who's the cutie? He's hot, very David Gandy.'

'Doctor Robert Madden.' Ash raised a brow, shooting her gaze over her shoulder to find him talking to the burly security guard near the VIP section.

'He comes in quite a lot,' Liath said, 'never comes close enough for me to ogle though.' Liath's brows waggled.

Ash let out a snort as she looked back at the woman's teasing smile. 'He's ogle-able, but a little strange. He thought here would be a quiet place to talk.' Air quoting 'quiet,' Ash rolled her eyes.

'Really?' Liath's groomed brow arched, locking onto the doctor. 'Weird. What is he doing now? He's not a good date if he leaves you to entertain yourself.' Liath winked, dragging them into a realm of girl talk Ash had never been so familiar with. She blushed.

'He's getting us some sort of booth in the VIP section on the lower level. Who'd have thought it took so long?' Drawing back a little, Ash frowned as the playfulness drained from Liath's features. 'What?' she asked, fussing with her hair. 'Do I have another head? 'Cause I already have conversations with myself, and that would just make things so much easier.'

Liath's hair fluttered with the shake of her head, a halo of blonde in the black and red surroundings. 'No, no second head ... but, Ash, I didn't think that down there was ...'

'Was what?' Ash asked.

'Was ... you know, your scene. I mean, do you know what you're getting yourself into? It's -'

'It's time to go.' Madden's hand curled into the flesh above her elbow, the height of him a sudden shadow cast over the bar. 'Shouldn't you be getting back to work?' He barked at Liath, who recoiled with a wide-eyed concern as he urged Ash down from her stool. She cut him a vicious glare, trying unsuccessfully to work her arm free.

She threw Liath a pleading glance as she was dragged away from the bar. Her neighbour was looking down, punching numbers into a handset. 'Slow down,' Ash complained to the doctor, 'I'm coming, I'm sorry. I didn't realise we were on a time-sensitive mission, what with you dragging ass getting us a booth. Wait -' She tugged against his grip, but failed to loosen the vice on her skin. 'Will you just slow down!'

He relented a little, letting her feet catch up to the awkward angle of her body, and they headed down, passing through heavy satin curtains into darkness.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

###

Y _ep, I'm definitely being led into Hell_. She was being swallowed up by the Second Circle, led into deeper black until the motion-triggered sconces lit up like fire along the walls, alerting their movements to anyone in the bowels of the VIP section. They stepped onto a shimmering black dance floor and Ash had to catch her breath. It looked more like a whore house, albeit with extremely expensive whores. Bigger than the one up top, this level was all sin and seduction. Lush booths big enough to double as circular beds were set in half moon alcoves lining the edge of the dance floor. Table tops hovered on metal chains and appeared to be moveable. Ash's head tipped back, judging how the suspension worked, allowing Madden to lead her where he would. She snapped her head forward just in time to swerve past a buxom blonde and her male companion. Locked together, their hands wandered and their hips thrust, mimicking ... nope, correction, really not mimicking. The man was up her skirt and grinding them both to the edge of a shuddering peak. He gave her a wink over the blonde's shoulder, the golden ring curved through his nose glittering under the lights. Ash backed away from the show-bull throwing his sexual weight around.

_What the_ ... Was this what Liath had meant? The lower levels were some kind of exhibitionist sex club. The women were skimpily dressed and crying out in ecstasy, adding to the rock-beat pounding from hidden speakers.

Ash was way overdressed, or really, really underdressed. She pulled the hem of her dress lower to cover her knees as she bent-tripped after Madden, keeping her focus on the toes of her boots instead of the orgy going on around them. She needed kevlar, protection against the bullets of gross being thrown her way, or maybe just a whole-body condom. She prayed she didn't get lost in the drift of literal sex on the dance floor.

The air was stifling amongst the heat of bodies. She gasped when they finally cleared the crowd in one piece and relatively un-groped.

Her gaze cut up to tell Madden to slow, but the words halted, frozen on her tongue like ice cubes waiting to melt into speech.

Glimmering twin spots of light caught her attention, like Will-O'-The-Wisp. The booths were in darkness and only the red blinked, on and off, in the shadows. She stared harder.

What are you?

When her mind identified them, Ash recoiled.

Eyes. They were eyes, catching the light from the sconces and the small candle flames set into holders above the floor.

Ash only hoped her eyes weren't that creepy when she looked at someone.

'Doc,' yanking on his arm, she felt about twelve years old, 'is this really quieter? I mean, Starbucks might still be open ... if we run?' Her voice trailed off at the annoyed frown he shot her.

'The people I want you to meet aren't at Starbucks, Ashling, they're here. And they can tell you the truth.' She let the subject drop into silence. It was either go forward with him, or try and survive going back without him.

The limpid-eyed girls flocking around the booth scattered on their approach, casting longing gazes back in the direction of the two men seated there. A leggy blonde held back, raking Ash with an openly hostile glare, before turning on her heel and stomping in the direction of the next booth with her ass swinging like a baboon in heat.

Like popped toast, the two men rose to their feet as she reached the table, a towering wall of testosterone-pumped muscle. Any female would have been crazy not to step back, and Ash wasn't so crazy she didn't acknowledge the threat. They were shorter than Connal, taller than Madden. One was a hairy beast, a monster of scruff, wild hair as dark a brown as the few days growth of beard colouring his jaw. His eyes were like honey, narrowed on her face, nostrils flared. He reminded her of a dog on the scent. Single, predatory concentration. Turning her head slightly, she sniffed. Nope. She smelled fine. His waistcoat gaped, black, buttery leather falling open as he stuffed his hands into the worn pockets of broken-in jeans that hung too low on his hips to be decent. The man looked like he should be in a Western. Ash didn't dare look down to check for boots and spurs. Instead, her gaze hit chest level, broad and muscled. Dark hair, thick on his pecs, travelled down his abs, arrowing somewhere she didn't want to look. Her eyes jerked back to his face, switching from blushing to scowling embarrassment at the lusty sneer curving his lips.

Plastering on her best haughty face, Ash looked away and switched her attention to the man at his side. There couldn't have been two more opposite people. His friend would have fit quite well at a cosplay convention, or the nineteen-hundreds. He was sleek and suited in Steampunk couture, silver-white hair drawn back in a ponytail at his nape, jagged wisps slightly shorter and falling into his hazel eyes. Green popped bright around the irises. Dipping her head to peer closer, Ash had half the mind to ask if they were contacts. But she got distracted.

If his ensemble didn't amuse her, the moustache on his face certainly did. She couldn't decide between the images in her head so she merged them. A cross between a Chinese dragon and Biggles the Porn Star graced a smooth, exquisitely handsome face. He could have been of Asian descent, but the lights distorted his features somewhat and her brow furrowed, trying to pin down his origin.

Damn, if the doctor had told her this was a costume party, she'd have come dressed for the occasion.

Maybe they were band members.

_More like extras from a_ Terminator _movie._ Whatever they were, they were totally out of step with Doc Madden's tailored suit. Ash snickered quietly.

'Ashling DeMorgan, may I introduce two of my friends, Brandr and Fite.'

'Friends?' Brandr, the hairy cowboy, growled, pinning Madden with a withering glare.

'Miss DeMorgan.' Fite interjected and before she knew what was happening, her hand was swept up in gloved fingers, the velvet graze of the man's moustache brushing her knuckles. ' _Enchanté_.' Intelligent, hazel eyes met hers for a brief moment before he released her hand.

'These gentlemen can tell you all you need to know about your new acquaintance, Connal Savage.'

Brandr stiffened visibly, upper lip curling off his teeth. Once again, Fite drew the focus of her attention back to his mesmerising, green-rimmed eyes. Stepping aside, with a grace out of keeping with his considerable size, he motioned for Ash to take a seat while Madden dismissed himself on an errand to get them a round of drinks.

She squeaked a little, panic flaring in her eyes as she found herself trapped in the middle of two very large strangers.

Brandr raked her with a smile that was sneering. As he sat, his waistcoat gaped completely open and her eyes snagged on a flash of something under the left side. The stylized wolf brand lay like a mark of death on his skin, a visual trigger stimulating her heart to race. Her spine tensed and she drew calming breaths in through her nose. This time, Ash was determined to tamp down the fear and get some proper answers.

Her voice was weak as she forced herself to look up at him. 'The mark on your chest. What does it mean?' she asked, 'I've seen it before. On Connal.' _On the stepfather who watched my mother torn limb from limb._

Fite threw Brandr a loaded stare, but the words discharged from Brandr's mouth like bullets.

'Do not mention me in the same breath as that traitorous cur.'

Ash flinched away from the violent outpouring of words and slammed into the cushioned back of the booth like she'd been whipped.

'You should know better than to take the Devil's name in vain.'

On hearing the low-timbred growl of that all-too-familiar voice, Ash groaned. The night was promising to get worse and worse the more people that joined their table.

Their latest addition jammed anger into her throat and lead-lined her stomach. She wasn't even acknowledging the heat blooming in her lower stomach.

When Connal had materialized at the table, she didn't even know. But he was there. Shades pushed up into his dreads, lips quirked in a grin that clearly irritated the hell out of the tag-team of Cro-Mags flanking Ash, who shot to their feet like a pair of stone columns at his arrival.

_Jerk bastard_.

'Chewbacca!' Connal sneered at Brandr. 'Hans Solo let you off the leash for the night?'

Ash snorted so hard her brain was promising to exit through her nose. She hid the burst of amusement behind a glare dark enough to double as sunglasses.

The table shook like it just took a four-point-nine hit on the Richter scale and Brandr actually snarled. 'You defile this place with your reeking stench, _Vargrliker_!'

'Such a sweet mouth, Brandr,' Connal replied. 'You mean I wasn't invited to the Wookiee Convention? I suppose you and Gandalf the White here are going to make me leave?'

Brandr bared the whites of his eyes, Fite's narrowed to cruel slits and Connal sucked on his teeth, his mouth tugged into a sneering grin. She could feel the testosterone poisoning kicking in with every second that passed. The men she was smushed between had enough to out-do an entire generation of pre-pubescent boys. Adding another to the mix had her choking on the fumes of rivalry. If they whipped out a measuring tape, she was outta there, but not before she'd levelled a good hard kick to the crotch of their newest member.

She owed him pain.

Ash glared at the rough, handsome face of her once saviour, and constant stalker. Connal. Her insides may have swooned, but it was just a blip in the storm of pissed off that rose to replace an awkward uneasiness. She knew how she felt around him. He didn't unnerve her, not like the doctor and his friends. He set her on edge, though it wasn't with a worry for her life, not really. It was more because she knew she'd have to brace for the heaping dose of arousal that hit her at a dead run whenever he was near.

'Much as I'm aching to spend the night flirting and ego-stroking with you girls,' Connal said, 'I'm here to speak with Ash.' His words turned from taunting to something softer when he spoke her name and she looked up to find his steel-grey eyes settled on her face. Ash couldn't decipher the emotions in his gaze and they were gone when she blinked. 'Dance with me, Ash,' he said gravely. It was more than a request.

He demanded and it cranked her chin a little higher, levelled her glare more solidly on his face. Let him burn in the laser heat of her anger. 'I don't like this song,' she retorted. It wasn't quite a lie, the trance beat was tripping up the rhythm of her heart. 'I'm busy, getting acquainted with these gentlemen. They actually _talk_ to me.' She stressed the word into an almost growl.

'Research for your thesis, I presume?' His tone was laced with sarcasm.

'I don't want to dance with you.' Ash steeled her spine into titanium defiance, but his gaze was softening and she could feel her resolve melt with it. The song switched in the strained silence that followed, slowing and morphing, a mood ring to her turbulent emotions.

'Please.' He spoke to her with his eyes.

_No_ ... It was in her head yet the word wouldn't translate to her tongue. Ash swallowed, the daggers in her eyes starting to turn inwards. She hated him, for leaving her on her knees, for withholding something her entire being knew was linked to her. Yet she still contemplated going with him, that voice that had told her to run from the hospital was back and urging her to give in, to trust, to get away from the couple of beefcakes effectively caging her in. She was weakening the longer his gaze held hers.

It was the briefest second, logged in time by the tensing of the powerful males at her sides, and then her decision was made. Ash stood and took the easiest, less bulky path, around the silver-haired gentleman. There was no resistance save for the rumbling growl she told herself was just the hum of a ... generator? ... and then Fite's gloved hand circled her wrist, cool points of metal tapping on her pulse as his fingers tightened.

'You really don't want to go to him, Miss,' he said. 'He can't be trusted.'

Ash narrowed annoyed eyes on the hand that restrained her and, one by one, pulled up his metal fingertips. Not that it did any good, she still had to murmur to him to please let her go.

His acquiescence was immediate but reluctant, tamed only by the manners he managed to retain in the company of his Ice-Age friend. Ash tripped hastily from the booth and circled around onto the dance floor.

As she did, Fite, his face cloaked in shadow, slowly drew two fingers across his neck in a cut-throat motion. Connal flipped him the bird then walked backward onto the dance floor to stand opposite Ash.

Time froze, the few inches separating them a vast chasm of unvoiced antagonism. Connal was the first to move, closing the distance between them while she stood rigid. He rested his hands on her hips and Ash struggled not to soften beneath his palms. He circled her waist and drew her closer. She let her eyes drift closed when his mouth lowered to her ear, the scruff of his jaw grazing her flushed cheek. The contact was incredibly intimate and loaded with tension. 'You have to get out of here, Ash,' he breathed.

_Ooohhh_ ... Tempering the urge to bite him, she snarled her whispered anger against his ear. 'Get out? The way you 'got out' of the forest?' Snapping mad, her nails dug into his shoulders. 'You left!'

'I came back, you were gone. I can explain everything, if you just let me take you away from this place.' His voice was rough with something unknown and she swallowed.

'Explain? There's a lot of things you have to explain and I'm not going anywhere with you until you have.' They were moving slowly, swaying an instinctive beat to the music that swelled, hypnotic, around them.

Her body knew his. Raw flashbacks to the forest flared in her mind, reminding her exactly how they had fit together, how her spine had bowed in his hands. Hands that moved now to map the curve of her ass and the backs of her thighs. The memories pulsed through her like electrical echoes and her heart-rate rocketed.

'I had to go, Ash. I could have hurt you.' There was a strain in his voice that made it husky and cracked.

'Hurt me? Yeah, 'cause I remember, I was screaming for my life.' Sarcasm dripped from her tone, concealing a purr.

He raised one hand, the backs of his fingers brushing her cheek, and swept her hair around the shell of her ear. 'I never left you,' he said, 'not really.'

His lips moved against the silky heat of her skin as he spoke. It was such a contrast to the savage collision of flesh that had brought them together in the forest only hours before. His howl of pleasure still rang in her ears.

'These men will hurt you. They haven't brought you here to give you answers.' Urgency laced his harshly whispered words. 'Your friend, the doctor, is arranging your abduction as we speak.'

'He's ... huh? He's a doctor.' _As though that makes everything better_. 'He's more likely to put me in a straightjacket and settle me in a crazy cell than kidnap me.' The whole thing sounded ridiculous, but an underlying doubt crept in to tell her she was missing something crucial.

'A doctor on the surface,' Connal said. 'These men are traffickers, Ash. They traffic women. They hurt women.'

'The way you thought you'd hurt me? Oh my God, you're one of them, you're a ... trafficker.' The accusation was a tremor in her voice. It didn't ring true, because he was so much worse. She was caught in a room full of devils, and he was the deep blue sea, liable to drown her as soon as save her.

'If I'd wanted to kill you, we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

She wasn't sure how they _were_ having this conversation, spun so quickly on its head. From sex trade to murder in the span of a few choice words. Ash wrapped her fingers in his dreads, the coiled strands dark, wooly and soft. She tugged, harshly, demanding his attention.

'Kill me? No, you don't want to kill me, you just, what, need me to help you bury another body?' She hissed the end words, fisting his hair tighter until they were as close as they could get with clothes on. She sizzled. Snapped in the tension that had gathered them into their own bubble of angry frustration. 'What do you want with me? I mean, really. Who am I, some girl from across the sea, to you? Who are you? The Big Bad, wolf-killing stalker. Who am I to every guy in this country who suddenly decides he wants me? Wants me enough to pin me in an alley, or touch my coat and invite me home? Is it just here? Or am I suddenly beautiful everywhere?' She scoffed, paused to draw a breath heavy with his scent. 'Ever since I set foot in this place, I've been attacked and stalked, buried a giant fucking wolf-thing, been left in a forest and now you're telling me a doctor and his Storm-trooper macho-men want to kidnap me? Who the hell are you?' Her voice rose in temper.

'I am your worst nightmare, Ash, and your only hope of getting out of here alive.' Even in the face of her anger, the breadth of his large hand fused to the base of her spine, dragging her closer. His arm wound up in her hair, mirroring the grip she had on his dreads and arching her throat. He forced her gaze back on him and she allowed it, tears of frustration brimming.

'I need you to see, Ash. You coming here was no accident. There are no coincidences. Everything that's happened, everything, is connected. I told you the truth. I am a hunter. You saw that beast with your own eyes. Look around you now. There is only one predator here, Ash, and right now, you are the prey.'

Ash didn't want to look. If he wasn't crazy, if she wasn't crazy, then there was a real possibility of her turning her head and being plummeted into a nightmare.

To look now would break this heated intimacy between them that was rapidly coalescing into something more than anger.

Risking a glimpse, it was nothing more than a fluttering of her lashes over her shoulder. His _tsk_ of disapproval sounded close to her ear.

'Look closer, use your vision. Look beneath the shell. Check out your new friends now, Little Red.'

Her fist clenched in the falls of his hair, bracing against his body, stoking up some nerve to just look. 'Dude, you're whacked, they're just ...' She took one hand from his hair and waved it at the table. Her voice trailed off, eyes following the path of her dismissal to catch and look closer.

The club could have dropped out of existence, the world could have exploded, Connal could have grown another head and she wouldn't have noticed. The universe stopped.

Nightmares flickered where she'd been sat. The males were human in looks, broad and tall as they had been. There was just something amiss. Like a second image superimposed and living over the first. Not human. So far from it, the figures beneath could have been stick men in comparison to the bestial visage. Huge, furred with thick pelts and long limbs, handsome faces disappeared under the long wolf-like muzzle of a creature she shared her sleeping mind with. The thing they'd buried could have been a smaller cousin. It had lacked the bulk of these males, hadn't the wicked talons curving from hands that were more paw than human appendage. They were monstrous, as monstrous as her nightmares had shown her. More upright, with squared jaws that crushed like a wolf's couldn't. _Fuck no._

Ash scrabbled at Connal's chest, clawed into his shirt, her blood ice-cold and dragging any colour she may have had from her face. She could feel shock setting in, her vision blurring, choking on the frantic words she threw at him. 'Getmethefuckoutofhere!'

## CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

###

'Shit, I can hear them following.' Panic leached into her voice as he steered her through the maze of corridors, hustling past the _thralls_ who wandered the halls of Form like stoned stripper extras from a zombie flick. She did a terror-clouded double take at a couple; the female's foggy eyes lighting up a split second before she sank her teeth, with a throaty, sex-filled moan, into the neck of the wolf grinding her through a wall.

'They can't touch us until we get outside,' he replied.

She threw him a puzzled look as he pushed through a set of double fire doors.

'This place is what you might call neutral territory.'

'Territory? What is this, some gangland turf war?' she asked. 'Why don't we just call the police?'

He cut her a look that could have iced Hell over and he saw her bite back another question. Connal marched her forward and rewarded her patience with a brusque answer.

'These things have no respect for the law, Ash. They don't have an issue with collateral human damage. You want to sign some beat cop's death warrant? Be my guest.'

'Well not to be Captain Obvious here, but what exactly happens when we do get outside?'

'Liath is waiting in the alley with a car.' Connal was all focus, his jaw set with grim determination.

'Liath?' Ash grabbed his bicep in a vain attempt to divert his attention to her, but he pushed on and she stumbled behind him with a huff.

'She called me when you went below deck with Dr. Frank-N-Flirter,' Connal replied.

'Fuck, is there anybody here not stalking my every action?'

The petulance in her voice got his hackles up. 'Liath is risking her ass to get you away from here.'

Ash fell silent. Connal punched through the emergency exit and they spilled out into the night. The beat-up yellow Ford Fiesta was there, engine idling, coughing up tarry fumes that tainted the air. He popped the passenger door and Liath's blonde head dipped, jade eyes met his, betraying the urgency they all felt.

'Take her home Liath. Don't stop for anything, and when she's locked inside, you pick up Josh and head on over to your mother's. You'll be safe there.'

'Shouldn't I take Ash with me?'

'No.' Ash insisted. 'I'm not putting you or your little boy in danger.'

'The house is guarded. Old Mrs DeMorgan set up wards. Ash will be okay there.' Trapping her in the circle of his arm, he propped the car door open, leaving her no option but to slide into the passenger seat. He slammed the door. She rolled down the window.

'You're not coming?' Ash asked.

Connal shook his head. 'These boys want a pissing contest, I'll give them one.'

'But ...' The exit doors flung open like a gust of wind had ripped through them, the streak of movement so fast as to be indiscernible as Fite, until he was plowing into Connal, slamming him up onto the hood of the Fiesta. The car jolted, bouncing the occupants in their seats, and the bodywork crumpled under the force of the impact. The windshield crazed into a spider web of hairline cracks that sagged inward, threatening to spill Connal right into Ash's lap. Their eyes met briefly, her expression frantic, before Fite's fist landed a bone-crunching contact with his jaw, temporarily stealing his sight.

'This is for Crys, you fucking son of a bitch!'

Fite spat the words in his face like venom, cocking back his arm, the lethal metal tips of his gloved hand bared in a claw. He punched down, stabbing deep into Connal's side, five ripping penetrations that tore through the muscle and tendon of his ribcage.

Connal roared. Knees kicking up on instinct, he planted his soles on Fite's chest, the power of his thrust sending the male recoiling across the alley. His body sang with agony as he popped his spine off the car hood, leaving a massive, man-sized crater of a dent in his wake. Dreads whipped around his face as he wheeled towards the windshield. Wild-eyed, teeth bared and outlined in his own blood, he barked the order at Liath. 'Drive! Fucking drive!'

Liath looked like she was about to lose it. He held her horrified gaze, bending her to his will, crushing the second thoughts that played across her features. The gearbox crunched, the engine over-revved in her panic. Already the bodies were pouring through the club exit like oily shadows. The car lurched and Connal's gut took a ride along with it, but she pulled it together, released the parking brake and floored the accelerator. The little car tore out of the alley, clearing the stage for something far more sinister.

Connal stood in the spot of the yellow streetlight, his breath sawing, blood saturating his shirt. The wolves had filed out to line the shadowy walls of the alley and block its exit. Snarling and baited by the scent of fresh blood, their eyes glowed red. All were trained on him. Doyle stood cross-armed, guarding the pool of light above the club's door, smokes tucked under the sleeve of his plain white tee. He wore the kind of smirk that spoke volumes about Connal's chances of walking away from this fight alive.

'I want my pound of flesh from this fucker.' Brandr pushed off the wall and stepped forward. Fite inclined his head to the warrior, eerily-slanted eyes sliding to lock Connal in a hostile glare. With fluid motion, the white-haired warrior lifted his clawed right hand and slowly licked the blood from the steel tips of the leather glove.

Connal laughed like a wet chainsaw. 'You girls keep eyeballing me with all these 'do me' vibes, and I'm liable to slap you in the face with the immensity of my hard-on.' Arms spread, he flipped his palms up and motioned with his fingers for them to bring it. Every stalling moment he could keep the wolves focus on him was a moment bought for Ash.

What transpired next went down so quickly that even if human eyes could see it through the veil of the red fog, they would struggle to decipher the sequential changes that transformed men to ravaging beasts. A symphony of growls ripped through the air. Brandr and Fite sneered in unison, baring lethally-daggered, ivory canines. The air around them shimmered like a mirage as features began to stretch and morph, cloth seams ripping, silhouettes growing at grossly distorted, inhuman angles. They charged Connal, barrelling into a frenzied mauling of snapping jaws and flying fur. Serrated canines clamped down on jugulars, claws tore viciously and scored flesh into ragged gashes. Their pelts were dyed red in the bloody carnage, the tumble and gore disorienting to the point that the wolves temporarily lost the focus of their attack.

From within the roiling twist of fur, Fite emerged, human in form, drenched in blood and swearing a blue streak. His upper lip was ripped open, one side of his moustache drooping from the gaping wound. 'Brandr, you took my face off, you fucking idiot,' he growled.

The massive black wolf bulldozed Connal's body into the wall before leaping back, morphing to human form mid-air. In all his naked, bloodied glory, the male grinned a sinister smile at his friend, hauling air through a powerful set of lungs. 'Collateral 'tash damage.' His grin widened. 'You always did have a big fucking mouth Fite.' Brandr was in his element, never more alive than when he was elbow deep in slaughter.

Connal's spine slumped down the rough brick wall of the alley, human legs splayed at odd angles. His lungs pumped erratically. His skin was slashed with viscera like a sadistic butcher had gone noughts and crosses on his flesh with a meat cleaver. A sick, wet, bubbling sound gurgled from the holes where his chest had sprung multiple leaks. Fite's claws had turned him into a human colander. Rough laughter cost him in agony, dreads whipped up as he threw back his head, using the wall as a crutch to support his lolling neck. It had been over a millennium since he had been outclassed in a fight. He stood to lose his head here. The pain wracking his body was a macabre novelty, so long had he been numb. Death was a taste in his mouth, a thing he'd fantasised about so often in the long, lonely stretch of his immortality. _Better to burn out than to fade away ... Be careful what you wish for_. The clichés were coming hard and thick. The irony was not lost on him. The very thing that had resuscitated his will to live would be the means to end his life. He fancied he could still feel her soft hands at his nape, the scented veil of her raven hair curtaining his vision, but suspected it was the rapid swelling of his injuries and the lure of unconsciousness drawing his lids to hover at half-mast.

'Where is the old witch to protect you now, _Vargrliker_?' Brandr planted his foot solidly into Connal's flank. His body indented like a sack of flour, forcing a groan from his chest, though he was beyond pain, lost in wondering what death would be like when she finally came to greet her elusive prodigal son. 'Is she good with a needle and thread?' Brandr asked. 'Perhaps she can re-attach your head.' He scrubbed at the beard on his jaw and laughed at his own sick little rhyme.

'The stinking Judas does not deserve a warrior's death.' Fite spat in Connal's face while he held his own ragged cheek together with steel-clawed fingers. 'Let the dogs finish him.' Low-growled approval stirred amongst the red-eyed circle of shadows already closing in for the kill.

Brandr fisted a bunch of Connal's dreads and yanked, hard, getting eyeball to eyeball in a sneer. 'Know as you die, traitor, that we are gone to claim your woman. She will be screaming our names in ecstasy as you beg the very dogs you have hunted all your life to grant you a merciful death.'

'Poetic justice?' Fite quirked a brow, amused.

'Just call me the Barbarian Poet.' Brandr's laughter was deep-throated as he turned his back.

'Breathe in violence, breathe out poetry,' Fite said, clapping a hand to the male's shoulder. 'But now I have need of an artist. Where is that cockless runt of a doctor to stitch my face?' Fite fell into step with his brother in arms, their footfalls bouncing off the walls of the alley as they abandoned Connal to his fate.

The sweet, woody scent of tobacco smoke reached Connal's nostrils. He could hazard a guess that Doyle was propping up the wall, enjoying a post-coital cigarette. Connal's words were barely audible, a hoarse, voiceless gurgle in his throat. 'Should have taken my head.'

## CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

###

Hours. It had to have been hours. She stared at the wall ahead of her. Her head was ringing, thoughts pinging around until she vibrated with tension, shivering a teeth-chattering attack of paralysing fear. She couldn't move. She knew she had to, had to at least get into a cupboard or something so she wasn't within shooting range of a window. They probably wouldn't even use guns. They'd just rip her head off with giant, ice-pick claws and leave her mutilated body to rot in the house until Liath came back and noticed the smell. If she ever came back. Had she made it to her mom? Would they go after her? Ash was trapped in a vortex of questions with too many worst case scenarios and no answers.

How could it be real? How could they be people?

She'd resigned herself to the half-reality of the wolf corpse in the woods. That had been a creature. Only a creature. Savage and animal. But she'd sat with people at a table, humans who, on closer inspection, were more the beast in the woods than she could ever have expected. Whatever happened from this point on, Ash had the feeling she wouldn't come out of it whole.

Thoughts wheeling around her head, her body was motionless, still captured in the memory of being flung side to side as the vehicle raced. She could feel the twinge in her muscles as the car had jerked with the impact of Connal hitting the windscreen. That sickening crack that splintered glass. _If his head cracked like that_ ...

No. She refused to acknowledge the pain in her chest that twisted if she even considered never seeing him again. He'd risked his life, he'd maybe given his life, to get her away from them. The blades stabbed deep with every flicker of memory, every word exchanged, each glance shared, the kisses, the touches.

Just as it goes.

Try not thinking about something and you ultimately get stuck thinking of what you didn't want to think about.

At least she wasn't imagining his head splattered across a sidewalk.

Oh, wait ...

Groaning, she dropped her head into her hands and curled over into a ball of anguish. She hurt and they hadn't even got their hands on her.

He'd stopped that.

Her stalker.

Her saviour.

Maybe she hurt, but she would bet her mother's ring, he was hurting a hell of a lot more. She wished she could press pause and rewind. If she'd listened and not ignored his warnings against Form, he'd be with her now. Probably annoying her. Definitely infuriating her.

Ash barely heard the scratching whine of claws at her back door, Setty calling for a bathroom break.

'In a minute, boy.' Her words were thready and choked with tears she hadn't known were there. She swiped at her face and pushed off from the couch, jerky and robotic as she slowly made her way through to the kitchen. Ash shook her head at the giant mutt scrabbling at the door.

'I need to get you a cat flap. Please don't go far.' She didn't want to be alone. Ash lifted the latch and unbolted the door. Setty was off like a silver-furred bullet, barking loudly and hurtling down the steps to disappear down a path of overgrown brambles.

'Shhh ...' She hissed after him, glancing warily at the gardens either side. Shadows were lengthening, alive, shifting into darkness that could hide razor claws and bone-crushing teeth.

'Setanta!' He was scrabbling out of sight, his whines drifting on the still night air. Nature was being too quiet. The silence before the apocalypse. He definitely was not doing his business. 'Shit.'

Ash stepped out, arms clutched around herself, fending off anything in the night that might want to take a chomp out of her.

When Setty collided with something hard, she was down the path so fast she didn't even feel the thorns tear through her stockings. She darted through the garden, tripping, panicked, down the steps to face the whimpering mass of silver.

He'd attacked a door. Stubborn mutt had pounded the thing right open and was just disappearing into the dark entryway when crimson smears tore her attention to the floor. If the damn pup had injured himself ... _hell, that's more than a scratch_. Ash's brow furrowed. Stepping over the drags of red, the brushes of blood caught on the door and trailed across the floor.

Gingerly, she called out for Setty, her timid 'Hello?' echoing back from within, preceding the dull clang of something hitting metal and her dog's signature pleading whine.

It was like arriving in Dublin all over again. Walking through a door into a place that held a frightening unknown. And just like she had that first night, she stepped through it and took her chances.

Whatever she'd been expecting, the total lack of personality on the other side of the gloom wasn't it. It was disappointing. Boring for a serial killer. She felt like she'd been put in a cardboard box in the middle of Ikea. There was no sight of Setty, but she could hear him some ways off, muffled and carrying on at whatever he'd found, bloodied paw prints lining her path around furniture. God, she was an idiot. Shaking with a dull kind of terror, Ash let her adrenaline drive her forwards. It was better fuel than her energy drinks, and the worst kind of compulsion. It kept her going when she should have made herself as small as possible and locked herself in her room, instead of venturing into a stranger's apartment after a trail of blood and a crazy dog.

Stupid and Ashling were about as synonymous as they could get at the moment.

She tiptoed through to the bedroom, her attention drawn to a gaping opening in the wall that resembled a high tech entrance to the underworld.

Light glinted off a thick vault door, like the bank ones, but scarier, industrial and damn well meant to keep something out.

Or something in.

But it was open now, inset with some sort of intelligent computer lock she hoped wouldn't shoot lasers at her like _Resident Evil_ protection and dice her into little Ashling cubes. She stepped through the concealed door, sensing out steps that descended into more darkness.

Ash prayed for light. Light made the monsters less scary. You could see the whole of them, from claws to teeth, to multiple heads if they had them. She'd want to know about multiple heads.

Her prayers answered, the room bloomed into existence and she hadn't even touched anything. Taking a deep breath that tasted of wet dog and old pennies, Ash stumbled off the bottom step into a vast cellar space lit up by candle glow. A hell of a lot of candle glow.

'Holy fuck!' It could have been a warehouse, right under her home, stretching out a few houses along, into cathedral-sized epicness. Iron beams and brickwork stretched over her head, fanning out in lines that dropped to concrete columns and thick swathes of draping fabric. Sections were curtained off, furniture dotted around like a raided storage unit. It looked lived in, would have been homey if not for the blood tracks that spread across the floor and smeared the corners of tables.

As metal clattered and Setty yelped, she set her creeping to stealth mode, a shaking, petrified ninja slipping through the cellar room and tripping over books. The couch was littered with them and torn clothing that was really goddamn familiar.

Her fingers pinched the material of a shirt like it carried serial-killer cooties, holding it up in front of eyes that felt saucer-wide. It was _the_ shirt. The one she'd ripped off her burglar in a frenzy of lust.

'Connal ...' A whisper, choked and frightened. Clutching the fabric to her chest, her booted toe squelched in a congealing puddle. She whipped her foot back, pedalling away from the pool of blood, catching her weight on her heel as she spun and tumbled, hands tearing at curtains for purchase.

The fabric gave way as she fell, dragged down by her weight and leaving her in a bundle of heavy material, facing a growling Setty as he bounded over to bark at the metal contraption filled to brimming with ...

Fur. Thick and white and sleek to a body that had to have outsized a horse even flat on its side as it was.

A cage. Her stalker had a cage full of bleeding, mammoth-sized creature.

'Breathe, Ash, breathe.' She couldn't draw in oxygen around the panic stamping down her throat like a rock of doom, her limbs too tangled in the drapery to do anything but sit and stare at the thing.

He'd got one. Her infuriating stalker had actually captured one of the creatures and he'd locked the thing up, even as it bled out all over the concrete floor.

Are you completely off your rocker, DeMorgan? Was that pity we were just feeling? That thing could have been one of the ones that tore your mother apart.

She was a sucker for things in pain though, and this beast was in agony. Its every breath pumped out fresh, hair-tufted streams of blood that threatened to colour her boots in its life.

God, what would happen if it died in there? Connal would need a bulldozer to remove it. Maybe she should open the door and it could just crawl-

'Setty? Setanta! Come back!' The mutt was flying across the cellar and up the stairs with his tail between his legs, her hands catching nothing but the air in his wake. 'Fat lot of good you are. Protector, my ass!' She yelled at the tail disappearing through the vault door before the heavy metal groaned shut, snapping off the sounds of his barks.

'The thing is locked up!' As though that could bring the pup back. It was a half hearted reassurance that did nothing to stop the terror coursing through her own veins.

The creature rolled in its giant cage, groaning growls that rumbled the floor to earthquake tremors.

_Nope!_ She couldn't do anything if the beast moved. Too fucking freaky. Ash leapt to her feet, scrabbling her way up the stairs. If she'd had a tail, it would be so far between her legs she could have passed for male. _Flee, run, fuck, just get out of there!_

She shuddered as it whimpered behind her. Again, and again, she shouldered the mass of steel, praying the locks would give. The door didn't budge.

'No!' Ash struck her fists to the door as the code bleeped red once more. 'Who actually has one of these? Fucking Connal ...' Cursing him out with every exhale, she slumped, her spine sliding down cool metal to pool her at the bottom, eyes brimming tears as they fell on the mass of caged beast panting hard in the corner of the room.

Her brain was ranting, throwing insults and vicious worst case scenarios where Connal came home to her beast-eaten remains rotting in a corner. Assuming he was even coming back at all.

The thing made a plaintive, agonised sound, expanding its giant chest and crushing it on a howling exhale. It wrenched at her heart.

Lonely.

That was the sound of loneliness, soul-deep and tormented. It was baying helplessly and before the silence regrouped, Ash was down the steps, fingers curling around the bars, forehead rested in between.

It was suffering, and nothing deserved to die alone. She sank to the floor in a cross-legged heap, up close and personal with the thing that haunted her dreams. It was so different to the beast she'd buried with Connal. They never could have hauled this thing into a hole in the ground.

For the first time in her whole life, Ash really looked.

The glimpse she'd caught at the club hadn't been too far off. It looked like a wolf, bulkier, broader, with a barrel chest and strong, canine limbs. Its back legs ended in massive paws, its front were different and she peered closer. The forepaws flexed out into something that looked like it could grip, more finger-like and taloned. Its broad head elongated into a squarer, longer muzzle, the fur thinner, looking silken, white, dotted with flashes of the same red that stained the beasts matted flank and ribs.

God, it was so torn up she didn't know how it could still be breathing.

She went limp against the bars and let the tears that had been rising fall free. The scalding cascade served as a release, letting the fear and terror of the night, the worry for Connal, the concern she felt for the creature, overflow. She couldn't stand to look at it anymore. All bloodied, its coat matted, fleshy strips ripped free and lifted as though someone hadn't stuck the envelope down right. She covered her mouth with shaking fingers, her free hand wrapping around the bars of the cage. Ash pressed in so close she should have been able to see it breathe. Frowning, her eyes narrowed and fixated on the barrel expanse of its chest, waiting for the tell-tale sign of life.

None came.

'Shit.' Ash couldn't leave the thing to die in a pool of its own blood. She ran for the kitchen and filled the removable wash basin as full as she could carry. If it was dead, this may at least clean it, and if it wasn't, maybe it would make it feel better. Ash felt like a child, uncertain and too full of the strangest hope. Hauling the basin back, she tossed the contents in a warm-water crash over the monster wolf and the concrete it lay on. Drenched, it flailed, thrashing violently.

The cracking of her spine to the opposite wall alerted Ash to her frantic backpedaling.

Well, it was definitely not dead.

Her attempt to bathe it had sluiced some of the blood from its fur, creating a puddle that trickled through the bars.

Through laboured, huffing breaths, the beast let out an inhuman groan that grated on her nerves. She snapped at the creature with a harsh, 'will you shut up! I don't know how to help-' The yell died in her throat, choking up to a strangled scream. Ash lurched to the cage, tripping over her feet in her haste to get back to its side. No, not it. He. Him.

Naked and wet and bleeding like he'd been cheese grated and pepperoni sliced, there was no furry monster on a concrete floor now. Only a man she couldn't reach. 'Connal!'

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

###

T _he icy deluge of foul water was a slap to attention that drew a gasp from his parched throat. The wet rags of the tunic clung to his shivering skin like wretchedness. Sandaled feet appeared through the slats of the timber cage, toenails mangled, split and filthy as old gravestones, a matching set of broken teeth bared in a sneer as the guard hunkered down to hurl a gob of spittle in the boy's face._

'You stink, dog.'

The whites of the boy's eyes showed stark against the grime smearing his face, bony knees drawn up to a ribcage that stood out like the skeleton hull of a longboat, folded as he was into the cramped crawl space he had called 'home' these countless seasons past. The guard's teeth ripped into a meaty thigh of spit-roast flesh, chewing in a slow, cruel display. The desired effect achieved, the boy salivated at the smell and it shamed him. Dog eat dog was a literal thing in this cesspit.

The carcasses of the beasts that fell in the arena were put to use as food, skins ripped from their flesh and fashioned into winter clothing. His stomach churned. It had been Bran's fate, that first day, when he'd been kidnapped from his village. The loyal hound had thrown himself at the wolves in a futile act of heroism. Bran never stood a chance against so many. He watched his pet dog ripped to shreds before his eyes while the giant, black-haired brute of a man had stood at the sidelines, intently watching the boy with those cruel eyes of his, as though waiting, willing him to break, to cry.

The beasts were closing in on him, a demonic circle of blood-whetted fangs and prowling menace, but he had no tears, only blind, possessed rage. He set his jaw and fisted his small hands and growled at the animals, David before a ravenous pack of snarling Goliaths. He was going to die, but not before he sank his teeth into at least one of these evil hellhounds. The warrior at the fence barked a raspy laugh, clearly revelling in the boy's abasement. He saw red, literally. He would give the bastard cause for mirth. The scene became awash with crimson and he wondered if this was death upon him. But then something snapped inside him, a culmination of his fury at Bran's unjust death and the humiliating laughter of his captor. His wiry body simply exploded. Like the kernels of popping corn his mother would toss in the fire, it was as though his outer husk split apart, releasing the huge and ferocious physical embodiment of his rage, a nemesis of lethal fangs and coiled power. His head snapped back and he bellowed an ear-splitting roar at the encroaching circle of beasts. They cowered as though the sound were a lash and began to retreat, muzzles grazing the dirt in supplication to the savage creature that dwarfed even their substantial size. Cranking his head in the direction of his tormentor, he growled and leapt through the air, slamming his flanks into the solid barrier that divided the spectators from the circle of the arena. As he rebounded into the dirt, the slow clapping of the warrior reached his ears.

' _Bravo, my son! By Balor's cock, I swear we will beat the human weakness out of you yet.'_

'That's good, that's good, right? He's not dead. I'm not trapped in a cellar with a dead thing, nope.' Ash exhaled a long shaky sound. 'Just a man,' _guy-beast,_ she corrected. The bars moved in her hands, and she stepped back. The door came with her, a whisper of creaky hinge over the pained breathing within the cell. There was nothing between them now but air, no protection she could hide behind, just the wide expanse of the cell and a large, bleeding male.

God, he was cut up. A date with Freddie Kruger and a body massage by Edward Scissorhands would have resulted in less damage, and as she teetered over the invisible line the door had left, Ash's heart clenched. Her insides were being pulled taut, straining against the hold her fear had on her, yet drawn forward by a longing to ease the suffering she had caused.

And she had caused it.

He'd stayed behind for her. To get her out of a ... Was she actually going to admit it was a trap she'd willingly walked into? Yes, he'd got her out of a trap.

_Just go slow and don't freak him out_.

If he furry hulked out, she'd be a goner.

She took the step, shaky and weak as it was.

'Connal?' _Slow and steady Ash, hushed tones_. 'Big Bad?' That stupid name he had for her used to bristle her hackles and now, she just wanted to hear his retort, hear 'Little Red' on his lips.

Are you completely insane, Ash? The man is one of them and you're stepping into his cage like he hasn't just been a snarling lump of fur and claws.

And fangs, don't forget the mouthful of fangs.

Oh shut up, Fear.

Another step turned into four determined power strides, crossing to his side like she wasn't a terrified rabbit, and sinking to her knees on a relatively blood-free spot of concrete. Ash stuck her hand out, hovering it over his head, ready to descend into the figurative pit. God, what if he was just playing with her? What if he got hairy again and tore her arm off?

_Suck it up DeMorgan. He's half dead and not moving anytime soon_. Her fingertips brushed through the woolly-soft coils of his dreads and she sobbed out a trembling exhale. Touches tentative, Ash smoothed her fingers along his stubbled jaw, palm cupping the rough-sculpted angle of his cheek, trying to avoid anything that looked ... Hell, all of him looked like it hurt. Her stomach roiled as she passed her hand over his shoulder, not quite daring to touch the mangle of clawed flesh that stripped over his side. Bubbling breaths expanded his ribs, short and stuttering and Ash's eyes went wide.

She was losing him.

She tugged her cell from its makeshift pocket in the cup of her bra, fumbling fingers touching 911 on the screen, and listening for the dial tone. She waited for it to connect her to someone, anyone who could help. The paramedics, the fire service, fuck, she'd take a vet at the moment. They'd probably be more help. The two tiny bars of signal she'd had up top disappeared to tell her that it was searching. She waited and it kept searching, finding nothing and connecting her to nobody. No signal in this bomb-shelter of a vault and no way to turn him in for Area 51 experimentation, even if she wanted to.

Connal was burning up under her fingers, and it was no heat of passion that flushed his skin the way it did. Feverish. Clammy, and sticky with blood and sweat, she could feel him leaving her. A sob rolled up her throat, her eyes stinging and overflowing as her vision blurred with tears. She fisted his dreads gently.

'No! Goddamnit, no! I forbid it, you cannot die, Big Bad. You cannot! Connal! Fight, it's time to fight, now. Please ...'

'Time to fight, dog.'

He rose to his feet, the spill of unravelling chain links the only outward expression of the rage that bubbled up from the well of despair that was the remnant of a child's soul. He ground his teeth. The 'fight' only served his captors, they fed off it, used it, as sure as they cannibalised the flesh of the dead. It was all he had left in this destitute existence and he guarded it as a treasured, secret possession.

His body had developed despite the starvation. He had no appetite for dog flesh. Hunger fuelled the ferocity of the fight and that was desirable. Maturity kicked in regardless to fill out muscles already honed in the pit. His neck thickened, tightening the iron collar the smith had forged to fit his skinny throat the day he was taken.

The sun's rays cut a glare across sensitive retinas as they hauled him into the arena. The air filling his lungs was rank with the sweat of the animals whose blood stained the sands crimson. No glorious amphitheatre this. Just a pit, a filthy, flea-infested dog pit. Kill or be killed. Yet with his appearance, the benches encircling the sands rumbled, thunderous with the stamp of frenzied feet, the wild expressions of both male and female equal in their savagery, baying for blood, eclipsing the snarls of the leash-strained untame, scarlet shawls waved aloft. Yet amidst the heaving crowd, his eyes were drawn to the still, female form. Robed and hooded, she was watching him intently from behind a swathe of hair the colour of a ripe cornfield.

Ash knelt there until her knees went numb and her fingertips were bloody from soothing him. He'd calmed, his breathing appeared stronger, his heartbeat thudded more regularly. But he was still on fire and he hadn't gained the consciousness she hoped for, his eyelids flickering violently, caught in some internal nightmare he couldn't wake from.

'Shhh, Connal ... shhhh ...' She crooned nonsense when he groaned and panted through whatever pain gripped him. He hadn't stopped bleeding and her previously clean spot on the floor was now sticky with congealed blood.

Lowering her mouth to his ear, Ash rested her forehead against his dreads as she whispered, 'I'll be two minutes, tops, Connal, okay? I just need a moment to ...'

She needed a moment to get out of all the blood. It was clinging to her skin, squelching through the fabric of her stockings and she thanked God she hadn't worn white. She couldn't have handled that.

Peeling off the floor with one last look at her unconscious stalker, she left him, her muscles cramping as blood rushed into dead legs, unsteady and exiting the cage with as much grace as a tranquilised rhino.

Now that she was standing, she needed to find a bathroom, and with a quick look at her cell telling her signal had still not been sought, perhaps some other sort of communicating device, a landline or laptop or something. She couldn't be completely cut off.

Bathroom needs came first and she located the unusually neat section behind a double thick drape, the black marble flooring differentiating it from the rest of the cellar domicile. It was surprisingly nice, for a single guy. Tidy and matching, with luxurious red and black towels folded into a small cubby and an old, but clean, copper tub taking up the centre space. A shower was bracketed away in one corner. It was the fanciest thing she'd seen in the whole place. Discounting the vault door, that was. She refused to admire that though.

Needs satisfied and stockings binned, Ash dabbed his blood from her skin in a quick sponge bath and left fresh, hot water running into the kitchen's portable basin. She ventured out while it filled, hunting a landline that proved to be as non-existent as the Abominable Snowman.

Frustration rode her hard as she stomped her fear back into the bathroom, gathering the basin and a few of the black towels into her arms. No vet was coming to help, no doctors. Ash would do what she could, and took her makeshift care kit back to the man, the creature, who now needed her to save him.

He wasn't moving when she approached the cage with her arms full, the door still open.

'Connal?'

He moaned in response.

Still alive.

Her heart beating easier, she set down the water, flattened a towel over the patch of drying blood at his side and sat down. Another towel was lowered carefully over his bottom half, eyes averted, cheeks fever-hot.

'He's dying and still manages to be smoking.' Ash may have hated him just a little in that moment and she dunked a towel into the hot water before brushing the sodden cloth over the bloodied flesh of his face. She didn't know enough about infection and serious injuries to know whether the fever was a result of something setting in or his body attempting to heal itself, but she couldn't sit by and let him be dirty. Maybe the clean warmth of the soft fabric would help ease him. She just ... she didn't know what else to do and she was flailing for an anchor, a sense of purpose. She could feel herself drowning.

'It's going to be okay, it is, you know. You kill, well I guess you kill things that are like you, don't you? Point is, you kill things. You can't die. Please don't die on me. Not like this.' Her words rambled, her hands moving the fabric over the breadth of his shoulders and into the curve of his throat. Patting at lacerations that looked too deep and too ragged to ever heal, she tried to be gentle. God, it was like trying to organise a bag of grated cheese, stroking down the jagged flaps of skin until every individual piece was flat.

Time became measured in basins of water. It took six before his skin was clear of old blood and was only slightly leaking rivulets of fresh, bright red. The towels had been rinsed more times than she could keep up with and she passed the freshest one over the worst of the wounds once more as it bled. Her heart was leaden, her stomach turbulent, gorge rising every time she saw the skin peel up when she cleaned too hard and he whimpered in agony.

How much help she was really being was anyone's guess, though she figured she couldn't really hurt him any more.

She was wrong.

Two seconds later and it was chaos in a cage as his body exploded into a bone-snapping, teeth-snarling, enormous mass of lethal fur. She'd unleashed the beast inside him with an accidental catch of torn skin in wet towelling and it had her fighting frantically with the bars of the cage as the latch shut and locked. Giant beast apparently meant lockdown.

Clawing at unrelenting metal, her nails tore and bled as she went into a screaming meltdown, a frenzy of hysteria smashing down on her and submerging her in the past. She couldn't see beyond the terrified vision of herself ripped into unidentifiable pieces of Ash. It didn't matter that it was Connal, didn't matter that she'd been so close to it before. What mattered was that it was conscious and in pain and snarling at her like she'd shot it somewhere precious.

Its scarlet eyes were feverish as its massive head turned towards her. Sad eyes, scared eyes. It growled and she cowered back against the bars. One huge paw swiped its finger-like digits in her direction, but the motion fell short.

'Please no! Connal, no! It's Ash, I'm Ash ...'

It crumpled as fast as it had swiped at her, the burst of pain-charged energy dissipating and leaving it boneless and whimpering on its side again.

She pulled away from the bars. Ash got the distinct impression it was trying to keep as still as possible. She inhaled on the beast's exhale, channelling the quiet into something that would slow her tears and calm her galloping heart. It wasn't easy. Every fibre of her being was screaming at her to get out, fight had taken a nosedive off the edge of a cliff and flight was driving the truck that had hit it.

The beast's watching eyes got heavy, flickering as it fought against the pull of unconsciousness once more. The pain of movement had taken its toll, opening wounds and spotting fresh blood to its matted coat. She knew the moment it succumbed, the physical strain of staying awake softening into relaxed, hopefully pain-free, oblivion. Ash lost all control of her legs. Her knees buckled and she took to the floor in a limp heap of relief. She was still alive, Connal was still alive. The beast inside of him was real. He was one of them.

Her nightmare.

Her saviour.

How could he be both?

It was insanity.

She should want the thing dead. Yet there went the ache in her heart that felt pity, and sorrow and an emotion she was struggling to name. She still wanted to soothe him, to touch the man within through the pelt of the beast.

Slowly, Ash reached for the towel she'd dropped, grasping a clean corner as she shuffled forwards on her knees. Its eyes didn't even flutter.

Safe, she was safe, it wouldn't hurt her, not really. It was Connal. She was just touching Connal. _Seriously, Ash, you're very convincing_. The beast rolled slightly and she startled, ready to jump back. Its head butted at the hand she wasn't quick enough to pull away, urging her to keep sweeping the towel down the back of its neck. She relaxed. It was still out cold.

Gathering what little bravery she'd stored up over the years, her hand replaced the towel, tentatively, feeling as though it was a forbidden thing to sink her fingers into the thick pelt. It was so luxuriously soft, white and slightly curled. Drooped ears twitched as she murmured his name. The beast coughed roughly, back paws kicking slightly, flank twitching as she massaged its ears and cautious fingers smoothed along the top of its muzzle. It really was magnificent up close, mad scary but beautiful. Its restless shifting made her nervous, flexing its paws to reveal dagger claws, before it relaxed and they retracted. Her heart stopped every time. But she never removed her hands. She petted and stroked and twirled her fingers through the white pelt like she would if it had been Connal's hair.

'Exquisite.' Ash breathed. Irresistibly soft, and ferally honed. At odds with everything she knew of these creatures, this one needed her and she had to answer the voice inside her that told her this was where she was meant to be.

'Exquisite.' She purred.

The guards restrained him as the two robed women inspected his body, yanking down the chain of his collar, forcing his jaw high, as though punishing him for the female's appreciative gaze. The veins in his neck stood out against the strain of the asphyxiating hold, his wrists tightly bound, feet shackled, averted eyes gifting him only a glimpse of flaxen hair with the texture of spun silk.

He had grown accustomed to being displayed for the pleasure of visiting chieftains and nobility, a prize animal to be prodded and goaded. Normally, a healthy dose of fear kept their admiration at a distance, but not this time. Connal stiffened as a soft palm stroked the bristled line of his jaw.

'So, my dearest sister, this is the notorious male whose name is wetting the lips of every bitch in the longphort? The wolf raised by men.'

'In the flesh.' Her companion formed the word slowly, as though it were a slice of erotic poetry, something to be savoured on her tongue. 'Isn't he divine, Cáit?'

The flame haired woman withdrew her hand and raked his body with heavy-lidded, lascivious green eyes. 'Indeed, Aoife, a God in chains, truly, a magnificent specimen. So impressive in the arena.'

Aoife lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that was edged with giddy amusement. 'Even more impressive at close quarters, wouldn't you say? So dark and wild. So different from MacTire.'

MacTire. It was a name he had heard fall from the mouths of the guards. He would not soon forget the name of the golden-haired bastard who had him tortured with the branding iron. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and he tensed as fingers stroked his abdomen, mapping indentations of muscle that ripped the strength under his skin to perfect, honed lethality.

'One would scarcely believe this male and your husband were born of the same mother.'

The revelation seized Connal's attention, sure as if the redhead had punched him in the gut. The spike of his heartbeat was a living thing in his throat as he fought to maintain his composure.

'It's not so unusual for littermates sired by different fathers. Think of Brandr and Rún. One could not imagine two more different males.'

'True, sister. It was no secret the King and his lady shared their bed with his félag, Vise. MacTire clearly favours that warrior's fair features.'

'Exactly so.' The blonde, Aoife, circled Connal's shackled form, devouring every inch of his chiselled body with openly predatorial eyes. 'While this one's dark looks favour the King.'

The King. The warlord who ripped him from his home, claimed him as his blood, then collared him and left him for dead in the dog pits. Connal waited for the rage to boil up inside of him, but nothing came. Only numbness. It had been years since that male's shadow darkened the arena's stands.

Connal had no father.

'Fortune favours you, Aoife, you lucky bitch. This one rivals your mate with his handsome brutality. Who would not want to be the juicy meat in that spit roast?'

'Indeed, such a roast would be stuffed beyond capacity and duly tender.' Aoife spoke dreamily, exhaling the words on a sigh. 'But sadly, MacTire denies me the pleasures of his half twin in our bed. He refuses even to acknowledge the male as his Fostbrodir.'

'And yet he bears the brand of félag?'

'Yes. MacTire had him marked, purely for show, to satisfy the King, and the loose tongues in the longphort. Elatha forbid he be branded a coward.'

'So he keeps his own Fostbrodir hidden down here like a dirty family secret, with none of the privileges of rank?'

Aoife released a frustrated sigh. 'MacTire says that by denying me, he is protecting me from a savage animal, that such a beast cannot live free, let alone lay with nobility.'

Her fingers marked a path across his flesh, and though the scrutiny was enforced, this female's touch was so very soft, and his starved body responded, true to his animal nature.

'I say MacTire is jealous. Who is to say, if the two had stood in Contest, it would not have been this glorious brute that claimed me?'

Her warm fingers wrapped around his girth and a low growl escaped from deep in his throat. His body hardened in her grip. She made a sound, somewhere between a coy laugh and a whimper, dilated eyes lifting from where they were fixated, between his legs, to find his averted gaze. 'And then I might have them both in my bed.'

'You would take such a risk? Look at his eyes, sister ... steel, silver lightning over calm waters. So very terribly cold.'

'They say the King's plan worked too well, that in trying to save his son, he created a monster.' Aoife spoke the words, breathless, against the stubble of his jaw, as though challenging him to deny his own nature.

He remained impassive, locked-down on the tempest of emotions warring inside of him. Her beauty hurt to look upon it. He'd only ever seen her from a distance, from the filth and stench of the arena's sands. Up close she was too much, too radiant. She smelled of the ocean, of freedom. Rigid as iron, Connal felt his muscles twitch, rippling beneath his skin with the force of his restraint. The curl of her fist, grasping the hard length of his shaft, ripped the breath from his lungs. Primal instincts roaring to life, they rode his body with a violence that rivalled the heat of battle. The growl that escaped his own throat was a foreign sound, more animal than man.

'You truly believe him to be wild?' Cáit's hand strayed to the flush blooming at her throat, lips parted.

'I believe there is no male that cannot be tamed betwixt the thighs of a powerful female. MacTire may deny the sharing of his bed. That is not to say I cannot take this male into my own. Let us see if I cannot melt the ice.' Her fingers possessed the girth of his rigid length in a fist of twisting authority, working along the inches displayed before her in a proud column of thick, hot flesh.

'Guard!' With the snap of her fingers, the ugly brute leapt to attention. 'Have him bathed and brought to my private quarters.'

Cáit gasped, a hand shooting up to cover her mouth. 'What will MacTire say?'

'MacTire will never know.'

How sleep claimed her, she'd never know. It came as a pattern of sweeping caresses. A lullaby drawn in the raw, primeval scent of the beast, the heady musk and richness of its fur so familiar. It was him. Not blood and death. Only Connal.

'Oh, Connal.' Her head fell forward, throat constricting around her tears. She buried her face in the downy fur behind his ears, finding the man inside and clutching him tight. 'Please don't die.' The darkness took her like that, head pillowed on the nape of a monster, heart synchronised to the drum of its life. She was trusting that her nightmare would not kill her and pleading to anyone that would listen that she got her stalker back.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

###

Connal had no idea how long he had lain awake, cheek mashed into the rough concrete, staring off into the middle distance of his apartment through the bars of the cage. There was no sense of time passing in this windowless cellar, no dawn to follow the darkest hour. Time was measured in splinted breaths as he strove to minimise movement. There was no cell in his body that was not battered and abused. He felt a thousand years old. The bony prominences of his shoulder, hip and knee were ground raw against the unyieldingly cold surface and the chill in his body ran marrow-deep, a combination of profound blood loss and his near nakedness, that had him fighting the chatter of teeth and the shiver of flesh beneath the thin covering of the towel draped across his hips. But it wasn't the hurt or the cold that kept him paralysed on the floor of that cage. Fact was, Connal was afraid, terrified that if he moved so much as a muscle, he would wake her. And then it would be over. He would trade an eternity of discomfort, if only they could stay, spellbound, like this, just a few moments longer.

Time, it seemed, was not the only thing that stood still in this subterranean bunker. Reality had also been suspended, for he woke from vivid dreams, his ravaged body aching and aroused, to find himself blanketed in the familiarity of her scent. Like a living, breathing backpack, she was fused along his spine, arms locked around his neck as though clinging to him for support. Her face was buried in the hollow of his throat, glossy raven hair spilling over his exposed shoulder.

Maybe it was the fact he felt like he'd gone fifteen rounds with the Juggernaut love child of Godzilla and the Hulk. His body hadn't taken such a beating in, well, ever, but it felt like the physical wounds had somehow poked at the cracks in the foundations of something altogether more than skin deep. He felt exposed, a vulnerability that had nothing to do with his nakedness or the fact that he'd woken with a massive hard-on and a head full of poisonous memories. Aoife. There was a can of worms. He stifled a groan. He needed to get drunk and fuck. Screw the lid back down on the jar of crap, stuff the spill of emotional excrement back into the cupboard and slam those doors good and shut. But something told him a bottle of the hard stuff and a knee-trembler down the back of some alley weren't going to cut it. Some marks on your slate were drawn in indelible ink. All you could do was paint on layer after layer and hope to hell the whitewash didn't just peel right off.

Ash. Somehow, she had found him down here, suffering. She knew what he was, yet she stayed.

Yeah, she knows what you are, mate. But who you are, what you're really capable of? Would she still be holding onto you if she knew everything?

A wash of some raw emotion he could not name rose up in him and wrung itself tight in his chest. What had it cost her in courage, to confront her own terror, in order to help him? She had covered him, cleaned the blood off his skin, held him.

Yes, and you are a selfish son of a bitch for letting her stay there.

The knot behind his sternum tightened and caught in his throat. Her selflessness touched on the raw nerve of his own dogged self-reliance. He couldn't remember ever having being held like this. Unless that one curled grip of tiny fingers around his thumb counted.

Memories shot like muzzle flash, freeze frames of events even his dreams didn't have the balls to re-visit in real time. Crusted, swollen lids squeezed shut on the shimmer that watered his vision, as though he could blink the emotion away, swallow it back down. It counted, but that didn't mean the outcome of that one, brief contact had been any better than it was going to be with Ash. The sentence he served was a solitary one, and he was a grade-A asshole to even consider dragging her into that cell with him.

A stirring at his back, a subtle change in the pattern of her breathing alerted him to the fact his timer had finally run down. Cracked lips parted and he croaked out the words he was loath to speak on a resigned exhale.

'You're awake.'

He waited, an eternity of dread-laden silence, for her whispered reply.

'You're one of them,' she said.

The accusation he'd been waiting for hung in the air, like a gallows. For reasons too raw to explore, he didn't want Ash to see him like this, broken and bleeding on the floor, sliced open with all his dirty secrets exposed. 'Yes,' he confessed.

Neither of them moved. He was aware of her breath on his skin, could feel the flutter of her heartbeat between his shoulder blades, but his eyes never left their blurry focus point outside in the room, and her hands stayed firmly latched around the corded circle of his neck. If she let go, he would fall.

'You didn't tell me.'

God. Her voice sounded so quiet, soft with resignation. He cared what she thought of him. She'd put her faith in him, at the club, to get her out of there. That trust had been there in her eyes when he held her on the dance floor. How would she look at him now, knowing he was the physical embodiment of her nightmares? There wasn't a soul walking this earth who knew what he was and did not fear him. He wasn't sure he could bear looking into her eyes to see that same fear staring back at him. The confession cracked from his lips in a broken whisper. 'I didn't know how.'

'It's quite easy,' she said. 'The words 'Ash, I'm a giant wolf beast' aren't all that hard to say.'

Silence.

She was laughing at him. That was really, really bad. Dread dropped though his gut like an elevator. Her mockery was masking either contempt or fear, probably both. He wanted her to hold onto him so fucking badly, but when he opened his mouth, it was as though the barriers of his own defensiveness came slamming down between them.

'Why are you still here Ash?' he asked, twisting his torso, breaking the lifeline before she had the chance to cast him adrift. Less painful that way. Still hurt like a mother.

Ash took a few seconds to answer him. 'I got locked in,' she said.

'Shit.' Had he actually deluded himself into thinking she was caged up in here with a lethal, wounded animal by choice? 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'you can go. You shouldn't be here. I'll give you the code for the door.' Pathetic. He couldn't even make it sound convincing in his own head. He was offering her an out. He owed her that, but there was a fist in his chest waiting to crush as soon as she snatched what he offered and ran. _Don't go_.

'You'll give me a code?' she replied, incredulous. 'I don't want it. You can let me out yourself.' She looked smug, as though daring him to move, to drag his broken body across the stretching expanse of cellar and open the door.

Of course. She was afraid to leave. Given the choice between the demons howling at her door, or the beat to shit wolf who could hardly draw breath without flinching, he was looking like the lesser evil. His ragged exhale spoke of defeat. 'I can't protect you.'

'Protect me?' she turned on him angrily. 'You kinda needed me last night ...'

Shame burned in his throat and his eyes dropped to the pile of blood-stained towels in the corner. Her pity would be a blow too far. 'I'm grateful for everything you did for me, Ash, but you shouldn't have stayed. I could have seriously hurt you.'

'But you didn't.' Her fingers curled around his bicep, squeezing her conviction into his skin. 'You've got a load of razor claws and teeth and not one touched me.'

He couldn't bring himself to speak but, the rasping rattle of his breathing hitched slightly, and she removed her fingers from his skin. It was a retreat, separating herself from him as he withdrew from her.

All words disappeared with that recession, folding into themselves and reforming into a silence so thick it smothered.

When not another breath could be sacrificed to the weighty tension, she broke it, coaxing the words into the air between them on a plaintive whisper. 'I thought you were going to die, Connal.'

He dropped his forehead into his hands then, replaying the scene from her perspective, realising for the first time how bad it must have seemed. What was pain and dishonour to him, had been life or death to her. His callused fingers grazed her cheek, coaxing the dark-lashed sapphire of her eyes to meet the steely reassurance of his own. 'My kind don't die, Ash. We're not immortal, but it takes more than flesh wounds to take us out.'

'You lost so much blood.'

Her cheek took on a ghostly pallor beneath the pads of his fingers and he found himself wanting to comfort her. The corners of his mouth tugged into a crooked smile. 'I'm weak,' he said, 'but I heal fast. I just need to feed.'

Ash's eyes narrowed and her brows took a trip so low they could have doubled as a moustache, her hands wheeled in front of her, drawing his gaze to follow the panicky movements. 'Woah, no, Dude, I like you but don't look at me like I'm breakfast. I am nobody's snack pot.'

Had he flashed too much canine? Connal's eyes lit up with amusement. 'Contrary to popular fairytales, I don't actually eat beautiful girls. Their panties get stuck in my teeth,' he deadpanned.

'That's a relief,' she said nervously. 'If you need to drink my blood, it's yours.' With a hard swallow ... she offered her throat.

Christ. She tilted her head back, exposing the slender curve of her neck and the submissive gesture tugged at the animal part of him. Dark eyes fixated a moment on the rhythmic thud of her pulse. He subtly adjusted the towel across his hips and, clearing his throat, he rearranged his features into an expression of surprise.

'What?' Her cheeks flamed as embarrassment set in and she flustered to cover up. 'You told me they ... you ... bite.'

'You have been reading way too much vampire lit, Ash. I have no interest in sucking your blood, thanks all the same.' It was the truth. Of the many parts of her he craved to taste, her blood was not one. He could lick her raw, sink his teeth deep into that creamy flesh ...

'But then, I don't understand, why the biting?' she asked.

He held her gaze with a dark intensity, subconsciously stroking the tip of his tongue along the razor edge of his teeth. 'The biting is a sexual thing, an act of intimacy, heightened sensual pleasure. Nature's breeding incentive.'

'And that's a bad thing?' Her lashes fanned down.

'No, not within our species,' his brows set in a frown, 'mutual biting is a natural instinct, a reflex during sex, ensures the mating pair don't disengage too soon.'

'Like when mating dogs get tied?' She asked, looking back up at him, her lips twitching, withheld amusement threatening laughter.

'Something like that, yeah,' he cut her a glare, 'except humans react differently to the bite. The _eitr_ , a substance in our saliva, acts like a drug. They can't handle the intensity of the high. They go mad from it, it becomes an addiction, leaves them constantly craving the inhuman high.'

'Those girls, at the club, they were all over the men ...' Ash said, making the connection.

'Yeah,' he replied.

'Do they bite back? One of them, she bit the man... wolf ... she was with.'

'It's a way to encourage the male to bite, taps into the primal instinct.'

'Shit.' Ash dropped her head into her hands, curling her fingers into her hair as she mentally digested what he'd told her. 'Soooo ...' she said eventually, 'you don't eat people, or drink blood. What do you need?'

'Right now?' He offered her a wry grin. 'I could murder a plate of steak and eggs.'

'That's all? Well, damn, I can do that!' She pulled at his arm again. 'Get up, Big Bad, I cook a mean steak and eggs.'

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

###

It took a lot of groaning and creaking muscles for them to manoeuvre into the small set-away kitchen area. Took even more to get him seated and stable in the hard-backed dining chair, his face flushed and clammy, impossibly pale under the blush of pained exertion.

'Steak and eggs, do you have steak? Aha!' Rifling through the compact, protein heavy fridge, she came up with a film-wrapped plate of two thick meat slabs and a carton of eggs, nabbed some butter for the pan and the salt mill from the countertop and she was good to go. 'Do you want it rare? Eggs well done, scrambled, sunny side up?' Ash shot off questions as she moved, animated into helping him, eager to do something other than think anymore about whether or not he wanted to bite her ... and whether she wanted to be bitten. The thought boomeranged around her head, hitting off fantasies and darting around the corners of her sense, avoiding her terror. It wouldn't leave her alone. It wanted to be acknowledged and she beat it back by prepping the steak with vicious shakes of salt and heapings of butter, sizzling in the bottom of the pan.

'Rare and scrambled.' He grunted his words in edgeways and she leapt to ... the word wasn't obey. It was more ... accommodate. Care.

When she stopped moving long enough to get a good look at him, he was watching her with the strangest expression on his face, the fever gone from his gaze, the colour in his skin trickling down his side and ... splattering on the floor like bloody Chinese water torture. Drop, drop, drop.

'Oh my gods, Connal! You are dripping all over the floor! Did you pull something? Hold this there and give me two seconds.' She pressed a red plaid dishcloth into his hands and was away before she could check if he actually obeyed her, figuring out the way back through the drapes and stepping into the correct section. Bath. Her beast needed a bath and she could handle no more blood today. No more blood for at least a month, please.

She spun the taps over the copper bath, dipped her hand under to test the temperature and let it fill. No soaps that would sting, just hot, clean water filling the tub. The scent of cooking meat sizzled into the air and filled the cool of the cellar expanse with the delicious aroma of salty beef and Ash trailed it back through the drapes to check the pans.

She felt like the Flash on acid, constantly moving, making herself necessary, because if he asked her to leave again, she wasn't so sure she wouldn't explode into a bawling mess. And he'd certainly kick her out then.

Ash pulled the thick slabs from the pan, scored the meaty flesh with a knife searched out from a drawer and declared them rare enough for any beast to eat. Plonking them unceremoniously on a clean black plate, she heaped a tumble of messy scrambled eggs into a bowl, her offerings pushed across the table to still in front of him.

'I'll trade you steak for answers, Big Bad,' Ash handed over a knife and fork, and dropped herself into the opposite chair with a tired sigh, huffing a stray curl from her eyes. Watching, waiting for that first bite that would seal their agreement.

'Where's your plate?'

Her shoulder lifted in a lazy half shrug but she didn't rise to get herself one.

'When did you last eat Ash?'

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling as though trying to remember, fingers flicking as she counted off the times she hadn't. She didn't know. It had to have been a few days, the hours snowballing into one another with fear and pain, stalkers and doctors and body burying and sex ... and right back into fear and pain. A cycle such as that didn't leave time for food. 'The pub, I think ... maybe.' It was an absent answer and Ash nudged his plate closer, trying to coax him to eat with the scents swirling from the stacked meat. 'Connal, please eat.' _I need you strong, I need you not dying. Because you're scaring me._

He lifted the fork and pointed the tines in her direction. 'I eat when you eat.'

'I'm not hung ... ry.' Her stomach chose that moment to thunder its disagreement. It was definitely hungry, a sleeping beast poked to growling by the spearing scent of salty meat and fresh, velvety eggs. It chewed on her insides.

'Steak for answers, Ashling.' And his voice brokered no argument, strong fingers spooning heapings of eggs onto the plate and forking one of the steaks into the bowl.

Steak and eggs for two.

Ash scooped up a second set of cutlery with a resigned huff, glaring at him with no real heat, a pointed dip of her lashes and quirk of her brow prodding him silently to eat.

The first forkful of eggs that passed her lips was Connal's cue to dig in. He stifled a moan around the first mouthful. 'So good,' he groaned, and when his eyes lifted from the plate, the smile on his face was food to Ash's soul. Carving through the meat with rapid efficiency, he paused, fork mid-air and caught her eye. 'Thank you,' his words were quiet, sincere, 'for everything.'

Deer in the headlights startled, Ash couldn't even blink as he caught her gaze and uttered words so low and, God forbid she say it, heartfelt, she thought she was maybe dreaming it. But no, he was waiting for something and her head dipped, hair falling to curtain the pleased blush rising in her cheeks, a flustered mumble tripping off her tongue. 'Ummm, no problem, Big Bad ... a pleasure.'

It was a few bites into the companionable silence that lapsed before Ash swallowed and let loose with something that had been worrying the back of her mind since their conversation in the forest. 'I have their eyes,' she said. Random to anyone outside of her head, but he looked so human sitting there. They'd looked human too, the men in the club. Except for their eyes. Something she shared. She shuffled some eggs around, flopping them into a small pile and stabbing at them as she spoke, gaze down. 'What am I, Connal?'

He balanced the knife and fork on the edge of the plate and straightened up in the chair. 'Truth? I don't know.'

That was not promising, not helpful at all. 'Am I like you ... them?'

His expression darkened. 'They believe you are, but they've been wrong before, and when they get it wrong, people die.'

'And you? What do you believe?' Her fork screeched on the plate as she speared a chunk of steak a little too forcefully. He hated the wolves, killed his own race. Would he do the same to her if she was like him?

Leaning back on the legs of the chair, Connal scrubbed a hand over the nape of his neck, as though considering his next words. 'I believe what I can see with my own eyes, what I can touch, and feel. You are different.' He examined his hands before lifting his gaze to deliver the confession. 'I've been drawn to you from the moment I caught your scent on that red coat. It's the same reason they are drawn to you, the wolves and the thralls.'

A frown crinkled her brow, mourning the bright red of her damaged-beyond-repair coat as she chewed over his past words with a bite of steak. 'I'm bait.'

He shook his head, mirroring her frown. 'Not bait. Biology. The full moon. You felt that, didn't you? The quickening, the energy, the appetites. The pull is in your blood, Ash. You feel it too, you can't deny it.'

There would be no denial. Ash felt her cheeks infuse in a flush redder than the blood on the floor, heating at the memory of him, her, them. The feel of the ice melting and her inhibitions lowering. The pull. 'So that was why we ...'

'Some instincts are too strong to be denied,' he said, and the way he looked at her when he said it gave her the distinct impression he was fighting some pretty powerful instincts of his own.

'You're saying I'm an animal?' Indignation lit her tone into a growl, her knife and fork clattering to the swiftly emptying platter of food. Every little part of her wanted to deny the implications, but given what happened, she hadn't exactly been civilised.

The front legs of Connal's chair snapped back down to the floor. 'We are all animals, Ash. I can't tell you what you are. I can only tell you that these wolves are desperate enough to rip you apart trying to find out.'

_Just as they did my mother._ 'What makes me so damn special?'

'It's genetics. They target latents: females who they believe can carry their bloodlines.'

'Bloodlines? You mean, like, breeding?' Ashling DeMorgan. Graduate, orphan, broodmare for hell wolves.

'I mean exactly like breeding.'

There could be no measure for the volume of weirded out she was currently drowning in. Her nightmares made a lot more sense. The way they descended on her mother had always been too confusing for her younger mind to process. They had been ravaging and ravenous. Now, she could add the word carnal to it. 'Why? What do they want with me?'

'They are a species on the verge of extinction. They have no females to carry their young, and so they are recklessly hunting down any woman with the merest hint of wolf blood in the desperate hope of propagating their race. And you are their latest target.'

'Lucky me ...' The frown was becoming perma-etched onto her face. Everyone wanted her to have their wolf spawn? She could maybe deal with that, be flattered even, but the end result would probably make her look worse than Connal in the process. 'You said my grandmother sent you to protect me. She knows?'

'How do you know that she's even your real grandmother?'

'What do you mean? She's the only one I have.'

'I mean you're not the first.'

Confusion darkened her eyes, the last forkful of eggs abandoned on the plate, imploring him to enlighten her.

'You're not the first girl that Anann DeMorgan has assigned me to protect.'

Well didn't that make her feel all special. 'What happened to these other girls?'

'Some were taken, the rest, Anann hid them, offered them refuge. But ...'

'But now she's in no state to do anything,' she finished for him.

'Yeah.' Connal's elbows hit the table and his head slumped into his hands on a frustrated exhale. 'I can't fight them all.'

YOU'RE SCREWED got stamped across her forehead in a blaze of panic. She would not be prey to them, never would they traumatise her world like they did her dreams. She would never stop running if that's what it took. And fighting, if she had to, she would arm herself tooth and nail in any way possible.

'I refuse to just lay down and die ... or spread my legs for a monster horde.' Nails raked at her insides, her skin shrinking and shrivelling in a tight chill of abhorrence. 'I want these murderers and rapists brought to justice.'

'You're just a little lost girl, Ash. I can't protect you. There is no justice.'

'Revenge then.' If he knew just how personal her vendetta was, Ash didn't think he'd be spouting about 'no justice'. She could literally feel the blood gathering on her hands, the violent urges swarming up to fill her with sharp-fanged thoughts and clawing animosity.

'Revenge will take you to dark places,' he said grimly.

'You say that like a man who's been to those places,' she countered.

He didn't reply. It was as though their conversation had taken a turn down a dark alley he was unwilling to explore, and they fell to eating in silence. When his plate was clean, he busied himself with clearing away the dishes. He seemed grateful when she steered them back to neutral ground, marvelling at how rapidly his injuries seemed to be healing. He turned his back to her while he worked at the sink, but she could see the tension ease across his broad shoulders. Even injured, he was magnificent. The towel he'd hastily wrapped around his hips left precious little to the imagination and she wondered if he could feel the heat of her gaze as it raked over his body. She'd been trying to muster the composure to say something when she remembered leaving the bath taps running.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

###

Tightening the towel slung low on his hips, Connal's eyes appreciated the arch of Ash's spine and the feminine flare of her hips as she hunkered down over the ancient copper bath, cranking the taps closed and fussing over the water. With a full stomach and a bone-deep fatigue weighing him down, she had led him here, like a wounded puppy on a leash, and he shuffled along, willing, eager to divert the lines of her earlier enquiry. She flipped the heavy fall of her hair over one shoulder as she worked, exposing the line of her throat to him once more, awakening unsated hungers that had him wetting dry lips. 'You didn't answer my question, Ash.'

Her eyes skimmed up to meet his with a smile edged in laughing confusion. 'What was the question again?' She drew up eye level to the wolf brand and the metal piercings in his flesh, the top of her head barely reaching his pecs. Staring up at him from beneath dark lashes, barefoot in that very feminine, curve-skimming dress, her intelligent eyes were bright as sapphires. So strong, this woman was, and yet so petite. He may have dwarfed her frame with his muscle bulk, but what she lacked in size, she more than made up for in courage. Little girl lost? He couldn't have been farther from the truth. This girl had the heart of a lion beating in her chest.

He swallowed hard, but the words still came out with a growled quality. 'In the forest ... the pull. You felt it?'

'I ... may have felt something.' Her cheeks flared pink and the colour stirred something primal in him.

He reached up to stroke his thumb along the delicate bone structure of her jaw. She didn't recoil from him. She stood her ground in the heat of his dark gaze. 'What about now, Ash? Do you still feel it?'

'I'm pretty sure at this point that you're magnetic.' She inclined her jaw, rubbing against the callused pad of his thumb, inviting more as her tongue stole out to wet her lips. 'Yes, I feel it,' she breathed.

His voice dropped an octave. 'Because this is just us, Ash. Just you and me, naked and broken. No full moon fever, no supernatural mojo-' his hand moved under her jaw, tunneling into the silken hair at the nape of her neck '-and I am so drawn to you, I want you so fucking much, I am raw with hunger.' The final words came out on a rasp, his lips a breath from hers, an unspoken request for permission.

'Connal ...' Her fingers strayed to the juncture where towel met skin and her lips danced a little nearer to his, her body swaying. Yes, she was drawn to him, as he was to her. Magnetic, and she had the North to his South. There were invisible strings tugging between them. A soft sough escaped Ash's lips as she dropped back on her heels. 'You're injured,' she said. Rocking slightly, she clamped the edge of the tub for support, 'I promised you a bath, and it's getting cold.'

His hand dropped from her hair on a ragged exhale, lids shutting down the desire that burned in his eyes. 'The bath ... right. Thank you.' He nodded, and taking a step back from her, his hands reached to untie the towel at his hips, letting it fall to the ground on a whisper.

He had bared his soul. His nakedness, his obvious arousal, just didn't seem relevant in the grand scheme of things. Stepping into the bath, he lowered his aching body down into the water, letting its comforting heat envelope bruised limbs. Hands gripping the edges, he eased himself back against the support of the high walls and his head fell back on a quiet exhale. 'I can take it from here.'

Double fuck. He drifted from Ash's fingers with a quiet acceptance that hurt her heart. He'd pulled the curtains on the fire he'd been feeling and left her with a chill.

The Ice Maiden strikes again.

God, she was an idiot!

Instinct had said _kiss_ and she should have pounced him so hard the back of his head would have felt her lips. Should have taken them both down to the tile floor, the bath be damned. But he was hurt, and her insides niggled with concern that clouded her desire. Turned her into an idiot. So she was stuck with him retreating again and everything within her begging her to follow. Ash folded into herself, her arms wrapping her waist, lashes low, watching through the inky fan as he slowly removed the towel she silently envied. The fabric fell away and any breath she may have drawn was stolen by the sight. He was ... male. Incredibly, magnificently male. And yeah, she'd felt him, she'd had him over her, and under her, and inside her, but she'd never seen him.

Connal was fiery gold, tawny skin set over the ripped, sculpted perfection of muscles thick and corded with power. The injuries she hadn't seen, those criss-crossed his thighs and gouged deep, but she didn't fancy she could see bone any more. He looked almost normal, if normal was six-feet-seven, growly, muscle-packed deliciousness. Ash's eyes dipped and flew over the bared planes of his body, locked, and skipped away ... and locked some more on the part of him she'd felt and desperately wanted to feel again. Beautiful came to mind, the kind of predator beautiful, stunning, and immensely overwhelming. There would be no breathing for her for a while.

'I said, I can take it from here.'

She was still lost in a shell-shocked daze, her nerves liquid and flowing molten to her centre, when she realised he was talking, or had said something. His rumbling tone set off a whole new set of sparks that skipped her arousal to blinding awareness. But, focus, dammit. He was ... dismissing her? The notion couldn't have been more powerful if he'd flicked his hand at her and commanded she leave. Ash controlled the small catch in her throat that signalled tears, weariness an exhale leaving her lungs, her own acceptance forced around the need that was brimming to overflowing.

'Oh, right, yes ... Of course ...' So formal. She backed up, her gaze refusing to leave the sight that was him, sprawled out in a tub full of very see-through water. Ash cut the connection, severed the line of vision and took the steps he asked of her to leave. Her hand was on the draped fabric when words unsaid shimmered on her tongue. She swallowed them back, again and again, but they choked up, raw and hungry. 'I ... fuck, I want you, Big Bad. I want you so fucking much it scares me ...'

His reaction was lightning fast. His head whipped around in her direction, eyes at half-mast, dark as storm clouds, pinning her in a look that was deep-penetrating and resonated desire. His arm fell out from the lip of the bath, palm up, beckoning, and his voice was gravelled and raw. 'Come back here, Little Red.'

She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of his body shifting in the water and got stuck like that. If he had been an invitation inches away from her lips before, now, he was the god of invitations. That large hand, that had caressed her body as they danced, was open to her, eyes that shone like steel now burnished with desire, molten metal in a caging gaze. No breathing, and no denial. Ash hesitated only a second longer to gather strength into weak knees, before she pivoted slowly, giving herself over to the arousal purring at her to yield to her hungers ... and obeyed.

That strong hand hooked around her forearm, reeling her in. His grip tightened as their gazes locked. 'Don't be afraid, Little Red,' he growled up at her from beneath hooded, lust-darkened eyes.

'I'm not afraid, Big Bad.' She might be shaking, burning up and nervous, but she was not afraid. Lured into the steaming bubble around the bath, her skin shivered electric under his touch. Ash took a breath and it trembled out on an exhale, her eyes never leaving his, falling into his scorching, metallic gaze like he was the flame and she was the moth, wings getting burned. At a touch. At the tension.

The rough pads of his fingertips stroked up her arm, drawing her in, closer, closer, until she could seat herself on the lip of the bath, at the perfect vantage point to stare. A lot. There wasn't much of Connal you couldn't see through the water.

Ash swallowed, lifted her eyes from her peeking and got lost. So lost that when his fingers tightened she barely noticed it.

And then she was sputtering for air, free-falling into a hot wave of water and a not so soft landing. Gracelessly, she was sprawled, submerged and left gasping laughter that bordered on hysterical. She reined it in. If hysterics kicked in she'd be a goner.

Ohhhhh ... Muscle, deliciously wet, gloriously warm male. For the second time since their meeting, she was sat on Connal.

The sloshing wriggle of her drenched curves rode his naked body as she struggled to right herself in the confined limits of the high-walled bath. Arms bracing the lip of the tub, her knees planted the only place they could, either side of his hips, seating her down hard. A growl of pleasure breached his lips. Her hair hung in a sodden curtain that grazed his shoulders, closing their laughter into a very intimate space. The steamy air was infused with the drugging scent of that intimacy. Arching his neck up to speak against her mouth, Connal all but purred. 'Did I get you wet, Ash?'

_Infuriating male. The bastard had pulled her in!_ Her balled fist struck his chest as laughter shook through her. 'Yes, you got me fucking wet, Connal.' Her tongue flickered out to gloss at her lips, her teeth tugging at her lower one, voice dropping to a whisper. 'You tend to have that effect on me.'

'You look beautiful fucking wet,' he said. His eyes were hungry, tracking the sweep of her tongue, and her lips parted in response. Closing the breath of distance that separated them, he claimed her mouth. Tender at first, it felt like a prayer, a reverent brush of velvet skin, tasting her lips. The pliant crush had him swallowing back a snarl. Harder then, rougher, her mouth demanded more of him and he obliged. Rasping drags of wet stubble abraded her cheeks as he ravaged her and she fell into the wonderland of his starved kisses.

His body surged beneath her and he was the breath in her lungs, the blood galloping through her veins, winding her body to a hyper sensitized dance of grinding, female lust. His hands grasped blindly at the puddle of wet fabric barring him from her skin. Dragging fistfuls up her body, he peeled away the sodden sheath, baring flesh he'd never seen. His hands rode the sensitive skin over her ribs, low moans escaping the lock of their mouths as he grazed the underside of her breasts.

'Connal ...' Her nails raked down his chest, clawing frustration that circled her hips in his lap and arched her into his touch. Whimpering, she dragged the soaked fabric over her head, shedding the plastered-on dress to a wet-squishing heap on the tiles.

Connal's breathing turned ragged. His head fell back against the copper wall of the bath and he ate up her nakedness with the wanton lust burning in his eyes.

She smiled shyly, teeth hooking into her lower lip, but the look in her eyes was brazen. Bracing up on her knees, her hands reached back to unhook the clasp of the black satin bra encasing her full breasts. His throat bobbed as she slipped the delicate straps off her creamy shoulders, baring herself to him.

'Ash ...'

The chill air and the heat of his eyes on her rose goosebumps and tightened her nipples to dusky peaks.

'Fuck Ash.' His palms rode the curve of her waist until the heavy swells of her breasts spilled over in his hands. Wet, callused thumbs grazed the dark flesh encircling her nipples and he moaned low in his throat as they rewarded his touch, hardening to tight pebbles. His tongue slaked over dry lips and she moaned for him.

One barrier left. She was bare to him from the waist up and her cheeks were flaming with desire and the heat of self-consciousness. So aroused, she wasn't sure if it was the water slicking delicate flesh, or her own, drenching need. She arched into his hands, muscles quivering, begging as her fingers dove into his hair, urging him back to her mouth. 'Touch me more, please, Connal,' she had him, she needed him and if he didn't touch her ...

His answering growl ripped through the air, making her shiver. His teeth latched onto her lower lip and he clawed down to the base of her spine, dipping beneath the waistband of her soaked panties to palm generous handfuls of her soft flesh. Powerful arms flexed, riding her higher up his body in a wave that lapped sensual heat to chilled skin, until the water-slick barrier of translucent satin was all that separated them.

'Yes ...' she moaned. Mounted on the throne of his hips, she ground her passion along the iron ridge of flesh nestled in the folds of her sex. Even through her panties, his heat seared her. He was exquisite, steely and thick, nudging the taut barrier, kissing up against the hidden bead of her desire until she was mewling with frustration.

Ash's fists struck the solid wall of his chest again, unfurling to lock her nails in his skin. Clawing red lines down to his nipples, she twisted his metal. The sound that left Connal's mouth was a hissing snarl she remembered well. That first time she'd touched him like this, she'd made him animal. The intensity she craved now had Ash tugging as she ground her pleasure to his shaft. 'Please, Connal, Big Bad, I need you inside me.' A bossy growl half whimpered from her throat as sensation swept her, head to toe, in a race of wildfire.

He toyed with her, hooking her panties and running rough fingers along the cleft of her sex. Her heartbeat pounded beneath the circling pads of his fingers, pulsing in the depths of her body, empty and aching for him, until, without warning, Connal yanked the fabric to one side, and Ash's breath hitched as her satin folds split around the girth of his erection. His hips kicked up, sliding the hard ridge of his cock through her drenched arousal, guiding him to her tight threshold, where his strong arms held her, poised on the brink of penetration. Wrenching himself from her kiss, he sought out her eyes and the anticipation held her spellbound.

Inch by thick, throbbing inch, he invaded her clenched resistance, watching the erotic moment play across her expressions, velvet sheathing the hard steel of his cock. He played her body slowly, like an instrument, coaxing her to sing for him in whimpering melodies. And she did whimper, right up until the strings of his restraint snapped and his punching thrust splashed up the sides of the tub. His hands clawed her flesh in a bruising grip that slammed her down hard into the seat of his lap. They both cried out at the wet slap of skin as he kissed her depths. It was a pounding, single-strike collision that bolted him into the soul of her passion. He was ... she had no words, but he was more, more than she remembered, more than she could handle and everything she craved.

Her fingers knotted into his dreads, for purchase, for control, as her body wound up, thighs tensed, riding her to his tip. His eyes were aflame.

Everything she'd fought against with him, everything she'd doubted and questioned after their first time, was welling up. Wild, visceral desire was corkscrewing inside her and it wanted out. Her teeth sank into his lower lip, distance closed in a desperate whimper and a rough kiss, a harsh communion that slammed her down his length and seated her solidly in his lap once more, demanding he let go of the leash that restrained his fire. She wanted to burn with him.

Her body bucked, wild in his hands, and his hips thrust up between her thighs in a brutal, pounding rhythm that bruised pleasure into soft flesh. Water lapped their skin in the wake of every violent thrust.

High on the raw eroticism of her own wanton grinding, she rode the thick girth of his cock with wet, dragging resistance that shuddered through the tensed flexion of his muscle. His rough palms crushed the weight of her breasts, pinching the tight peaks of her nipples between thumb and forefinger, in time with the splashing beat of his hips to the rounds of her ass. His head fell back on the edge of the bath, extended canines biting down into kiss-swollen lips. His eyes were wild with lust, the sounds from the back of his throat primal, growled pleasure, building in intensity with every thrust. 'Come for me, Little Red,' he rasped, 'I want to watch you come apart on my cock.'

She was flying and falling, ridden raw between her thighs, and Connal held the key to her ultimate detonation. She was lost in him, consumed by the devouring pace of their lust. Her nails scored his skin, adding passion to the marks of pain in his flesh, clawing her possession into him with every pistoning punch of his hips. Carnal warfare, that's what it was, physical and animal, expressing a connection she dared not touch upon.

'Connal ...' Her palms covered his hands, squeezing him over her breasts. Tight strung lines vibrated quivering tension to the core of her being, reeling her to the edge, holding her over the depths of shuddering bliss ... and dropping her on his command. Ash freefell on a howl that resonated in her soul, her voice a new emotion as she splintered. Her heart stammered as her body seized, contracting a fist of pulsing ecstasy around the ruthless driving girth of his cock, bathing him in the kiss of her soul as she fell apart around him.

The water surged over the lip of the bath, flooding tile just as his own climax overflowed, spilling deep inside of her in hot, pulsing waves, tensing every muscle in his body to rigid, pumping steel. His hips jerked beneath the water, his hands flying out to brace her hips, steadying her, locking her down on the physical force of his release as it pounded through them.

The surges of his climax triggered small quakes in her centre that wrapped him tight within her and stroked him in gentle flexes of silken pleasure. Utterly spent, Ash crested, surfing lazily on the streams of energy flowing between them. She didn't think she could move. Collapsed into his chest, his heartbeat drummed her cheek with a morse code of frantic exhilaration and she lay, listening to it, counting the beats as it slowed and set hers to a synchronised tempo.

Something had changed.

There was no denying it. This was so different to their rabid coupling in the forest. And it wasn't just that he was holding her tenderly now, his fingers braiding the curls that fell to the small of her back. It was that she couldn't find a shred of ice inside her in that moment. He filled her so completely with his fire, there was no room for the cold, and she was well and truly molten. Nuzzling her cheek over the ring of metal through his nipple, Ash prayed it was a permanent thaw, let her emotions well at the surface and left only one of them nameless.

She couldn't touch that yet, so she touched him, fused her mouth to his in soft strokes, feathered tenderness to the bow of his lips, swallowed his groans and fed him her purrs.

The lost little girl decided she liked getting lost in him.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

###

The sleepy weight of her body was a sprawl against skin-heated sheets, a lazy drape of limbs lost in a tangle of sex-puddled pleasure. Ash tested her fingers, flexed them as a yawn took over her entire being in an arching stretch, feline and drowsy. Her toes curled against the muscled column of what she assumed was a thigh, blinking slowly, a crack of lashes showing the hazy dark of the ripped outline of the man she couldn't get enough of. Even now, with pulses thrumming in places she didn't even know she had a heartbeat and aches she didn't know could exist, Ash wanted him. Her hand danced up the contours of his abs, sliding slowly to cover the steady beat of his heart. Settled after racing so hard, hers matched its gentle thrum, a symphony of relaxation drifting through the dream world of their union. Sex-husked words stroked from her throat as she met the slumberous heat in Connal's gaze.

'Mmmm -' Ash stretched again, unable to resist gliding as much of her sensitised skin as she could against his, vining around him '-are we going to have to hide down here forever?' Her lashes batted playfully, lips inched into a cheeky, seductive smile only slightly turned to shy by the blush rising in her cheeks. 'Because I wouldn't mind.'

The corners of his mouth tugged into a lazy, answering smile. 'It's not full moon any more, Little Red. The Bogeymen have all gone, for now.' His head craned up off the pillow to claim her mouth with a rough stubbled brand, words murmured to soft lips. 'Nothing to keep you here but me.'

'You're a damn good reason, Big Bad.' Ash ran her foot down his calf, face nuzzled to his chest. Her words came muffled on the next breath. 'They're gone? Did you kill them all?'

'No.' Connal shook his head, his eyes diverted back to where his fingertips had paused their exploration of the triskelion tattoo on her shoulder. 'They went home. You might say they have a curfew.'

'The moon?' She nodded, cheek rubbing his skin, shoulder rolling into his touch, nudging for it. 'What, I'm not important enough to break curfew?'

'Not when the punishment turns you to dust.' He ran his knuckles down the side of her cheek. 'You are everything to them, Ash, the lynchpin to their survival, but there is no survival if they stay above ground once the red fog wanes. Without it, they're doomed, a thousand years of existence revisited upon them in a matter of hours.' Running the pad of his thumb along her jaw, he exhaled. 'Their prison beneath the black lake sustains their immortality. They must return there, or die in agony.'

'A land of eternal youth, provided you never set foot back on the earth,' Ash masked her fear in nervous laughter. 'It's like the legend of _Tír na nÓg_.'

'At the heart of all myths lies a grain of truth, Harvard girl.'

After all the horror-movie type myths that had sprung to life before her eyes in the last twenty-four hours, Ash figured she could stretch a little further to buy into mythical lands of canine immortals and life-giving fog. And on that note ... Her teeth worried at her lower lip, brow furrowed. 'So,' she asked, 'once the fog comes back, it's open season on Ashling and Connal?'

Connal's silence, and the grim set of his jaw, confirmed her worst suspicions. 'Until then, you'll be safe-ish. The house is protected, they can't touch you there, but they do have their people above ground, like your friend, the doctor.' The way he said 'friend' came out far from friendly.

'Oh, safe ... ish ...' She scowled at him, swatting his shoulder. 'Way to reassure, Big Bad.' But it did reassure, to an extent. The wolves couldn't get in, weren't even on the earth until the full moon spun back around. And Connal could take a bunch of human minions, right? 'The doctor, Madden. He's really one of them?' she asked. 'He knows where I live, where we are. Is he like the girls, bitten?' 'Cause she was having a hard time shutting out disturbing images of the doc rubbing up on the men in the club.

'No, not bitten. Madden's kind are infinitely more dangerous than the human thralls. They're just mindless slaves to their own desires. Sex, violence, deep-rooted traits brought to the fore and amplified by the _eitr_. Many are driven to insanity. The doctor is one of the _Thegn_ , servants of the Fomorians. They are a sect of celibates. They share blood with the wolves, but they can't take animal form. Think homicidal, sociopathic monks and you'll be on the right track.'

'I think anyone would be a little homicidal if they had to be celibate,' she smiled, heat in her eyes as her thigh shifted against his hip. Not something she could possibly imagine with him around. 'He's going to be gunning for us then. He's not the only one, is he? Will the house protect us from him, or isn't he wolf enough?' Many questions, but only a few bubbled out, tainted with faint hysteria. The main one involved running, lots and lots of running. To the US, back home. It was so big, they'd never find her, them.

She should never have come to Dublin, never followed the breadcrumb trail that led to the witch's gingerbread house of terror. 'We can run, Connal. He can't find us if we're not here. I know places.' She'd backpacked and moved around enough to know where to go. _We cannot die_ went unsaid and blared loud across the forefront of her mind.

'Tell me this,' Connal regarded her seriously, 'did Madden manage to take blood from you?'

Her neat brows met in a deep fissure of worry and she nodded her head curtly, recalling the doctor's slick manner. _Plámás_ , the Irish had a word for it. It was a sickening realisation. He'd worked one over on her. 'Yes,' she stammered.

_Then we're screwed_. He didn't verbalise it, but the words hung in the air like flashing neon.

'Running away is not an option.' Connal's tone turned darkly sober. Hinging himself up from the pillows, his fingers curled into the flesh of her shoulder. 'The _Thegn_ are everywhere, Ash. They have infiltrated all walks of society. Now that they know of your existence, they will hunt you down, wherever you go in the world, you will not be safe. They can track you, through your blood.'

She shook her head, refusing to absorb the dire truth of their situation.

'If you go, I can't follow,' he said. 'I can't protect you if you leave.'

_No!_ Ash refused to see that as the only option, to stay and die or be abused by monster wolves, to watch Connal get torn to shreds. She couldn't survive that again, she couldn't watch that again and come out of it with any semblance of sanity. 'Come with me, please ...' Her throat caught and stuttered as she swallowed a sob, desperation a clawing, living thing in her veins as her fingers curled into his shoulder. 'We go together, we'll survive. I won't go without you. I ... can't.' One, she probably wouldn't make it far. She was no match against anything more than human. Two, there was no way that parting from him wouldn't be akin to tearing out some vital inside part of her. 'We could run. If we tried.'

Connal's head dropped back in frustration. 'It's not possible, Ash. I can't leave Irish soil, and you wouldn't make it past immigration control. The _Thegn_ will be watching every flight and port out of the state. It's what they'll expect. The DeMorgan house is the safest place you can be right now. Stay here, and I'll give you what protection I can.'

Panic took her on its back and it was racing with her. She clung to it, too scared to let go and fall into hysterics. Her life had become a rollercoaster. From hating the giant wolf creatures that had killed her mother to having some sort of four letter emotion towards one who she called 'saviour'. From only half believing their existence, to being neck-deep in their world and flailing, screaming around the twists and turns that splattered her with blood and rode her until she was sore.

'I'm trapped.' She was tight in her own skin, locked in one position because, hell, if she couldn't leave the country with him, she had to stay. There would be no leaving him to them. There would be no leaving. Ash exhaled and she curled into the support of Connal's body, taking the comfort he offered.

'Your grandmother is, was, a very powerful woman,' he murmured. 'Countless girls in your situation, she has spirited away from this nightmare. DeMorgan knew you were coming, Ash. She's not here now, but the house is. I don't believe she would just abandon you to them. Surely somewhere in her Diogenes' hoard, she's left some clue, some way out of this godforsaken shit-storm. We could go to see her ...'

Ash's nod was hidden in the coil of his dreads. She was fighting her hardest to crawl under his skin and hide there until this myth-shaped cloud over her head left them alone, but reality kept worming through. Connal wouldn't let her go without a fight, she had to believe that, and she had to trust that he knew her grandmother better than she did, had to trust that the older DeMorgan had left her some piece of the scary ass puzzle so she could get the hell out of Jumanji. 'We should look,' she sighed. And hopefully this time, 'we' referred to human-ish hands aiding her instead of a whining mutt butting his head into her touch every time she reached for another stack of jumbled papers.

The dog. Crap.

She'd spaced and he'd been out all night. 'Setanta ...'

She was already tripping from Connal's embrace, getting her legs under her and tumbling off the duvet on terrified limbs. Alone, he'd been out alone.

Bare-assed didn't register through the haze of curses as she dipped to rifle through scattered clothes, getting as far as the bathroom before she realised the sodden pile of material beside the copper tub could no longer be used as a dress. Ash backtracked, a scowl stamped on her face.

Clothes were becoming important.

She needed to feel a little more human and a lot less like trapped prey, and where naked was erotic sprawled across his sheets, it was vulnerable outside of his bed.

Panties! Ash pounced on the unharmed underwear, dragged them up her thighs and snatched the closest shirt. Hardly Kevlar, but it smelled of Connal and it fit. It would do. She needed to get out.

Connal snagged a pair of worn denims off the floor, stuffed long limbs into the legs and jerked them up over his bare ass. As he yanked at the zipper, he watched her through the doorway while she dressed. 'The mutt's not in the house?' he asked.

'No, he ran off before the vault door shut, and he can't get in upstairs.' She spared a glance over her shoulder that was more an urge for him to haul ass and open the door than to check him out ... but she could give a few seconds over to purring appreciation. The sight of him let her breathe, even as the panic swelled up her throat and her feet carried her to the metal barrier.

'Probably hiding in the garden with his tail between his legs, or scrounging breakfast off the neighbours,' Connal replied, padding after her, barefoot and bare-chested, covering the distance to the vault door in long, easy strides. Drawing up in front of her, he ran his thumb across her full lower lip and his voice was husky and accented as he spoke. 'Can't say I didn't enjoy having you locked up here as my prisoner.' With a seductive smile, he turned to punch the code into the keypad and the heavy metal lock disengaged. 'You're free to go, Little Red.'

He acted like she wanted to go. She didn't. Once she knew Setty was safe and fed and she had clothes and food, Ash would be crawling right back down here to sort the papers in the safety of their duvet fort. Her lips pursed a kiss to the pad of his thumb, fingers trailing down the strong line of his forearm as she leaned into him for a second. 'I'll be coming back, Big Bad, or better yet,' she laced their fingers and squeezed, dragging him through the door, 'you're coming with me.'

She wasn't ready to face the outside alone.

Ash peered into the apartment, eyes darting. Connal's heat was a security at her back as she stepped through the door, calling the wolfhound's name. With every quickening step that brought her closer to the outside, she hoped he was just scrounging food. Damn mutt. Her nerves vibrated with anxiety, a dark foreboding taking root and sprouting up vines of thick fear. Her voice rasped a little as she called his name again.

Connal followed. She felt his fingers tighten around her hand, holding her back, drawing her gaze to his for a split second before she went for the door handle and pushed.

'Is it locked?' she asked.

Connal's head shook, but his eyes were a little wider, his body set in rigid lines as Ash let go of his hand and braced her entire weight against it, setting her feet firmly on the ground and heaving into the old hinges.

'Don't, Ash ...' His voice, a growl over the huff of her breath, turned her head in annoyance and she brushed him away. He couldn't let her out of one door and expect her not to want to go through the other. The thing protested while she shoved. She glared at the man standing beside her, unmoving and tense, no offer to help as she pushed her weight into it until it cracked open and the gap widened. Her smirk was all triumph, a self-satisfied grin kissed to his locked jaw before she squeezed through the gap, hollering for the dog, eyes roving the undergrowth.

Her foot found the obstruction before her gaze did. It was wet, and tacky and she drew back with a wrinkled nose and a furrowed brow.

The thing in front of her was a grotesque lump of doorstop.

Mangled and an unnatural blue, the dry-flaking cracks in its skin crumbled when her foot brushed against it, chipping away at the black webbing of lines pulsing slowly at the surface. It was humanoid, bloodied and deathly still, save for the rough rattling breaths crackling into the morning air like too much static. 'What is that thing?' she pleaded.

'Red fog withdrawal, what happens when a wolf doesn't make it home on time.' Connal pushed at the pathetic creature's shoulder with his foot and the flesh disintegrated under the pressure, collapsing like ash. 'This Cinderella is on the way out.'

The thing looked so human. Male. The early morning sun glinted off his face, sending his skin Smurf blue, a hoop of gold catching the light. Ash looked closer and recoiled. It was the Bull, the rutting male from the club with his snake hips and a thick ring through his nose. Death was far from pretty. 'It's not moving,' Ash said, 'but look at its eyes. It's in pain, isn't it?' Terror leapt out from the wide, wild eyes of the creature. She couldn't imagine being aware when her body was failing, decomposing with her brain still functioning, still thinking.

'It's an excruciating death,' Connal replied. 'This one is paralysed. The mutt must have bitten it.' A foot to its jaw and the head listed to one side, bloody teeth marks confirming his suspicions. 'Wolfhound saliva is poisonous to Fomorians.'

Pity unfurled in her stomach, bile rising up her throat as the mess of its neck gaped. She shouldn't feel sorry for something that killed her family, but she couldn't help it. The pity was there and she hated it.

'Setty did this? He fought it? The mutt is dumber than I thought!' Her boot squelched in another congealing puddle and revulsion shuddered through her. She watched her feet as she moved around the dying creature. Her frown deepened. There was too much blood for a single bite, so much she was having trouble avoiding it. She prayed she was wrong, that whatever switch had flicked on with its gory revelation was a lie and the path she followed wouldn't lead to what she thought it would.

She pulled frantically at the knot of thorny shrubs lining the path, sharp-pricking brambles grabbing at her as she pushed them back and her skin brushed through fur she'd once buried her hands in. Her toe caught on a metal stud and her stomach bottomed out, knowing the stud would be one of many decorating a collar she'd bought to make the playful pup into more of a badass. Her knees buckled.

She crumbled, like a log burnt too long, screams lodged in her throat as her knees hit the floor. She was breathing tears, couldn't see for them, the world a slash of blood and silver fur in the tangle of briers. Ash's hands were halfway to reaching for him when strong fingers bound her wrists in a silent, 'No.'

The growl in her throat sounded like grief, it was angry and terrified, her heartbeat a painful sobbing drum in her chest as she tore herself from Connal's grip. He stood so calm above her, watching with ice eyes as she lost parts of herself to her sorrow. Ash was barely holding herself together, wrapped in a doubled-over ball of wrenching tears, her fingers finding their way into a patch of not-so-damaged fur as she tried not to look, and saw everything.

Setty.

For all his antics, killing her socks, eating her out of house, gluing himself so close to her that she tripped whenever she took a step, she'd got used to him being a constant presence. He'd been a comfort. It was the least she could do to touch him. He'd loved her scratching his ears, playing with them as his tongue lolled out. Now, he was torn up, a dog fight gone bad, a killing blow from something with much larger jaws leaving him bloodied and limp.

'Connal ...' She whimpered, reassuring herself of his presence, but all she got was a wall of frozen silence. He was there, but those eyes she'd watched go hot with emotion were cold, unfeeling, the edge of steel crashing into watery blue. He was completely unaffected. She was drowning in her sadness and he stood there. Heartless.

She'd wondered it once and the word sprung back as she ran her fingers over Setty's ears. He had no love for an animal he'd looked after. Would there be anything felt for her? Did he have that capacity for emotion she thought she'd seen? Ash knew well she could delude herself into believing things, it had been her saving grace these years and, on her knees curled close to a pup she'd loved, there was no comfort from the man who had held her in his bed, no connection in grief. It was her tears and hers alone that wet silver fur.

Ash could only offer a weak, teary resistance when strong hands closed around her shoulders, hauling her to her feet as she fought to stay in a grieving vigil beside her mutt's prone form. She didn't want him to be alone.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

###

It was her fault, all of it, and as her eyes caught on Connal's broad-shouldered form crossing around the back, a bound Setanta held in his arms, the tears fell fresh, blurring the hard, unfeeling set of Connal's features to rainwater. He looked so cruel, and sullen, moving like a soldier, all duty and efficiency as he secured Setty in the back.

It couldn't be real.

Ash desperately clung to that idea. Where she had sought sanity and clarity, now she ached for this all to be a delusion, a cruel acid trip from something she'd taken. The silence in the hearse was too heavy to be imagined, it was a stone weight sitting in her throat, a corkscrew twisting her stomach into cramps of grief that stabbed with every sobbing breath. She couldn't stop crying. Something had changed since she'd hit Dublin soil and the ice she normally encased herself in wasn't so quick to freeze her over. And now, she was blaming Connal. The asshole lit fires in her emotions and she couldn't get beyond the heat. Grief was burning her through and all she could do was leak the ragged tears of her melted ice. Ash pulled the canine-gnawed sock through her fingers when he moved to slip into the driver's seat, wet lashes fanned down as she toyed with the holes in the fabric. No way in hell could she look at him, her sadness was too raw, it left her vulnerable to him. He could hurt her.

The growl of the engine drowned out the tear-rough rasp of her exhale and she wiped at the water tracks marking her cheeks as the large car moved away, too soon turning onto a familiar stretch of road. Last time she'd driven this, it had been alone and bubbling over with annoyed curiosity, stalking a guy who stalked her and stole her grandmother's car. Last time she'd driven this, Ash had had her whole perspective changed, her nightmare had been dead at her feet and buried beneath them and she'd been fucked into the ground by a man she'd since tasted and touched until she knew his body better than her own.

His body, she knew. The rest of him was still a little foggy.

Connal coaxed the hearse onto a thinner, less used path into the darkness of trees and she scowled, trying to track the way, looking for something familiar to mark where they'd dumped the lump of nasty beast. If he put their pup anywhere near that thing, she would unleash a whole load of hurt on his ass. Pity she didn't have a frying pan handy. A pathetic laugh escaped her on a trickle of hot tears, so overloaded on the mess of emotion that nothing was making any sense.

Blinking to clear her vision, Ash lifted her head and really looked as the car pulled to a stop at the side of the dirt track. This place was desolate. All trees and undergrowth, green and dewed from the light rain that had fallen to coat everything in pretty shimmering droplets.

It looked too nice to be a graveyard for monsters.

She followed the movement of his body, the dip of the car as his weight left it, and the silence was jagged and sharp with hiccupping breaths she fought to swallow. Fuck, she wished he'd just talk to her. She needed him, to touch her, or kiss her, or reassure her, or, hell, she'd take a glare and an insult at the moment if it meant he noticed her. He hated her.

Connal hesitated, fingers curled around the car door handle, a breath trapped in his chest along with the dense tangle of thoughts that refused to coalesce into any kind of meaningful conversation. Whatever it was she needed from him, he didn't have it to give. His well was dry, parched roots shrivelled up, retracted so deep inside of him, they were as good as dead. No tears, no pain, no loss, no anger. There were only so many bargains you could strike against a soul before it became a blunt instrument.

Cracking the door, a chill breeze blew across the enclosed silence. The leafy undergrowth crushed under the soles of his feet as he emerged into the gloom of the day. Heavy raindrops fell from the trees to splash his shirt as he circled the car, popped her door, and waited. The tense silhouette of her body didn't move, just sat staring at the pale hands wrung in her lap, plucking at the baggy sweatpants she'd borrowed from him in the frantic aftermath of finding the body. A hitched breath escaped her lips and he knew she was crying. How had they come to this? His hand dropped from the door to fall limp at his side. Needing to put his empty hands to some purpose, he walked to the rear of the car.

The back doors of the Cadillac swung wide on their bundled up cargo. He'd wrapped the dog in one of the sheets from his own bed, counting the times he'd kicked that damn mutt off the mattress. The fabric moulded to the beast's haunches, a ghostly outline in white, marred by the tell-tale rusty smears that bled a map of violence through the thin fibres. Tugging back the edge of the sheet to reveal the dog's head, his palm shaped the powerful curve of the animal's skull. It was a familiar touch, and though he knew the body was cold, the brush of coarse, silvery hair against his skin gave the illusion that life lingered still. He almost fancied he saw the muscles twitch as they would when the dog, asleep on the rug in front of his fire, dream-chased some imaginary foe.

It was a cruel trick of the light, the scene shrouded in unearthly stillness, quiet as the grief that hung, a mute stone in his chest. Throat tight, voice a rasp, Connal dropped back on his hunkers, whispering words in a lilting mother tongue to the animal's now deaf ears. He spoke to the stillness of roads rising and the wind at his back, of sunshine and of soft rain falling. 'Peace,' he murmured, 'until we meet again, old friend.' He patted the dog's flank and drew the sheet back over its head, then heavy of hand, he lay the shovel atop the pile, gathered the limp bundle into his arms and stood. Kicking the doors closed, he caught his own reflection in the glass and the sadness in his eyes was ancient as stone, equally cold and impenetrable. Through the rain-spattered window of the car, he felt her stare on him, and knew what it was she saw that made her flinch away. Monster. He gave the open passenger door a wide berth as he stepped around it, didn't look at her as he spoke the clipped words. 'It's wet. Stay in the car, if you prefer. I can take it from here.'

Damnit. Those were the exact words he'd used when she walked away from him in the bath, weren't they? Their torrid night of intimacy seemed like it belonged in a different story now, erased by the frozen rain of grief, a chasm of distance opened up between them on the fault lines of the mutt's death. The night that blazed a chemical alchemy of lust had left them with nothing but fool's gold come morning. Two strangers brought together by cruel circumstance.

Without waiting for her answer, Connal tramped off through the wet woods with his burden, fully expecting her to wait in the car. He had smelled her fear, as well as her tears, in the confines of the vehicle; scent their only communication as they'd driven in silence to this isolated spot in the mountains. The rain had stopped, but the breeze scattered showers of droplets from the drenched canopy of leaves overhead. The soil would be waterlogged and claggy to dig.

Cracking branches underfoot alerted him to Ash's approach. He could feel the anger in her stomping approach and it made him weary. Passing him, she spun on her heel and blocked his path. Hands planted on her hips, she stared him down.

'You think this is all my fault! I know you do. For leaving Setty outside.' Tear-streaked cheeks suffused pink to match the rims of swollen eyes that were bright with defiance. She'd finally cracked. 'God knows the guilt is chewing me up, but how was I supposed to know this would happen, Connal? Obviously this is just another dead body to you.' She motioned to the sheet-wrapped bundle with a trembling hand. 'To be shovelled into the mud of just another unmarked grave. One more dirty secret disposed of. I suppose I'll be next?' she asked. 'Unlike you, I am not some robot. I'm hurting enough here already, without needing you to punish me with your cold shoulder. I loved that stupid, loyal dog. He led me to you, when you needed me. I won't let you bury him up here alongside the creatures that ripped him apart.'

Connal froze in his tracks, lowered the weight in his arms enough to regard her with a mixture of confusion and incredulity.

'This is not your fault, Ash. None of this has been your fault. The dog was doing what it was trained to do, what the wolfhound breed has been trained to do for millennia.' A trained guard dog, just like Connal. He and the dead mutt in his arms were no different. Sure, he survived, this time, by the skin of his teeth and the arrogance of the wolves who underestimated the depth of his reserves, but it might just as easily have been him, bleeding out on the stone steps of his apartment. At least he was giving the dog a decent burial. Who would take the time to do the same for him? Would she? He knew in his heart he wouldn't want that for her. She was so brittle, not made for this life to which he himself had become so inured. He looked at Ash again with new eyes, seeing something of himself, his old self, reflected back. It was something he had missed before and suddenly, he found himself questioning the intensity of this woman's emotions for an animal she'd only known a few days. When it came to transference, he'd written the book.

'This isn't really about the dog, is it Ash? Any more than it's about you researching mythical creatures for your thesis. This is personal. Spit it out, before you choke on it. Who did you lose?'

Bristling with annoyance, she struggled to hide the defensive tone in her voice. 'Why wouldn't it be about Setanta? He died protecting us, protecting me, and you don't feel anything because it's what he was meant to do? What would you even know about loss, when you feel nothing at all?'

'You're absolutely right, Ash. I don't feel anything.' His jaw tightened as he looked away and pushed past her to cover the distance to the end of the path. After a time spent tramping in stony silence, the dirt track opened out into a familiar clearing. Littered with small headstones, the sun was filtering through the trees and refracting through the raindrops. He heard Ash's sharp intake of breath and the stall of her feet. With its dappled light and birdsong, this was a magical, peaceful place. Which was why Connal had chosen it, that first time he'd come with his grief raw and aching, to claw the soil with his bare hands. With so much wrong in his world, this place had always felt right. The stones were laid out in a rough pattern of semi-circles, ever decreasing, one inside the other, like the embrace of protective arms. He chose a grassy spot at the end of one curve to set down the wolfhound's broken body. Sat back on the heels of his boots, he rested his hands on the knees of his worn denims, dreads hung around his face, shielding his expression as he spoke quietly.

'I raised this one from a pup. Just like I raised every one of them, and buried them, every one.'

Connal might have turned to stone, so still was his body in that moment. He could have been any one of the small cut headstones, his impression of a monolith was so damn impressive, but Ash couldn't draw her focus from the half moon curve of the stones to decode his features. A vast clearing, it was incredible, a bewitching, half done fairy ring. Avalon in the Dublin mountains. The stuff of myths, she could have been a thousand years in the past, transported to magic and beauty in a pattern of Celtic carved granite. Compelled, Ash wandered amongst them, deciphering the names from the faces of rock, the hound-designed etchings softly weathered but beautifully preserved. Someone took a lot of time caring for each ... gravestone?

'Is this ... ' She hunted for the right words in the knot of emotion riding up. 'Is this a pet cemetery?'

Nodding curtly, Connal dusted down his jeans and hefted the spade into his hands, testing the earth. 'Not pets, exactly. Guardians.'

'So many ...' Ash brushed her fingers over the top of one of the stones, eyes lowered. 'Why?' How could someone keep replacing something that they knew would be taken from them?

Connal shifted the dirt as he spoke, the exertion of digging punctuating his words with hard exhales. 'The ancient people of Eblana kept hounds to guard against the curse of the black lake. It has always been so.'

Her brow knitted, halted from her wandering through the half circles to watch him work. She'd offer to help but that tended to end rather abruptly. 'The wolves killed them all?'

He paused, the thick sole of his boot levering the bladed edge of the spade into the earth's resistance. 'Some. Others died of old age.'

'But, you said you raised them all, that's not possible.' Counting headstones and averaging dog life, her Math teacher would have been proud, if her estimation wasn't wildly off course.

If she was correct, however...

Forearm braced on the wooden handle, Connal lifted steel-grey eyes to meet her face with more directness than they had managed all morning. 'I'm old, Ash, old as dirt.'

Of course he was. Because no giant wolf could really be a thirty-something-year-old man. He was some sort of dinosaur and she should have known. Mentally face-palming herself, Ash gripped the curves of the nearest headstone gently, eyes anywhere but on him as she absorbed. Her mind spat out little snippets, conversations that were unclear through the fog of ... The fog. The red fog. She let her eyes meet his briefly as one hand waved in his direction, pointing her words at him. 'Hey, but the full moon has waned, and you're still here.'

'I made a bargain, with your grandmother, a very, very long time ago.' Subconsciously, his free hand drifted to the eroded silver coin at his neck, playing the metal disc in his fingers, running it along the leather thong that circled his throat. Just another collar.

'My grandmother? You're saying she's old as dirt too?'

'Older.'

'Oh my God.' I am the granddaughter of dirt. 'Please tell me ... she's one of you too, isn't she?'

He shook his head, a trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth. 'Gods no.'

'No?' That was a relief, her grandmother didn't eat little girls. 'Then what the hell is she? Fairy, leprechaun, damn will o' the wisp?'

He popped a brow and scrubbed the palm of his hand over his nape. 'Your grandmother is ... other, one of the ancients. Nobody really knows what she is, except that she is incredibly powerful, and not here when you need her.'

'Well, damn. So you think she's, what, had a stroke on purpose?' It seemed ridiculous but she wasn't discounting anything nowadays. Ash played a tuft of grass under the toe of her boot. 'Am I the only one who can die around here?'

Without answering her questions, Connal gripped the handle once more and set about digging the dog's grave with renewed vigour. His tone was wry when he spoke. 'Welcome to immortality, Little Red.' He gestured around the clearing. 'Where everything and everyone that matters dies, and you get to stay behind and bury what's left.' Flexing into every stroke, Connal seemed to channel the force of his frustration into shifting the wet earth.

His movement spurred her from her stall, feet taking the ground slowly, carefully avoiding crossing the marked graves as she tried to gather some thoughts to answer his challenge. But he was right, for the most part. Who in her life hadn't left her? Maybe it wasn't death that took them, but choice. Ash couldn't decide which was worse. Here, now, probably death. She couldn't fathom the pain it caused to bury the ones you cared for, to leave them with such tenderly carved memorials. He was lying to them both.

'It isn't just immortality that does that.' An exhale took her next words and brought them back as she breathed the fresh scent of turned earth and wet grass. She was correcting her own judgement, as she stood in the cemetery of his past. 'You feel, Big Bad. This is proof, you can't hide behind a snarl now. If you didn't feel, you never would have taken such care to bury your 'Guardians'. Would you carve these,' Ash swept her arm out to encompass the number of intricately crafted headstones, 'for just anyone?'

Crouching down, the pads of her fingertips picked some moss from the indented curve of a stylised hound. They were all hounds, leashed with exquisite knot work. 'They're stunning.'

Connal screwed his lids down tight on the memories her words stirred. A despairing boy, alone in the world, alone in a cage, pining for his dog, etching his grief and loneliness into the soft limestone of his prison walls. Some things were eternal. He was still that boy, though his prison was wider, still carving death into stone like a convict marking his days. Not for just anyone. For every one that made him relive the one loss he could never come to terms with. Why had he brought her here, to this very private place he had never revealed to another soul? She had looked so vulnerable, so broken by the dog's death. A subconscious part of him had wanted her to see, wanted to share a part of himself with this woman who stirred up emotions he hadn't dared feel for centuries, but now that she was here, he found himself retreating into the armoured shell of defensive silence.

The quiet stretched as he turned in on himself and Ash shifted uncomfortably. She was somewhere special, somewhere sacred; she could feel it, the reverence and sadness that came from outside of her bubble of grief. Stood amongst the stones of loving memorial, she was drawn to move through the graves, a strong compulsion tugging at her to see every one of their beautiful devotions. They were enchanting, but one was beyond that. The centre stone that caught her attention with its pristine surface and neat cut surroundings. No weeds marred the bed of short-tended grass as she stepped towards it. Dew-glittering green blades invited her closer and Ash stole a glance at Connal to see him locked down again, immobile and silent, propped on the spade like it could hold him up. Hunkering low, her hand hesitated a breath away from the beautiful carved wolf. His wolf, the one on his chest, graced the face of this headstone. There were no jagged edges on this as there had been with others, every line was smooth, shaping the beast out into a striking remembrance. 'Connal? Whose is this?'

'You don't touch that!'

Connal's shout startled her, ripping a hole in the serenity of the graveyard. The spade hit the dirt with a hollow thump and she jumped at the sound, her heart pounding from normal to freaking out at the snarling fury raising his voice to a roar. Ash skittered away from the headstone, the hand she'd dared reach with clasped to her chest lest she lose it, stumbling back like it had suddenly burst into flames. But he was the inferno, stalking towards her with eyes so dark the shadows were sunlight compared to them.

He was going to kill her.

She backed away from his glowering advance towards the gravestone and could only stand back and watch as he crumpled to his knees in the dirt. With trembling hands, he caressed the stone, as though it were a precious artifact defiled by her touch. Leaning in to rest his forehead against the granite, his dreads fell down to shield the movement of his lips as he crooned the scarcely audible words. 'It's okay. Sleep, a leanbh. Nobody can hurt you now.'

She'd expected an outburst, but the storm never hit her, and the tense brace of her body slumped as his did. He fell and she started, as though she could take his weight, before she realised it had been on purpose. The charge of male coming at her had been derailed to a kneeling prayer on a patch of grass and Ash teetered, uncertain if she should stay or run for the hills.

The great mountain of a man looked broken, unhinged and rocking with the buffeting force of emotion she'd seen unleashed at even the threat of a touch to that stone.

She couldn't leave him, not when he looked so close to the insanity she'd felt take her own mind. One step, and then another, fuelled to motion by the need within her to comfort, to touch, his pain making her heart hurt. 'Connal?' A warning. Approaching a beast as distressed as he was with no announcement would get your hand bit off. Fingertips brushed through the thick coiled dreads of his hair, gently stroking the fur soft ropes in a rhythmic comfort that eased him into her touch.

Voice rough, Ash swallowed twice, trying to clear it as her palm closed over his shoulder. 'I'm so sorry, Connal ... I ... I didn't know.' How was she to know? It was clearly not just a dog in there. God, who then? A wife, the one true love of his life, his soul mate? Do you really want to know? Folding herself down to her knees, Ash let a tentative question pass her lips and braced herself for the explosion. 'Who is it?'

'My son, my baby son,' he rasped.

Oh God, way worse than a wife ... She choked a little, struggling to build up the blocks of ice she thought she'd had left. 'What was his name?'

'Quillan, his name was-' the words came out anguished, throat closed up around the knot of pain that choked him. '-Quillan. It means cub.'

'I'm so sorry.' Shifting on her knees, Ash curled a little closer, offering her touch as comfort, hand tightening, leaning into him. So he didn't feel so alone. 'It's a beautiful name.'

'I held him in my arms. Only the once.'

Ash's heart broke clean in two at that. A parent's loss, she couldn't imagine the anguish. A daughter's loss however ... Softly voiced where her lips pressed to his shoulder, she uttered something, a distraction for him perhaps, an admission for her. 'My mother.'

Out of the blue and his body stilled.

She continued. 'They aren't just the subject of my thesis. They're the subject of my nightmares.' She swallowed the tears that bobbed in her throat. 'The wolves took her from me.'

Beating his forehead against the smooth stone, his face contorted with torment as he choked out a confession. 'Oh God, Ash, I have done terrible things, unspeakable things ...'

Vining around him, Ash closed him into her embrace, held him against her body, and cooed reassurance to his ear as they rocked. 'Hush now, my beastie, it's in the past. He sleeps, he's at peace. They're at peace.' At a loss, she could only murmur as he broke in her arms. Sympathy was wet on her cheeks, his agony her own, tearing open wounds she'd thought long closed. Her face buried to his nape as she wept. Terrible things, he said. The bastard wolves deserved it. Unspeakable things. They were evil, their deaths were justice, why couldn't he see that? He hurt for his son, for what he had to do and she clung to him, hoping to be even a measure of light in the darkness that tore him apart.

Connal was falling apart, leaking at the seams of his locked down control. The black pit of regret and sorrow had welled up inside him and burst its banks. Swallowed by quicksand, a hundred thousand hands of the dead were dragging him under, baying for retribution. Only one thing was stopping him from drowning. He felt her arms wrap around him, holding him together, a lifeline, a link with sanity.

He rocked in her arms, let her hold him together. She was his touchstone for life in this sea of death and she was the reason behind the torrent of emotional flotsam and painful memories that were spewing uncontrollably out of him. She was comfort and innocence.

Would she still be holding him if she knew the truth of the hell he had unleashed?

He was too far gone to cut the rope.

## CHAPTER THIRTY

###

When the tension in the car threatened to shred her nerves, Ash filled the silence with a burden lifted, a story. It was one of blood and pain, of a happy early childhood before that day came and tore it apart. It was the story of her mother, a distraction from his old grief with her old grief, a soft, sad attempt to let him in when she felt so swamped with emotion it was hard to breathe. Connal listened in silence, eyes on the road, only the tightened grip on the wheel betraying anger as she spoke.

The true story fell free, for the first time since the psychiatrists had persuaded her it was all just a defence, her child's mind turning her trauma to fairytale terror. The vivid nightmarish detail she saw in her sleep poured out, filling the car with her horror. For so long the psychiatric label had stuck and yet, with every day she stayed in Dublin, it was slowly being ripped away. Nightmares to memories.

Her stepfather. The newspapers got it so wrong. Their theories of paedophile rings and murder and suicide were so far from the truth, the truth was a dot. So caught up in describing the wolf on her stepfather's chest, Ash only fell silent when Connal answered an unasked question, confirming that the man who had helped raise her had been _thegn_ , servant to the things that murdered her mother. Bound by a pact of complete obedience, he had been a scapegoat, willingly shooting himself and taking the blame for the murder so his masters remained in myth alone.

The wolves. Psychiatrists had spent a lot of time convincing her she'd dreamed them up, real monsters for the hidden monster within a man she'd trusted. She'd never truly bought it. They were definitely no nightmare now.

The attack? Ash had no new reasoning for that. The reports would still remain that her mother was the victim of a deranged man who slaughtered her and then took his own life.

And her grandmother's mysterious appearance to sweep her away from danger ... well, a lot of it, with her new knowledge, was suddenly making more sense than she could ever have tried to explain away. Knowing her grandmother was 'Other', whatever that meant, cleared up questions she'd never thought to ask.

'I saw you, you know. As a young girl, at Anann DeMorgan's door, in your red coat.' It was a softly spoken confession, his eyes sliding briefly to meet with hers before focusing back on the winding road that demanded his attention.

'You did?' That brought her head up fast, gaze whipping to his, searching eyes that too quickly slid away from her questions. 'Did you know why I was brought there?'

'No.' His dreads shook, brows knitted in a frown. 'She never brought a child to her home before, never spoke of you. None of it makes sense.'

'How so?' None of it did make sense, she was struggling to keep up with the new world flashing into existence around her, blanks filled in and lies erased for wild truth.

'If the wolves targeted your mother, then she has to have been a _latent_ too.' He shifted gear to navigate the latest in a series of hairpin bends.

'You did say it was genetic.'

'Yes, but every case, up to now, has been a sporadic mutation in human genes. No Latent has ever survived long enough to pass the genes on to a child.' The words hung suspended in the air like an executioner's axe.

'Shit. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you.' He fisted the wheel until the blood drained from his knuckles.

Her hand dropped to his thigh in a gentle squeeze, a small smile gracing her lips as she uttered soft words. 'No, it's okay, I need to hear the truth. Go on.' This is what she'd wanted. Information. The truth. Of what she was or could be.

He flicked a glance in her direction, as though he needed to see that determination in her eyes before he could go on. 'Carriers of the mutation are infertile, at least until the changes begin to manifest, sometime in the early to mid twenties. Retinal anomalies, manic, disinhibited behaviour linked with the lunar cycles.'

Ash shifted uneasily in her seat as he catalogued the uncomfortably familiar symptoms.

' _Latents_ secrete pheromones that attract the wolves. If they haven't already been traced through eye testing or the psychiatric services, they find themselves drawn to areas with a high density of male wolves. The Black Lake of Dublin is one, but there are others. Dubh Lochan in Scotland, Blackpool in Cork, for example. All conduits through the black waters that lead to Fomor.'

Ash picked at cotton threads fraying on the knee of his jeans. 'We were in Blackpool, England, at my stepfather's holiday home, when my mother was attacked.' Damn, pieces just kept slotting into place around her, a changing labyrinth, a Rubik's cube of knowledge rearranging her confused actions to clear sense. She'd been crazy at the full moon, wanton and hungry. Now she knew why. She was ... changing. 'So my mother had this genetic mutation, and somehow passed it on to me? What does it matter?'

'It makes you different, Ash, an unknown quantity.' He paused to overtake a tractor in the road, before turning back to meet her eyes with a dark expression. 'Did you know your real father?'

Her head shook, a veil of raven curls cascading to cover her features. 'No, my mother had pictures but, it hurt her to show them. I stopped asking.' Ash had learned young that anything to do with her biological father made her mother cry. And only faint impressions lingered. A new silence travelled with them along an evening road and she watched the shadows lengthen, stretching out dark fingers to catch at them as they sped up. Driving into nowhere, winding upwards, her thoughts were as confused as the bends in the road, taking them into a sudden stop that halted her mind's turnings to a soft, smiling question. 'Where are we?'

'Johnny Fox's, the highest pub in Ireland.' Cutting the engine, he shifted in the seat to offer her a crooked smile, rough fingers tucking a stray curl behind her ear. 'I don't know about you, but I could use a drink. Putting it politely, today has been a triple A, gold-plated mind-fuck.'

Mind-fuck, indeed ... Ash crossed her legs under her, perched on a chair at the heavy wood table by the fire, half watching Connal at the bar with a brunette, half trying not to dart her head around, checking out every single person in the place like they could be looking to eat her. It was a pretty pub, old, fragranced by the smoky musk of burning peat. She exhaled, dropping her face into her hands, and just took the quiet to breathe.

Palming the two glasses of Guinness, Connal thanked the bar girl and tread the old floorboards back to where Ash was sitting at the table.

'You look good in my clothes, Ash, all wild and windswept. Don't we make a fine pair.' Connal laughed huskily, folding his broad frame into the wooden chair designed for a much smaller man. There was dirt under his nails as he slid the glass of stout in her direction, callused fingers brushing her hands where she'd laid them on the table.

A scoffed agreement. She was pretty sure she looked homeless and he looked like a model for some new grunge trend. All male and completely gorgeous, decorated in flecks of mud and clingy moss. Even the red rim of his tears couldn't detract. Bastard. She took the glass with a murmured 'thank you', flexed her fingers to stroke along his, a shy smile offered in his direction.

Lifting his glass, he tipped it to hers, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. 'Tears, wine and the company of friends ... a thirteenth Century cure for depression and sadness. Sláinte!'

A clink of glasses, a curve of lips that didn't quite touch her eyes. 'To Setanta, the biggest cuddle monster, the most loyal sock chewer, our guardian always ...'

'To the mutt.' He replied, the words tinged with sadness and then, as the old poem said, they drank deep and were silent.

A breath in the silence, breaking it. 'What's going to happen to me, Connal?'

'I don't know.' His large hand reached to cover hers across the table. She was trembling.

'I mean, if they win, if they take me. What will they do to me, apart from the obvious?' She couldn't begin to imagine what their 'breeding' entailed, but it looked too much like something from Animal Planet in her head to make her ... Comfortable was not the right word.

'Same as happened to the others, the ones that walked willingly into Form or refused DeMorgan's offer of Sanctuary. They disappeared into their underworld, never to be seen again.'

'They'll kill me?' Of all the worst case scenarios, this was probably the best. Her fingers curled into his and he ran his thumb over the Celtic engravings on the band of her mother's ring.

'They will bite you, to test your response to the _eitr_.'

'And that will make me a sex slave? Like the girls at the club.' Ash's nose crinkled, working that thought through her head and encountering only disgust.

'That's one possibility,' he ground out the admission through clenched molars, 'but there are worse outcomes. Some humans can't take the high, they're driven to insane violence. It's no coincidence Jonathan Swift built an insane asylum right at the site of the Dubh Linn.'

Oh joy, she'd either be a mindless fuck-zombie, or a homicidal human Cujo. 'Is there a door number three?'

'There's a slim chance you might actually have enough wolf blood in you, that you could take the _eitr_ and it would activate your latent genetics.' He stared daggers into the pine table, unable to face her with the fury in his eyes. 'That's what they're hoping for.'

'To turn me into one of them?' Electric ran through her body in a jolt of emotion. She was freaked, a touch of abhorrence threaded through her tone before she could reel it back and tamp it down. And then a knock on her internal door poked her to her realisation. He was one of them and she'd all but implied that of all desirable things to be, he ranked somewhere beneath toe fungus. Sheepish, she kept her gaze on their hands, her delicate fingers woven through strong callused ones in a tight grip.

He met her eyes full on. 'It could make you fertile, capable of bearing their progeny. As to whether you would become wolf, nobody can answer that question. It's never worked.'

It was another outcome, so why did it still feel like a death sentence? Head hung, her voice came out with a bitter edge. 'So when you say slim chance, what you actually mean is no chance. Don't sugar coat the pill, I'm not a child.'

'No.' His fingers tipped her chin, lifting her eyes back to him. 'You're different from the others. An unknown quantity, like I said. Anann DeMorgan said it too, she warned me. If you really are her granddaughter, then you are more than human.'

'But we don't know that until I get bitten and we find out?' Always the hardest route up the mountain.

'I'm sorry.' It was his turn to hang his head.

A beat of that dreaded, heavy silence and then her soul was on its knees. 'I want you to do it.'

'What?' His head whipped up, sure as if she'd slapped him.

Tone sure, she clarified. 'I want you to be the one to bite me.' If she had to be anyone's sex zombie, she wanted to be his.

'I won't do that to you. You saw what you could become.' Fear played across the heavy frown on his brow.

'But you won't hurt me, you won't abuse me, or use me to repopulate the world.'

The muscles in his jaw clenched tight, his hand curling into a fist on the table. 'I don't just kill wolves, Ash. The Thralls, the ones that turn vicious, I kill them too.'

'If that happens,' _swallow, breathe, Ash_ , 'I trust you, to grant me the same release, if it goes badly, don't let me hurt anyone.'

'No!' His fist slammed down on the wood, drawing the eyes of the drinkers scattered around the other tables. He glared at them until they turned their attention studiously back to the drinks in front of them, shuffling their feet in fearful submission.

'I won't do it.' He hissed.

'You have a better suggestion?' Teeth gritted, she was growling, her hands on the clenched fist he pounded into the table. 'I turn rabid, you have my permission to shoot me in the head.' Her nails cut crescents into his skin, bloodying him with her tense, mounting desperation. 'I turn into one of their slaves, they won't be interested in me any more.' She tried for lightness, tipping her head to draw his gaze to hers. 'So I'll be a drooling fembot in the bedroom two nights a month. I already want you.'

'You have no idea what you're asking of me.' His voice was lowered to a growled whisper. 'And what if you turned wolf?' Throwing the challenge back at her, he seemed determined to use all the ammunition at his disposal to turn her from her insane logic.

She took the bullets with a shocked sort of calm, returned them quietly, steady-voiced. 'I want to be able to make my own choices. At least I could fight them off.'

'I can't do it. I won't.' The legs of his chair screeched back on the boards, withdrawing himself from the table of this insane negotiation with a determined glare.

'And again I say, you have a better alternative?'

The growl of frustration ripped from his throat. 'We go to your Grandmother.'

'Cause that's not the longest shot in the history of long shots.' Ash huffed, annoyed and angry, scowling at their hands. He hadn't let go of her yet and the thought made tears brim as helpless frustration rocked inside her head. They were on a roundabout, circling and never agreeing.

Stalemate.

Silence reigned, King of their bubble, their glasses drained as a tactile link kept them close. She needed his touch, it was comforting and real. He could lead her through any one of those doors and she knew she'd follow, trusting him not to hurt her, or allow her to hurt others.

Any one of the outcomes could make or break them. It could destroy this whatever they had and doom her.

She barely noticed when he cradled her hand in both of his to lead her from the table, and the warmth of the pub, into the cool evening. Ash had never been one for praying, but she begged the stars above them for something.

An epiphany that could save them.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

###

'Crap!' The mascara wand jerked in her hand as Liath swept it through her lashes. Moistening a tissue to dab at the black smudge on her eyelid, she took a deep, cleansing breath and blotted the rouge staining her lips, suddenly feeling over made-up. First date jitters made her feel fifteen again, not a mother with a four year old son. Her own mother's downstairs toilet, with its dated decor and the thousand memories clinging to its chintzy walls did nothing to dispel the whole Back to The Future illusion.

She dragged the tissue over her lips, didn't want to seem desperate. Doyle was gorgeous, a total ride. A fella like him could smell desperation on an older woman at fifty paces. With a mental slap, she reminded herself this wasn't actually a date at all. But hey, a single mum on the wrong side of thirty had to grab every opportunity by the horns. Liath had imagined a very different conversation when she brazenly scribbled down her number and slipped it into the pocket of Doyle's tight white tee. After what Connal told her, though, she'd all but consigned Doyle to her lost cause basket. So when she'd taken the private number call that morning, she expected his voice at the end of the line about as much as a call from Elvis beyond the grave. His news was less surprising. After she'd left the club, Connal had gotten into a scrap. Doyle broke it up and brought him home, but Connal was in need of TLC and was asking for Liath.

That she would go to Connal's aid was never in question. They shared the kind of ugly past that forges unconditional loyalty. Copping a ride with handsome and broody was just the cherry on the cake. Funny, she hadn't figured those two were tight, but with Connal, you couldn't always tell. Knowing her uncanny magnetism for bad boys and assholes, she squeezed out a silent prayer that Doyle would be different.

God knew she'd picked some choice bastards in her time.

Her father's sermonising voice chose that moment to pop into her head. 'The portion of fornicators will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulphur ...' Well, she'd certainly lived down to the Reverend's low expectations. The more he pushed, the more she rebelled and her mother and the doctors could say what they wanted about blocked coronary arteries, she knew her pregnancy had put him in an early grave. 'The dogs shall devour Jezebel ... and none shall bury her.' Bible-thumping Daddy would be spinning in that grave now, to see her in his house, painting her face for a stranger. God, there had been a time, once, when she'd idolised the man, been his perfect little angel. A strand of blonde hair slipped free, tickling her nose as she peered in close to the mirror, trying to see the girl she had been then. A flicker remained, and that's what she grasped at now. It had taken her good years hunting that light, she refused to let it get darkened again.

Goddamnit, she was going to start leaking and spoil her mascara. It was ancient history. She smoothed her hair into place and stepped into the hall, closing the door on her insecurities and the ghosts of her past.

'Mam?' Liath raised her voice a fraction to carry wherever the other woman could be, the laughter of her son joyous and bright as she stepped along the hall. A smile brightened her eyes when the plump, care lined face poked around the kitchen door, silver-streaked, ash-blonde curls pushed from her mother's questioning smile.

'Are you sure about minding Josh? I promise I won't be gone long.' A soft laugh and the door was pushed wide, bag of flour held carefully in strong fingers and Liath followed into the kitchen space her mother practically lived in.

'Of course not, dear. I adore having my grandson here to keep me company.' And he was, on his belly on the floor letting a small golden dog nose under his body for treats, laughing so hard his little face was red and he was squirming from the cold-nosed tickling.

It was a pretty picture, her mother moving around the kitchen, cleaning up after another baking craze, a fuller figured version of herself, laughter-creased and smile-wrinkled, but held up with a good, elegant bone structure that still made her one of the most beautiful women Liath knew. How had she put up with that man for so many years? The woman was either a saint or a total masochist. Every day it was like looking into a mirror of a possible future self, but she wanted those laughter lines instead of the frown furrows she imagined forming and setting up permanent shop between her brows.

The soft buzz of the doorbell jolted her renewed calm with a jerk of fizzing nerves, and suddenly she was all motion, fluffing at her hair, flustered and grabbing up her purse off the counter. Time to open the door. She could do this. But her path was slow to reach it, the doorbell going off once more before she managed to swing the front door wide, and smile a faintly shy smile at the man on the other side.

'Would your gentleman friend like a cup of tea, dear?' The gentle voice reached through before she could utter any greeting and Liath scowled, a teenager embarrassed by her mother's familiarity. Cup of tea, my ass. The nosy woman wanted to vet any male to step through the doors and kill them with kindness and refreshments. Her mouth was open to say 'no, Mam, we're going to head straight out. No damn tea ...' but she only got so far as a huff of sound before Doyle spoke his pleasure.

'You're too kind, Mrs Murphy. I'd murder a cup of tea. Milk, two sugars please.'

That voice, whether it was the low tone or just the new, strange presence in the house, the normally docile, sleek furred dog erupted into a frenzy of yapping barks, small paws scrabbling to dart through legs that moved to trap her.

'Lady! Where are your manners? I'm so sorry, she's usually good with strangers. A terrible guard dog.' An uncharacteristic worry line creased Mrs Murphy's brow. 'I'll put her out. Liath, why don't you see your friend into the sitting room and I'll put the kettle on.'

Liath obeyed simply to speed along their exit. The quicker the tea was made, the quicker it was drunk, the quicker they were gone. She led him, and his straight-off-the-magazine, teenage-fantasy looks, into the cosy spread of chairs that made up their living room. Nerves made an ordinarily sultry walk, the walk she used when she worked, into a slight stumbling jitter. She blamed it on the rug. Totally tripped.

Before she could turn to offer him a seat anywhere he wanted, Doyle was possessing the armchair by the door, legs spread wide, toe tapping, elbows perched on the arms as his gaze jumped around the floral walls. He looked too male in a room overrun by lace doilies and plump, patterned cushions. She was about dying with embarrassment, her face two shades redder than the blush she'd applied, his sleek, handsome sophistication only neon signing the time warp she was currently in.

When Josh wandered in, making a beeline for her with a heart-melting pout on his face, Liath knew his grandmother hadn't let him follow after the dog she could still hear barking outside. Her arms reached to soothe him, settling herself on the arm of the couch so she could hold him.

He never made it to her.

Doyle swept him off his feet as he passed and deposited the small boy on his lap with a laugh. Her heart leapt, a mother's nerves creeping through the smile on her lips, but the easy amusement in Doyle's gaze never wavered, and she calmed some.

'So you're the man of the house?' A large hand ruffled at the mop of Josh's blonde curls, his knee bouncing her son until his child's laughter sounded through the room. 'Damn, I feel like fucking Santa Claus.'

'You said a bad word.' That drew a frown from laughter, little face scrunching up, small hands on Doyle's as Josh squirmed to get down and the hold on him tightened. Doyle held fast, until the boy protested and Liath reached for her son, worry starting a crawl up her throat.

'Let him go, you're frightening him!'

She would have moved, would have stood and forcibly removed her boy from Doyle's lap if the man she'd let into her mother's house hadn't had one thing.

The blade was small, but it glinted with a lethal edge that said it wasn't just for show, combing through the fine baby curls of Josh's hair, the adorable ones she still hadn't found the heart to cut, like it was nothing more than the brush her boy hated so much. He couldn't see it, that much was clear. But Liath could and it was stabbing into her heart with every spin through that soft blonde hair. Like curling ribbon with scissors.

Her voice was angered, hissing fear. 'You son of a bitch!'

'Do you kiss your son here with that dirty mouth?' The bastard laughed, but there was no darkness in it. It was joy. He was enjoying this.

The pain intensified, spearing her through with knots of terror as Josh laughed with him, the point of the blade trailing over sensitive skin, so light it tickled her small son. She could barely keep a grasp on herself, shaking through and through, rocked to the depths of a terror she hadn't felt in years. She always let the bad men in it seemed.

Doyle put a finger to his lips, his smile so bright she searched for a manic taint. 'Your mother looks frail, wouldn't want to give the poor woman a heart attack.'

'You bastard.' She gritted the words and Josh gasped, his wide eyes disapproving of her choice of language.

Doyle leaned in close, petting the top of her son's head with the flat of the blade and uttered words that set her heart into spasms, her breath trapped in her lungs, throat closed in a panic of anger. 'Here's what's going to happen. Little Josh here is going to take a trip with me. You're going to find your friend Connal and tell him to get his whore to Form at midnight tonight and we'll make a trade. Any later, and I can't guarantee the merchandise won't be damaged, beyond repair, know what I mean?'

## CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

###

It was late evening when Connal pulled the hearse up to the kerb outside the gates of the DeMorgan house and killed the engine. The skies, like the atmosphere between them had brightened, the downhill journey from the mountains filled with easy banter as they'd found common ground in music while fighting over radio stations. Heaving against the wrought-iron gate, Ash called dibs on the shower. He locked the car and followed her up the path, calling after her that his shower was easily big enough for two, when a movement in the shadows of the porch grabbed his attention. Barrelling forward, he growled at Ash to hold up, blocking her way with the tensed wall of his body.

A blonde head peeled away from the shadows.

'Liath!' His heart flopped inside his ribcage, relief that they hadn't been ambushed rapidly congealing into concern at the girl's dishevelled state. He bounded up the steps two at a time to meet her on the porch. 'Liath?'

He caught the movement in his peripheral, registered her arm swing a split second before she slapped her palm hard across his jaw, a cracking impact that left a stinging imprint of her hand.

'You bastard!' She cried. There was grief and desperation in her reedy, cracking voice as she pounded her clenched hands against his chest, clinging to him even through the assault.

'What the heck, Liath. What happened?'

Liath couldn't breathe enough to get words out. Her angry cries were a jumble of words beating at his chest. 'They took him Conn, they took my baby.'

Connal cast his eyes over the street. It was quiet, but shadows lurked, and Liath's hysterics were bound to draw attention. 'Come inside, Liath,' he said.

Ash mounted the steps and nudged him out of the way. Her guiding arm came around the tear-drowned female. Liath's sobs quieted as Ash unlocked the door and they ushered her into the looming protection of the DeMorgan house.

They sat in triangular formation around Anann DeMorgan's Chesterfield suite, a triad of shock in all its manifestations. Ash was, well, ashen. Connal was seething, his upper lip curled involuntarily into a snarl. Liath was, by now, hysterical. Having extracted her account of the morning's events in a broken series of hitched sobs and tormented cries, she was physically breaking down before their eyes.

'Can't ... breathe', she panted. 'My baby!' Her nails clawed into the red velvet pile of the armchair, her chest sawed rapidly, the pulse at her throat fluttering like a trapped bird.

'She's hyperventilating,' Connal growled, failing to contain the vicious edge to his anger. Shifting to his knees before Liath, he covered her hands with his own and spoke to the terror in her eyes. 'I'll bring him home to you. I swear it.' He cranked his head around to Ash. 'We need to do something, or she'll pass out. You got a paper bag?'

'Oh!' Ash leapt up, from motionless, pale and drawn, to animated with purpose. 'I have something better! Somewhere ...' Drawing out the word, she rummaged through the drawers at the side of the couch. 'I have Valium! Never used them for the flight ...' Muttering about blasted drugs, Ash came up smiling, the small tube of pills held proudly.

Ash pressed the pills into Connal's hand whilst she fetched water and returned to offer two of the small, white pills alongside the glass.

Liath's hand trembled, reaching. 'Promise me.' Her stare, watery, jade-green eyes, entreated them both. 'Take me with you, when you go. My baby will need me. You take me with you.'

'Of course. Midnight, on the dot. You'll be with us to make the exchange,' Ash reassured her, shrugging off the disapproving glare Connal shot her. 'We'll get your boy back ...' Liath nodded, relief exhaled on a shudder. 'Take them, I promise they'll help.' She nudged her hand, coaxing Liath to gulp them down and waited for the swallow before she sat back, cross-legged on the floor.

'She needs to rest, Ash. It's hours 'til midnight.' Connal's hand brushed her knee, flashing her the briefest glimpse of gratitude, before he stood and took to pacing the rugs of the period living room.

Ash hooked her hand under Liath's elbow and carefully eased her to her feet, like she was fragile, guiding every step to navigate the house until she could see her to a spare room.

Connal closed the door after them with more force than was necessary. He waited until he heard footfalls on the upstairs landing, hatred festering a growl in his throat. What kind of scum-sucking bastard took a child hostage? But then he knew, intimately, exactly how low MacTire would stoop to get what he wanted. The kidnapping smacked of desperation, meant he wanted Ash real bad. Whatever it took, he was not about to let that happen. With Ash and Liath gone, Connal reverted to type, channelling his wrath into battle readiness. Wrenching a decorative spear down from the wall, he pushed aside Anann DeMorgan's fireside chair and rolled back the dusty carpet to reveal the bare, pitch pine boards. A horrible, sickening suspicion twisted like lead in his gut. This felt personal, as though taking the child was a message, a direct dig at him. Well, if the bastards were hoping to strike a nerve, they'd better be prepared for a reflex reaction.

Wedging the spear's tip between two of the timber slats, the loose section of floor gave way easily. The small crates hidden within took a little more prising apart to coax them to yield their musted contents, but by the time he heard Ash's feet descending the staircase, he was stood by the sideboard with a neat row of semi-automatics, ammunition and variously sized hunting blades lined up on the high-polished mahogany.

Stepping through the door, Ash blinked. 'Have I missed something? Are we going into battle?' She moved to stand beside him and her eyes skipped over the array of weapons. Her hand hovered over a double-barrel. 'Do you have a spare? I can shoot, and, more often than not, I manage to hit the can.'

He hoped she was joking. His large hand covered hers and removed it from the weapon. He turned to face her with a storm brewing in his eyes, words spoken with a finality that said he would brook no argument. 'You're not going in there with me.'

'You're not going in there without me.' She mimicked his tone. 'I don't see another option. We promised Liath we'd make the exchange.'

' _You_ made a promise, Ash. I only promised to bring him back.'

'You can't go alone.' Her palm met his arm when a growl rolled up his throat. 'Did you forget what happened last time? I like your head attached.'

He cocked a brow at the blatant challenge to his masculinity, palming a semi and testing how it fit in the waistband of his jeans before lifting the cold steel of his eyes back on her. 'Last time was different. I was unprepared for you running into Dr. Death's arms at the first hint of danger. This time it will only be _Thegn_. No wolves. I'll handle this, alone.'

Casting him a narrow-eyed glare, she was deadly serious when she spoke. 'I won't have a child's blood on my hands, Connal.'

No, but he would, if it came down to the wire. The muscles in his jaw set with iron tension, bracketing his mouth with the lines of his frustration. So much blood on his hands. So much blood spilled avenging the death of an innocent, and now Josh was yet another child caught in the crossfire of his enemies. He might not get the boy back, but damned if he was prepared to lose her too.

'You go in alone and you have no way to guarantee his safety. You need me, to make the exchange. Hell, I _am_ the exchange! Without me it's not a party ...'

'There won't be an exchange, Ash. I refuse to play you into their hands.' She was right, he had no guarantees to give, not when it came to a scumbag like Doyle. Centuries of betrayal had a way of eroding your belief that good always trumped evil. He wished he could share her optimism that even villains had an honourable streak, that Doyle would stick by the terms of an exchange, but his dark heart told him the child may be good as dead already.

'How do you expect to get him back? Please, explain it to me, Big Bad, because I'm not seeing the win-win here.'

He bit out the words on a snarl. 'I'm going to rip the bastard's head off.'

'You can do that? I thought you said Form was neutral territory.'

He dropped down on his hunkers to prise open the heavy canvas bag on the floor, feeding weapons into its dark interior as he spoke. 'Form is built on sacred ground, the original site of the black lake, before it was filled in, in an attempt to allay the superstitions of evil that were rife at the time. It is the place where the Ancients used their own blood to seal the Fomorians into their subterranean prison and it has been prophesied that to spill wolf blood on its ground will precipitate an apocalypse.'

'So what? You're going to ride in there, guns blazing, like one of the four horsemen, and bring about the end of the world?'

'Even I'm not that stupid, Ash. I'm going to make them come to me, on my terms.'

'You can't do that! He said he would kill the boy if I don't show.'

'You think Doyle will just throw away his best bargaining chip?' He looked up to pin her in the intensity of his steel-grey stare. 'You underestimate just how badly they want you, Little Red.'

'I can't take that chance on a child's life, not when it's me they want.'

'We can circle like this all night long, Ash, 'til we're dizzy, but it changes nothing. I'm not taking you in there.'

'Bite me then.'

'What?' Drawing up to his full height, the weapon in his hand hit the polished wood with a heavy thud. 'What difference could that possibly make?'

'You say they want me so badly, but if I'm Thrall, I'm useless to them. Valueless instead of priceless. I walk in there, and it's irrefutable proof I'm not the broodmare they think I am. And they have no reason to keep Josh.'

_More like no reason to keep him alive_. 'You want to go in there on your knees, drooling and begging that son of a bitch to fuck you? Why don't we just walk you in there now, with a Hallmark card and goddamn bow on your head?' He growled his retort. 'Just because you won't be their broodmare doesn't mean you won't be ridden to death, Ash.' And like as not, Doyle would slit the kid's throat out of spite. Not that she needed to hear that. She wouldn't be going in there with him. Period. 'They will use you 'til you break and then cast you aside.'

Her whole body shivered, nose wrinkled in revulsion, lip curled as he pushed the argument, determined.

'And what if it turns out you are everything they think you are?' he pressed. 'You expect me to hand you to them, spread-eagle, sacrificed on a platter?'

'You said so yourself, the chances that I am anything to them, let alone this mythical baby mamma, are slim to none!' Her fingers tangled in the ends of her hair, braiding her nervous tell. 'And even if I am, I think I'd like the truth on my terms, preferably with little to no bloodshed.'

'Are you prepared to die for your curiosity?' He gritted out the words.

'For curiosity, crossing the street, gang attacked by a frenzy of wolves come next full moon ...' Her shoulder lifted, a twitchy half shrug. 'It seems a lot of ways this could go, I'll die.'

His growl cut her with ice.

'Happy note though, you bite me and I go crazy, the psych treatment wouldn't have been a waste.' Her light laughter sounded forced to his ears. 'If I turn into a serial killer, I trust you to take me out.'

'Jesus Christ Ash! You say it like it's nothing, like I could just put a gun to your head and ...' And what? Put her down, like the innumerable, faceless, black-nailed souls that haunted his nightmares? He'd sooner rip out his own heart. The tremor in his hand rattled the gunmetal against the wooden surface of the sideboard. _He_ was rattled. Not by the sordid reality of what could happen to her, but by the revelation that it mattered to him. In the few days he'd known her, this girl had chipped away at the hard-encrusted defences of a lifetime spent at war and burrowed herself deep into a part of him that hadn't breathed for centuries. His eyes fell to where her fists clenched a spasm at her sides.

'It is not nothing, Connal. It is a little boy in the hands of monsters who want me. I have to try. A child's life is in the balance.' Her face was set, determined. 'I'm going whether you say so or not. If you leave me behind, you better damn well know I'll be following you there. You can't stop me.'

He glared at her, but a hand coasted down over the back pocket of his jeans, shaping the metal cuffs he'd tucked away when she was out of the room. He could stop her, and he would. 'Infuriating woman,' he murmured.

'Does that mean you're going to bite me, Big Bad?' she asked provocatively.

'No, Little Red. I have no intention of sinking my teeth into you.' His fingers toyed with the ends of her hair where they curled down her shoulder, and his gaze was drawn irresistibly to the milky white column of her throat. This infuriating woman could lead him to hell with all his good intentions. The register of his voice had dropped to a gravelled whisper when he spoke again. 'Clear your head of that foolish plan.'

Her head would not be cleared. Foolish had taken root and it was teasing her. There was the silence again, he shut down and she couldn't promise to drop it just to ease the quiet. It would be a lie. Heaving a perturbed exhale, she moved from his touch, even the threat of it on her skin scrambling her brain with desire. Hair a shield, it hung loose around her face as she paced the room, gathering more arguments. Her lashes shut out her peripheral vision. Ash didn't want to see him packing those weapons into the black bag at his feet, it meant she hadn't convinced him enough. He was still going. Tracking the pacing lines his heavy booted feet had left behind in the thick pile of the rugs, she took a turn around the room, breathing anxious irritation into the air.

It was a lie she kept telling herself. That she could easily go in there, risk death and dignity to save a child because what did she have to live for? Ice maiden just wasn't a good description of her nowadays. He'd got inside her, like flames in a Redwood, lighting her up from within with a violent emotion. Ash couldn't imagine never seeing him again without her heart constricting like she had a python in her chest. He'd become the air in her lungs and the blood in her veins in mere days. She'd wither, become frozen again without his surly ass to infuriate her.

_Fuck, Ashling, you are not thinking that word. We can't have that, not now. We latch on, and it will hurt so much more when we are cut off._ As much as she knew that, the word still floated, drifting around, looking for a good place to land while other parts of her mind turned over a plan to get him to bite her. She couldn't not try, when all the outcomes could save Josh. It was just getting to the biting that was problematic.

Leading her blind tumult of decisions around the room through touch, her fingers played over lightly dusted figurines and thick tomes of old. Every item was known, had come to belong to a place she was starting to call home. A blanket lay haphazard, hanging seemingly in mid-air, tossed after one of her late night movie sessions, when dreams prevented sleep. She reached to fold it without a second thought. Touching corner to corner, the quilted blanket revealed cold stone under its warm colours as it slipped from its perch.

'Oh wow, I'd forgotten about you ...' Whispered words but Connal was suddenly a radiator of heat behind her, large palms spread out on her hips to hold her when she would have startled at his silent approach. Ash let her weight rest into him, nuzzled the bristle of his jaw, fingertips carefully moving into the carved grooves of the ancient sculpture. She'd thought it exquisite when she'd first seen it, but on second look, it was more than that. It was flawless, an ethereal sculpture of a woman, round and heavy with twin babies that had been etched into her stone womb. Ash's nail scratched gently at the lighter coloured babe, its body impressed with fragments of Mother of Pearl, surrounded by the darkness of a precious Obsidian embrace. Its twin was also its opposite, a small body of Obsidian in a pool of Mother of Pearl. The style of the mother's knotwork-patterned skin was strikingly familiar.

Her head tipped back as his hand slipped from her hip to splay possessively over her stomach, dragging her back against the rigid pulse of his erection. Her voice kissed words to the underside of his chin. 'Did you make this, Big Bad? It's beautiful ...'

'No, this isn't one of mine. It's from before the,' he hesitated, 'before the war that wiped out the female population.' He buried his face in her hair.

'What does it mean? Are they twins?'

Stubble grazed the sensitive skin of her neck and the depth of his voice tickled the shell of her ear as he spoke. 'It's a fertility symbol, a representation of a Fomorian female carrying offspring sired by two different fathers.' His free hand moved with hers, tracing the curves of the elegant sculpture where the foetuses formed a primitive yin-yang of shadow and light. 'Hence the symbolism of the black and the white.'

'Is that even possible?' She breathed, arching back into him, the curves of her ass circling a slow, provocative grind against the hard ridge of his arousal.

'Absolutely. It's quite common in canine species. Back then, males outnumbered females by as many as ten to one, the taking of multiple mates evolved as a biological adaptation, in order to maintain genetic diversity.'

Her brow creased. 'Are you saying they gang-raped their women? That's barbaric.'

'No, not at all. Sure, they favoured rough sex and the biting, the chemical exchange of eitr is an extension of that, but the Fomori were once a highly matriarchal society. Multiple male sexual partners were the norm, but the female always held the power to choose her mates, even if fighting amongst rival males was commonplace.'

She snickered softly. 'Yeah, I've seen the macho pissing contests. Wouldn't they just tear each other to pieces?' She was about ready to tear him to pieces, if he'd just let her touch. Ash curled her nails into the back of his hands, up on her tiptoes to press the soft lines of her spine to the wall of his chest, nudging for more contact as her brain looped, following threads of desire and conversation.

'At first, in the dark days, mating and birthing rituals were vicious. A male would rip a challenger's throat out rather than share a female.' She felt his teeth graze her neck and her heart rate spiked, the soft growl escaping his throat proof-positive that those same, ancient instincts lurked just below the civilised outer surface of her man. 'They were even known to eat the young they did not sire themselves.'

She drew breath on a gasp, could feel the animal at her throat, desire surging in heady anticipation of his bite. In that moment, she knew she wanted to feel his teeth in her skin and knew instinctively that on some primal level, despite his stubborn denials, Connal wanted it too. _You need only push him over the edge._ Tilting her throat in invitation, her hands reached back to grasp the solid columns of his thighs, riding up with the intention of grabbing his ass through the worn denim of his jeans. He got there first, diverting her hands from their path to wrap their linked arms tightly around her waist. She stifled a groan of frustration as he turned his attention from her thudding pulse and back to the carved figure before them.

'In order to ensure the survival of their young, the females established the rites of Blood Brotherhood, whereby male littermates born of different fathers were raised to share a unique bond. They lived together as siblings, trained to fight side by side, and when they reached maturity, they would fight a contest to establish dominance. Then they were branded and sworn into sacred vows of loyalty, félagi, brothers one to the other, until death. And when it came to mating, they would share the same female, willingly, and accept all offspring as their own. It was ingenious, really, a way of turning the natural mating bond between male and female into a stronger knot of three.' One hand broke free to touch the patterns etched on the female form's body. 'These symbols, of the triskelion, represent the sacredness of the three.'

He dropped a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, where the oversized neck of his shirt exposed the inked symbol in her skin. A stylized triskelion of ravens, it was a pattern she'd been drawn to, without ever understanding why. The connection with the carving sent a shiver down her spine.

'You say these blood brothers were branded? The wolf on your chest Connal. Were you ... do you ...?' The words were there but they wouldn't come out. Lust knotted in her throat and stormed at her centre, harassing her to choose between knowledge and the carnal craving in her veins for only him. Hell, she couldn't imagine how any female survived being the filling to a brother-wolf sandwich. If she had two Connal's ... Her knees threatened to abandon her at the mere thought and they weren't too stable when he was around anyway. She'd die, she was certain. And it wouldn't be a little death.

It didn't escape her notice that he chose that moment to tip her small train of questioning off its tracks with a nip to her pulse that made her head spin. No words, only rabid, sharp kisses blushing her throat the colour of passion and marking her with bruises she couldn't hide. He took control of the grind of her hips, their motion never ceasing as conversation had kept on, a constant need pressing them ever closer. His response was an animal growl of hunger, and she purred an answer as her hand slipped back to stroke the iron length of his denim-caged erection where it nestled to the softness of her ass. Two could play that game, a distraction that earned her a snarl of potent possession.

'No more talk of ancient history, Ashling. We have four hours 'til midnight and I want to live every minute in the present, with you.'

Her beast was done talking. Nerves leapt in a coil of heat to pool in her core with electric anticipation, tightening her body as a little thrill of fear touched her spine. This could be the last time they were together and that scared the living hell out of her. She'd only just found her fire, and it could be extinguished. Arching her spine, Ash curled her arms back, looping his neck as they danced to primal beats. No, she would not go out in a puff of smoke. She'd melt and blaze and she'd burn herself into his world. More than a scorch mark or a frostbitten limb, Ash wanted him to still feel the heat of her ... emotion ... for him, long after she was gone. Her kisses rasped her desire to his lips. 'Fuck, I need you, Big Bad.' She craved him.

'You have me, Little Red. But not here,' he growled.

A hum in her throat hinted at a protest before her brain kicked in over the rush of hunger and a blush hit her cheeks, head dipping. 'No, not here, of course ... Liath.' Then where? His apartment? Um nooooo. Surviving that long without combusting was impossible. 'My room?' Breathy, it was all invitation. Where better to get lost in the heaven of him than in the solace of the place she called hers.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

###

Breathless, they stumbled up the staircase, needy hands tearing at fabric in a fevered hunt for skin. He ravaged her mouth with growled demands and her nails clawed up his ribs in answer. Screw slow, tender seduction. The sands were running out for them and they both felt the urgency, like a wire in the blood, pulsing a current through their veins. He needed her fast and furious, craved that deep, primal connection one last time, before the clock ran down. They reached the landing and she tackled him back against the wall, dragging her teeth over his lower lip with growled purrs, fisting his shirt and hauling him across the threshold into her bedroom. She wanted it too. It was in every syllable of her starved body language.

Connal stiffened under her touch, a moment's hesitation, a small voice piping up, reminding him that he was going to have to betray her, and this would only make it harder. The thought twisted in his gut like poison, but he could see no other way to save her from her own infuriatingly overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

Seizing the moment, she slammed the door behind them, jolting him back into the room. Planting her palms on his chest, she cracked his spine back against the closed door, burying her hands in his dreads and dragging his mouth onto her kiss-swollen lips.

'Fuck me, Big Bad,' she breathed, ragged with lust.

That was it. Game over for Connal, desire trampling over logic in the stampede of her carnal demands. Fabric bunched over her head, his fingertips sparked off her skin, every touch igniting flames. His hands were rampant, everywhere at once, knotted in her hair, stroking her jaw, weighing the spill of her perfect breasts into his palms, riding down the base of her spine and under her sweats to cup the full rounds of her ass. He dominated her senses with rough demands, crushed his thighs to hers, the iron girth of his erection pressed into her lower belly as he marched her backwards to the end of the four-poster and tossed her onto the downy covers.

Stood between her thighs, his dark gaze was heavy with erotic threat, devouring her naked curves while his hands got to work, hooking the waistband of her sweats and dragging them down her legs. Roughened palms rode the sensitive skin of her inner thighs until his fingertips grazed the delicate folds of her sex, jolting her hips up off the mattress. With a growl of male satisfaction, he dropped to his knees at the end of the bed and, bracing her wide, his stubbled mouth retraced the path of his hands with rasping contacts that seared his breath to her skin in a hungry brand. Dark lashes flicked up to catch her flushed gaze a moment before he claimed her in the most intimate of kisses, a moan escaping into the sucking seal of his mouth on her lips. She was sweet and lusciously wet, the seam of her cleft parting for the stroking, velvet invasion of his tongue. He coaxed her open, delving into her swollen inner petals, boldly exploring the exquisitely sensitive pearl concealed within. She cried out, fisting handfuls of the dark silk, and when she bucked again, his strong hand shot out to span her lower belly, pinning her for the merciless onslaught of his wickedly talented mouth.

He was rabid and she was infected with the strain of lust driving electric spikes through her nerves. She vibrated with tension, her bones liquid, her spine stringing her like a bow as he arrowed bolts of ravaging ecstasy into her every cell. His tongue was a wet-velvet rasp of excruciating sensation, stroking sweeps of euphoria to her core and lapping delicate, highly sensitised flesh to agonising quivers of bliss. God, he was ... her brain spat up senseless whimpers. There were no words ... Master of her every erogenous zone, Ash was a writhing mess tangled in silk, a grinding reaction pinned and held wide for his carnal torture. She was breaking apart, fracturing at the seams. His tongue touched the bead of her pleasure and she skipped a little closer to the edge. His teeth grazed, sucking a sharp kiss on delicate folds, and she was violently arching, hips jolting, rolling, riding his mouth, working herself hard against the scruff of his jaw as he tormented her with flicking wet curls of his tongue.

Ash was dying, she was sure of it. Floating, the tension wound in her core, a corkscrew that had her tearing her fingers into his dreads and reining him in closer, crying his name loud with every wind of her hips. She was desperate for deeper, for the little bit of edge she needed to hurtle her into the abyss.

And he gave it to her. When the sharp point of a canine snagged on the hood of her clit and his tongue drove into her molten sex, she was gone. Lifted from her body, the core of her being untangled in waves of spasming ecstasy, she came undone on his lips, broken by a kiss and detonating into wildfire tremors. He was heaven and she was lost in him, flowing her release to the sound of her own screams. 'Connal!'

Relentless, he rode her through the crest of that first climax with his tongue, and her hips kicked up to rasp the bristled line of his jaw on her inner thighs. Jeans shucked down to half mast while she jerked and shivered, he reared up between her legs to feed the iron girth of his erection into the spasming liquid silk of her body. Sheathed to the hilt, his thighs smacked up to the bumper of her ass and she whimpered. A growl tore free from his throat as she gripped his thick shaft in the rhythmic contractions of her release and he started to pump.

Her vision sparked fireworks behind her lids and the universe unravelled in her eyes, piercing him with brutal emotion as their gazes locked and she canted her hips to kick him deeper, accepting every thick, penetrating inch into the well of her heat. This is where he belonged. Heavy and hard between her thighs, pistoning powerful hips to strike into the heart of her. Every thrust incited her to claw, her nails rough and gouging into the skin of his back, raking the tight, flexing muscles of his ass in a spur until he snarled. He punished her with a single restraint.

His large hands laced her fingers, dragging her arms above her head to pin her for the brutal, deep-thrusting collision of his hips. His dreads snaked across her bared breasts as his mouth and teeth closed a sucking kiss to one tight nipple. The heat of his growled breath evaporated the glistening strokes of his tongue from her flushed skin. Stretched out beneath him on the altar of his lust, he worshipped her body with rough possession.

Strung taut on the crackling lines of erotic tension, the pressure mounted inexorably. His control was hanging on a tripwire, but all the while, his sex-fogged mind was battling a tug-of-war. She was perfectly positioned, pinioned beneath him and distracted to the point of recklessness, her wrists so close to the bedposts that snapping the cuffs to shackle her to the bed would be the easiest thing in the world, a simple reach and shift manoeuvre. So why weren't his hands obeying him? The betrayal tore at him from the inside. She would hate him, but she would live, and that was all that mattered. With steeled conviction, his hips kicked a powerful thrust, kissing her depths, drilling her to the edge of the precipice. Jaw set rigid, the pain in his expression was hidden from her eyes as his lips found her ear to whisper his ragged admission.

'Tá brón orm. Maith dom é, mo ghrá.' He begged her forgiveness and confessed his love in the same breath, the mother tongue faltering on his lips. 'I love you, Ashling DeMorgan. Never forget, never doubt.' They were words he never imagined he could say again. All capacity to love withered with his son's violent death, buried with those tiny bones in the rocky ground. And now, a delicate thing reborn, cut bittersweet pain into his heart. Reluctant fingers slipped from her hand to reach into the back pocket of his jeans for the cuffs ...

Bite to be bitten.

In the midst of the chaos, the revelation shook her harder than the orgasm barrelling over her. It all made sense and slammed into place.

She would do anything to keep him, to stay by his side. Even if it caused him to hate her. Stomach clenching with a brutal thrust, Ash fought to retain sense enough to time her strike. It was their only chance, of her surviving, of him surviving, of stopping the plan he no doubt had in place that could kill them all.

Ash trusted him with her life, less so with his own.

'Connal ...' The words were tested on the back of her tongue, given strength by tear-heavy sincerity and emotion. If they didn't make it, she needed him to know. 'I love you, my beast. Never, ever forget. Never doubt.' When she felt the coil twist in her gut and rush fire up the curve of her spine, she yanked viciously on his dreads. Dragging his head to the side, she gave over to an instinct to mark that had been humming in her since that first time in the woods.

Her teeth cut into his skin and she felt the change arc over him. His thrusts stuttered, his muscles seized and his snarl vibrated on her skin. Ash dug her nails into his nape and bit down, harder, willing him to give in to the animal potency rushing in her blood. What he said was true. Biting her was as instinctive as breathing. Like a pit bull with a rag, he fell on her throat, his canines locking inside her. His bite was tenacious, teeth buried deep in her tender flesh while his cock pulsed in the satin vice of her body, his release surging in hot, rhythmic shudders. So deep inside her, in so many ways, as though their souls had been wired up together and were shorting out on the erotic overload.

Nothing could ever have prepared her for the reaction. His or her own. For as Connal's teeth sliced razor points through her skin, she tore at the flesh of his throat with blunt hunger and sealed them into the vast scream of a rapid-fire, ravenous frenzy of carnal exaltation. Blood hit her tongue and it was the coppery tang laced with a sweetness that shot her through with the taste of his climax. Raw, animal musk and wild sugar sped through her taste buds and swarmed her blood with his, a jerking, slamming attack that took her systems faster than any orgasm. It was ecstasy to the nth degree. Stronger, harder hitting and addictive, she craved more of him. Her tongue swiped, coaxing a little more of his life to pulse onto her tongue as her curves ground out the rhythm of their thundering climax. Synchronised, they were falling together through a Milky Way vortex coloured with all the hues of the universe. It sparkled as she was woven through the silver red flames of Connal's soul. Her beast was beautiful and in that moment, she felt inked into his every facet. As he was emblazoned across her cells, making up her DNA with his name.

She understood the Thralls in the club so much better now. This craving, it was carnal and necessary. If she didn't get more, she'd die more than the little death currently wired up to her nerves and sparking her out. He was her drug, her light as darkness swept over her vision and she cried out.

A lancing pain charged through the flames of bliss to lodge a fist in her throat, taking breath that she gasped for and stealing his light from her...

Ash went limp in his arms. Logy from the pleasure sloshing languid in his veins, Connal drew back, releasing his hold on her throat. At first, he thought it a trick of the light, the muted blue and black decor playing with his sex-buzzed brain. But no. The colour was draining from her skin, replaced by a reticulate network of black veins that crept up over her skin like poisonous vines, shrouding her in the black lace of what he knew meant certain death.

'No! Oh God, Ash, what have I done?'

Panic rode in hard on the crest of his euphoria, obliterating the high and contorting it to a stranglehold of terror. Those soft lips he had kissed not minutes before took on the dark blue cast of hypoxia.

She was so unnaturally still, cradled in his arms. 'Breathe, a ghrá,' he pleaded, voice cracking with the dread that was throttling the life from his own heart.

An eternity he waited, but her chest did not rise. Her heartbeat faltered, receding from his trembling fingertips. In desperation, he did what he'd seen others do when they bargained with death. He brushed the raven curls from her face and sealed his lips on hers, attempting to breathe life back into her lungs. His eyes stung with unshed tears and his hands shook, cursed prayers sent up to the Morrígan, pleading, demanding that she do for her granddaughter what she had once done for him.

Perhaps the Ancients listened. Perhaps it was a simple biological transfer of mystical air, but when he dragged his mouth from hers, the black in her veins was retreating like a tide, fading out, suffusing her cheeks with pink for a few precious moments before the darkness again washed in. His heart leapt, fastening on to the tiny spark of hope. Again, he kissed his air into her lungs, and again she was granted a fleeting reprieve from the encroaching spider web of death. It seemed whatever magic let him live free of the red fog, a beast amongst men, was in his breath and he could gift it to her, however briefly. He clung to that hope like a lifeline. However temporary, it just might be enough to keep her alive long enough to get her where he knew she needed to go.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

###

'Drive faster,' he growled.

'If I drive any faster, we'll be wrapped around a lamp post.' Liath cranked her head round to where Connal was crowded into the back seat with Ash across his lap. He was shirtless and Liath still had pillow creases on her face from when he'd roused her from her chemical sleep. The rush to the car had been a confused panic. 'What's the matter with her? Is she poisoned? Fuck, it's Rave, isn't it? An overdose? Shouldn't we be taking her to the hospital to get her stomach pumped or something? She's not looking too good, Conn.' Liath was the one raving, high on nervous tension, hands crushing the wheel in a white-knuckled death grip, shooting off thoughts like a verbal machine gun.

Connal's glare cut her off mid fire. 'We need to get her to Form. Now.' His head dropped once more to seal Ash's blue lips in the grim, rhythmic exchange of life-giving air that had marked the minutes since he'd bitten her. 'Stay with me, Little Red,' he murmured.

The car veered sharply left and Liath's ranting kicked off again. 'We're going to Form? Okay, but it's not midnight yet. That bastard was very specific. They will still make the exchange, right? Even if ... Fuck!' She slammed on the brakes and narrowly avoided rear-ending a taxi driver who'd pulled up at the kerb to take a fare. She blew out a ragged breath.

'Get your shit together Liath,' he commanded. 'Josh needs you. I need you. If we don't get Ash to Form really, really soon, we're going to lose her,' _and the boy_ , he thought. 'They can help her there.'

'I fucking knew it!' Liath spat. 'I should have gone to the police. Those drug-pushing scumbags have an antidote, don't they? I swear to fuck, I'm going in there and taking my son back and I'm going to castrate that son of a bitch Doyle with my bare hands.'

Connal didn't bother correcting Liath's skewed interpretation of the shitstorm they were caught up in. He couldn't afford the time to explain. For all intents and purposes, the bite was a drug, one that was killing Ash, and the _thegn_ did have access to the only life support environment that could keep her alive.

Perhaps he should have had a crisis of conscience about what he was about to do. But this was the bare truth of how it was, when you were down to the wire, bargaining with the Grim Reaper for the life of the one you loved, for the one thing that breathed life into your own existence. You would do anything. You would gladly walk through the fires of Hell, break every promise you made when the cost had been merely hypothetical. You would offer up your life for theirs, because the thought of going on without them was unthinkable.

His lips trembled on hers as he watched the life ebb and flow through the black network of veins in her skin. 'Just a little longer, _a ghrá_ ,' he whispered. 'Almost there.'

There in that back seat, performing mouth to mouth on his dying future, the ghosts of Connal's past hung off him like Jacob Marley's chains. Loss, vengeance, regret. Centuries breathing, yet no life at all. Until her. Better to die than walk that path again. And he knew, with a quiet conviction, that would be the price. To save her life, he was going to have to carry her through the valley of death on a one-way ticket. He was selfish enough to want her to live, and to refuse to live without her. If she were conscious, she would be martyring herself for the sake of a kid she barely knew. That only reinforced his conviction. Every kiss of his mouth to hers tasted of goodbye. She was wolf blood, and whatever MacTire was, he understood survival. He would keep her alive, come what may. Connal had to believe that, or he couldn't go through with it.

The car came to an understated stop. Connal lifted defocused eyes and ascertained they were in the same alley where he'd fought Brandr and Fite. Fate had been playing with him all along, and now she was calling in the chips.

The _Thegn_ muscle guarding the fire exit took one look at Ash and stood aside to let Connal pass. They knew all too well the black and blue stigmata of death.

'Doyle!' Connal bellowed as he pounded up the corridor. Ash's legs dangled limp over his arm and Liath was tripping over herself to keep up. 'Doyle!' He roared.

'In here,' came the measured reply.

It was the same office, the one with the brass nameplate and the hulking mahogany partner's desk where he had bound that girl in her panties, a million years ago, it seemed now.

'Josh!' Liath exclaimed, pushing in past Connal.

'Hiya mum.' The boy was sitting behind the desk, swamped by the oversized leather chair, playing with a bundle of straws. 'Look! Mr. Doyle showed me how to make straw animals.' Josh proudly held up a twisted mess of plastic tubing and Liath smiled weakly at her boy.

Doyle looked grotesquely happy. If Liath had once found that smile charming, it was clear from her expression that now it churned her stomach. Doyle moved and she flinched, expectant of some harm to her son, but he only resettled on the edge of the desk with that damn smile. He was laser-focused on the limp body in Connal's arms. 'Damn,' he muttered. 'She's actually the real deal.' He slid his ass off the desk and made a move to touch Ash's black-veined face.

'You don't fucking touch her,' Connal snarled, curling her body protectively into his chest.

Doyle backed up to the edge of the desk, a cocked brow and shrewd eyes taking in the significance of Connal's possessive gesture and the way his mouth lingered on hers as he fed her oxygen. 'Fuck me. What did you do? Bite her?' He laughed derisively.

Connal's eyes were like stone, pinning Doyle with a withering glare. 'She's dying.'

Doyle laughed and it triggered a reflex reaction from Liath across the room. There was a metallic clunk as she racked the slide on the semi-automatic like a pro and trained the muzzle right on Doyle's smug smile, looking more than happy to shoot it off his face. Two pairs of eyes flicked to take in her slight trembling stance.

'You need to get your bitch here on a leash, Savage.' The nervous tic popping at the angle of Doyle's jaw betrayed him.

Connal recognised the firearm as one of his own. He'd been so distracted by Ash's critical state, he hadn't noticed her take it. His voice was level, the kind you might use to talk someone's finger off the big red button. 'You don't want to do that Liath.' _Because to spill wolf blood on the sacred ground of the seal would unleash Armageddon on the whole of humanity_.

A sheen of sweat had broken on Doyle's upper lip when he spoke. 'Yes Liath, don't do something we'll all regret.' His condescending tone really wasn't helping the situation.

Liath shot him a glare full of venom but her words were for Connal. 'Why not? Sick, murdering, drug-pushing bastards.' Her finger twitched and the gun shook a little. 'Someone who would abduct a child deserves to die.' Her son was watching her with wide eyes but when she beckoned, one hand freed to hold out to him, he scurried with a fistful of straws and latched to her side.

'Not here, not in front of the boy.' Connal's words were serenely calm. 'He doesn't need to see that, Liath.'

Yet, she still couldn't bring herself to lower her arm. Sharp words tore in Doyle's direction. 'I swear to God, if you or any of your minion scum come near me or my family again, I will make your vow of celibacy more than just a life choice.' The muzzle dipped, aiming low. 'It will be out of your hands.' One arm tightened around Josh. 'And if that isn't enough, I have evidence of what this club is really about, that could put you away for a very, very long time.'

'You won't last the night,' Doyle muttered through the sneer that twisted his lips.

'You're going to let them go, Doyle,' Connal levelled his ultimatum. 'I may be an outcast, but I am still pureblood. I will have your _Thegn_ oath that you will not harm a hair on their heads.'

'Why the fuck would I swear fealty to you, _Vargrliker_?' he spat.

'Because if you don't, I'll kill you myself, right here and now. MacTire doesn't get the girl and it's endgame for us all.'

'You're bluffing.' His jaw kicked up defiantly.

'Am I? What have I got to lose? Once I take her to MacTire, I'm as good as dead already.'

A flicker of confusion drew Doyle's brows low. There was no comprehension, no idea of the emotion behind the sacrifice. He couldn't see anything but stupidity and madness in the decision and his face was lined with the puzzle, eyes narrowed on Connal as though he was a bag of cats away from crazy.

'I go with her, or she doesn't go.'

Connal swept a stray curl from Ash's face to make the life-breathing connection once more. Doyle scrubbed a hand under his collar, as though the intimacy was making him uncomfortable. 'Oh My God, you fucking idiot,' he sneered, 'you're in love with her? You're insane.'

Connal lifted his eyes to the male and they were bright with the truth. 'No. She won't make it without me. I will have your oath, _Thegn_ , on your knees and bleeding, or I will have your head.'

It had to be the weirdest day ever, and Liath was pinch-raw from the times she'd checked she wasn't caught in some nightmare, her boy alive and in her arms in the middle of this war of words and threats. She crouched, a smaller target curved around Josh, the gun forgotten when he'd asked to be picked up and she couldn't deny him that. Not like she needed it now anyway, the two men were talking oaths, calm but for the tension that crackled in the air around them. Calm but for the knife that slipped from Doyle's pocket into his hand. Her warning cut off at the source on a strangled cry, her palm covering Josh's eyes as the blade aimed not for Connal, but for Doyle's own chest, the slim, lithe muscle exposed when the tip sliced deep and spilled a trickle of blood over the intricate tattoo branding his skin. From harming others to self harming in the blink of an eye, Liath was dizzy, sick at the sight of the red on his pale skin. Her vision was blurred with the adrenaline, but she could have sworn Doyle leaned in, head bowed as though to kiss Connal's nipple rings before he stumbled back, harshly cast away by her snarling friend. She was so far beyond confusion, even her own name wasn't making sense as she watched the exchange through the white-noise of shock fuzzing her brain. Why did she always have to get involved with the freaks?

Doyle's knees bent like rusty hinges and he gritted out the words as though they were pulled teeth. 'On the blood of the _Thegn_ , you have my oath.'

So much power, her friend had. She'd never noticed it before, but now, with the man who'd taken her son, Connal was a commanding force driving him to kneel without even raising a finger. His threatening control shocked her. Could this storm in front of her really be the same quiet male who had once carried her child around on his massive shoulders? He scared her, but this was the man who had helped her escape her ex.

His voice pulled her into the room again. 'He can't touch you now. Why don't you take Josh home?' Connal smiled at the kid before turning his eyes on Liath with his unspoken goodbye. 'I'm sorry I got you into this mess, my friend. Thank you, for everything, and take my advice this time. Find yourself a new job. The punters at Form are a pack of animals.'

He didn't say it but she felt it. Connal didn't think he would be coming back from wherever he was going. Always protecting others when he pretended not to care. He'd won her friendship and affection, time and again, and where he couldn't express, she could. Not eloquent, she was never really that, but her hand curved on the muscle of his arm and she leaned a little, a brief embrace of touch letting him know ... just letting him know. She smiled, eyes watery, throat choked. 'I will, Conn, I promise. Thank you, for everything.' Liath stepped back, repeating his words, and turned, fingers smudging a drop of wet from her cheek. 'Please, take care.' Useless perhaps. 'I really hope Ash will be okay.' Her neighbour had been good for him, it seemed. 'See you soon, yeah?' Those were the hardest and she was glad her back was turned, tears tracking the steps that would take her home.

'Yeah,' he lied, and watched them leave, before training his attention back to the snivelling creep on the floor. 'Get off your knees, Scotty, and beam us the fuck to Fomor.'

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

###

Waiting had probably never been so tense. Madden was stood beside the colossal statue of tension that was MacTire, and the male didn't even look to be breathing. But for the slight dilation of his pupils as his focus caught on the swirling vortex of blood nearing the shore, he could have been a sculpture. Madden daren't move though, not with the way the other members of the Skuldalid sneered at him, waiting for some glimpse into the residual pain of a humiliating punishment, so they could laugh at him like hyenas on crack. Some welcome party, he wanted no part of it. He wanted to be topside in a hot bath, getting a massage from a few of the club's girls. A pretty blonde maybe. None of it would come to pass until MacTire gave him leave to return above ground. Fomor was unstable and hungry for a look, a taste, of this female key. Boots scuffed bone sand, the only tell of his agitation as he forced himself not to move, not to flinch, when a pacing Varg skimmed too close to him. Fuckers liked playing with him now. The privileges of his status as brother-in-law to the King held about as much water as a sieve, when MacTire himself had publicly issued the orders for his debasement at their hands. It didn't matter that he'd been allowed to accompany the Skuldalid for the female's arrival. That was just a means of adding insult to his injuries. Doyle had succeeded where Madden had failed, and MacTire had dragged him here, with his pride in tatters, to rub his nose in it.

A snarl was leashed and ready to be let loose on the next Varg that walked behind him, but it never came about. MacTire moved, ploughing through the few males that had swarmed forwards in haste to see the girl, when the two bodies splashed up, crimson to charred bone beach. Here was history, being written in the sands of Fomor, a double coup that defied the comprehension of every pair of eyes that witnessed it. Here lay the pariah of their race, the author of their downfall, limbs entwined with their brightest hope. Here was their mortal enemy, delivering the key to freedom right into their hands. It spoke to Madden of atonement, but there wasn't a male amongst them, Madden included, that would hesitate to avenge their lost. Mothers, daughters, sisters, mates. If the Savage had come seeking to atone for his wrongs, he would find no forgiveness here, amongst the Skuldalid. Every bruised muscle in Madden's body ached from the base degradation that was their brand of mercy, and he had merely failed to produce the girl. To break the oaths of the félag and take arms against your own blood? There was no more inglorious act. The King's Vanguard had waited many centuries for justice.

They were so still, the two bodies that were the focus of all eyes, locked in an embrace that fitted them into one form. She looked more delicate than the last time he'd seen her, fragile and deathly pale, wrapped in the bind of the Savage's arms. Breakable. A strange rush of embarrassment filled heat into his cheeks, as though he had stumbled upon a private moment in a world of blood and pain. There was no savagery in the hold, none of the fierce brutality marking her skin beneath the faint spiderweb pulsing at the surface of her pale flesh. Only tenderness in the kiss that never broke. Hurtled into Hell and not even that could separate one from the other. It was light fractured in a place where shadows ruled. Madden couldn't tear his eyes away.

The dull light of the torches planted at the water's edge illuminated the black pathway of veins slowly receding and he feigned a doctor's interest in the phenomenon, a distance away and observing. Her breath was visible now, the rise and fall of her chest shallow compared with the ragged, panting growls of frustration sawing the Savage's body as he fought the leaden paralysis claiming his strength. Madden could relate. He hated that weakness. It struck like lightning on the trip over and could hang around for hours. Not something you wanted when the universe's bitchiest raptors haunted the skies of Fomor. As if on cue, a murderous screech cut a nervous murmur across the crowd of Vargs, slicing through the stunned stillness that had carved awe into the face of every male on the sands. This female was different and they could smell it.

'Get him off her,' MacTire growled, incensed at the picture before him. His obsidian eyes were alive with a maniacal gleam, the torch flames casting him as a grotesque Gollum with the precious wolf bloodlines in his covetous sights. Rún and Brandr moved forward to obey. Gripping Connal's useless limbs, the russet-haired warrior hesitated, exchanging a look with his blood brother. Madden read into that look, the unvoiced reticence to wrench apart these two ... lovers?

A growl dashed the hesitation into motion, the brothers moving fast to unravel the chain security of Connal's arms from around the unconscious female and draw her unresponsive form off the sand. Rún took her weight, so real, her curves draped over his arms.

'Fucking parasite, we finally pried you off her.' Brandr leant down, his scruff-faced lip curling into Connal's. 'You should have died the other night, you stinking cur, in the gutter, where a traitor like you belongs.' Drawing up on a snarl, Brandr found MacTire looming above them and looked to the King for permission to finish the job.

From the ground came a wet croak that drew both men's attention. By the time he mustered the strength to speak, the Savage had schooled his paralyzed mouth into a half smile. 'Brother, it's been too long,' he wheezed.

'You have no right to call me that.' The lability that crept into the King's voice was off-key for a man known for dispassionate cruelty. His face contorted with revulsion, he struck Madden as unstable. 'Our mother cursed the day she spat you from her thighs, mongrel. She should have wrung your neck at birth and spared us all your treachery.' MacTire's boot kicked out and a shower of bone-sharded sand rained down on the captive's head. This was the Savage's legacy to his race, charred remains in a sea of brutal bloodshed.

The King demanded Madden's wandering attention with a proclamation. 'My men. Our day has come to rise once more. See that Elatha has provided the vessel for us to thrive once again.' The register of his voice dropped to a reverent whisper as he approached Ash, the fingers of his giant hand moulding to the pale curve of her cheek. 'And is she not beautiful?' The pad of his thumb brushed across her full lips. Draped, limp in Rún's arms, Ash remained mercifully unconscious, though the blue-black lividity had receded completely to reveal the porcelain perfection of her skin. The silk sheet Connal had wrapped her in was shredded, barely covering her modesty from the lascivious eyes of the gathering crowd. MacTire's hand dropped to sift the raven silk of her hair through his fingers. Lifting a handful of damp curls to his face, he inhaled deep and a growl ripped from his throat. Gripping her jaw in one powerful hand, he angled her throat to reveal the freshly cut bite mark in her skin. Wheeling on Connal where he lay powerless on the shore, the King snapped.

'Was it not enough to seduce my mate and plant your maggot spawn inside her belly? Must you defile this one too?' He gestured to Ash, where she hung from Rún's arms. 'She trusted you and yet you condemn her to the same hell as the rest of us. Once a betrayer, always a betrayer.'

'You know nothing. She loves me, brother,' Connal's words were a cracked whisper. 'She will never go willingly to your bed, MacTire. Even if you force her, it will always be me, in the end. Me in her thoughts, in her heart. Mine.' His eyes drifted closed, but the shadow of a smile hovered on his lips.

MacTire's booted foot moved to obliterate that smile in a sickening crunch of bone, but it was clear to Madden that the remnant of its effects lingered in the strain that bracketed the King's mouth with deep-furrowed chagrin. 'You are a traitor to your race, Connal Savage. You will die here, alone, in the same agony you left your kin to suffer.' MacTire snatched up a fistful of dreads, yanked Connal's head to a sickening angle, and spat squarely in his face. 'Burn in Hell with your bastard child, my blood brother. They say the babe mewled like a worthless runt when he was thrown to the Untame. I should have slit your throat then, along with my faithless bitch of a mate.' His boot tipped Connal's chin up and a vicious yank of strong fingers tore out the silver hoops hooked through the Savage's flesh, breaking the skin to a grunt of stifled pain and removing the rings and their pure blood connections in a spray of scarlet. He was nothing without the pierced birthright, less now than the dog he had been.

Madden felt the sand shift beneath his feet, or was it that he had turned to stone and the rest of the world was suddenly turning on a different axis?

If Thor's Hammer had smashed his face in at that moment, he wouldn't have felt a thing. MacTire's words ran his blood cold and instilled shock to every cell, electrifying his heart to a beat of deranged, swelling fury. It rose to lash across the spasm of his confused thoughts with one truth. MacTire, not Connal, had killed his sister. And the arrogance of the man had him declaring it before his own creatures. Too confident, too angry and probably too damn stupid to realise Madden as a threat, MacTire simply ploughed on with his orders.

'Break him open and gift him wings of bone. Season his innards with salt. The Raveners will relish his flavour so much the longer.'

The King's words warped in Madden's ears. The same momentum that propelled the wolves into their future was sucking him back into a past he no longer recognised. The Vargs milled around his frozen form as though he were invisible, rushing to shackle a limp Connal to hang between a rock structure, a monolith with sharp points reaching to the skies and a gap enough to string a man up.

'Keep him conscious. The Blood Eagle is no fun if he sleeps through it,' MacTire laughed. The sick, murdering bastard actually laughed as they stripped what shreds of clothes still clung to Connal's body. Flash frames of memory played across Madden's frontal lobe, rapid-firing despite his outward stillness, stripping away layer upon layer of ingrained misunderstandings.

Aoife, flushed and breathless with life and secret laughter, returning from one of her covert, midnight adventures. He'd understood enough to know it was a male who brought her that joy, but had never known his name nor seen his face. God, but he saw it now. Dreads hung low, silent tears cut tracks down filthy cheeks as the blade ripped through the sinew and bone of Connal's broad back, the rip and crunch of brutal hands fashioning gruesome, bloody wings from the cage of his ribs.

Aoife. Heavy with child and utterly joyless. Aoife. Once bright eyes turned fearful and furtive, concealing the black-haired child in her robes. It was the last time he'd seen his sister. She left their tent and never returned. What came in her place was this man, strung up in front of him now, ripped open by the savagery of vengeance. Connal, at the head of a demon army of Untame that unleashed horror on their people. Blood and burning and chaos and fleeing for their lives. And MacTire, in the caves, always MacTire, holding him back when he wanted only to go to her, his sister, with her baby. Again and again, the image haunted him, like a word spelled over and over, until suddenly it looked like a foreign language. Not saving his life, not grieving a mate, or a son, but wearing their blood on his hands, knowing they were already beyond saving, dead on the end of MacTire's own blade.

As the crowd backed up to admire their work, Madden was gifted a view of the winged and broken man sagging to his knees, head fallen forward, arms back stretched, only the chains suspending him off the ground. A bloody, fallen creature. But this was no Lucifer, riding them into Hell on the back of his own pride, feeding his thirst for power on the blood of his own kin. No, what Madden saw now was a dark, avenging angel, chained and bleeding, with the black wingspans of the Raveners circling overhead, closing in on the fresh scent of carrion.

Madden remained utterly invisible. There was no glance in his direction as the Vargs swarmed into a ragged procession, lashing out at the agonised man in chains with thick fists and snarling, spat, curses. MacTire was at the head, walking close to Rún and the precious female still laying limp in his arms, his fingers in the drifting curls bouncing with every step. MacTire didn't look back. He had their future beside him, and his back turned on their past. The damned must die alone.

Betrayed, shunned, tortured. Madden stood as they walked away, and found himself on common ground with his enemy. A Ravener shrieked overhead, foreshadowing death. He looked down upon the fallen angel of vengeance sacrificed at his feet, and back up to the retreating forms of his family, silhouetted against the caves.

His heart was torn.

## Will Ash survive Becoming Bad?

Book 2, Becoming Bad

Book 3, Becoming Blood

Available online now, wherever books are sold.

Hungry for more background about the world of the Fomorian wolves?

Come visit us at www.ravenandblack.blogspot.com

## GLOSSARY

###

***Warning: This glossary contains SPOILERS. If you prefer a spoiler-free reading experience, we suggest leaving this until after you finished the book. ***

**A leanbh** \- Gaelic for 'my child.'

**Blood eagle** \- An ancient Norse method of torture and execution, performed by cutting and breaking the ribs of the victim and forming them into a semblance of bloody wings. The lungs would be pulled through the wounds and salt poured into the chest cavity. A punishment reserved for the worst traitors to the Fomorian race.

**Céad míle fáilte** \- Gaelic for 'a hundred thousand welcomes.'

**Dubh Linn** \- The old Norse from which Dublin got her name. It translates to 'black pool or lake'; the ancient site adjacent to Dublin Castle where the Vikings decided to settle. The actual black lake was filled in during the late seventeen/early eighteen hundreds.

**Eitr** \- The blue-tinged, opalescent venom in a Fomorian's bite, it has an adverse effect on humans (see Thrall). In Fomorians, the exchange of eitr heightens sexual orgasm in a biological incentive to mate and reproduce.

**Elatha** \- A Fomorian moon god, whose blessing of the red fog permitted the Vargs to walk the earth during full moon.

**Félag** (pleural félagi) - Old Norse word meaning 'fellowship' or a 'bringing together of strengths'. On reaching maturity, Fomorian male litter-mates born to different fathers undergo a ceremonial branding and contest one another in battle to establish dominance. Thereafter, the blood-brothers are sworn, one to the other, in a lifelong bond of allegiance, which included the sharing of a single mate.

**Form** \- A nightclub built on the site of the original Dubh Linn. Neutral territory (see Haven Law).

**Fomor** \- A mythical, subterranean world, in which the Fomorians have been condemned to dwell forever by the Morrígan's powers. Fomorians retain their immortality only as long as they maintain contact with Fomor. If they walk the earth outside of the full moon, they age instantly and die a slow, agonising death.

**Fomorian** \- A mythical, semi-divine race that were the first inhabitants of Ireland. Gods of chaos and wild nature, they have been variously described as grotesque beasts and as beautiful men. Defeated in battle by the Tuatha Dé Danann, the Fomorians were driven beneath the sea, never to walk the land of Ireland again. What is not written in the myths is that over millennia, cracks appeared in their underground prison, the Tuatha Dé were forgotten, no longer worshipped, and fissures, conduits to the surface, developed, leading to black lakes, through which the Fomori began to escape and terrorize the human people in the form of giant, wolf-like creatures. The people of Eblana kept wolfhounds as protection and stayed clear of the known dangers of the black lake where the wolves appeared at full moon in a haze of red fog. But one fateful night, a large fleet of Viking settlers arrived and moored their longboats on the black lake, unsuspecting of the dangers. That full moon, something happened. The Fomori possessed the souls of every man, woman and child on board the boats, using the power of the full moon to cleave themselves to human forms in an attempt to finally free themselves of their curse and roam the land they considered was rightfully theirs. Thus began the second great reign of the Fomori, into which our characters were born, a reign that was to last until a terrible battle once again drove them below ground, cursed to live out their immortality in their subterranean prison, or die an agonising death above ground.

**Fostbrodir** \- Old Norse for blood brother or sworn brother.

**Haven Law** \- An ancient pact, agreed between the Ancient gods and the Fomorians, establishing the sacred ground of the Dubh Linn as neutral ground, following the Morrigan's prophecy that to spill Fomor blood on the site would bring about an apocalypse for all humanity.

**Laeknir** \- Old Norse term for a healer.

**Latent** \- A human female believed to be a carrier of Fomorian bloodlines. Identified by the presence of the genetic anomaly of tapetum lucidum, or eyeshine. On reaching maturity, latent females develop a sensitivity to the full moon and are drawn to sites on the surface of the earth where the male wolves appear. Rumoured to be the offspring of Thegn who have broken their vows of celibacy and mated with human women.

**MacTire** \- Gaelic word meaning wolf, literal translation, son of the earth. The King of the Fomorian race. Pierced nipples denote his royal status. In ancient Ireland, suckling the King's nipples was a demonstration of submission.

**Mo ghrá** \- Gaelic for 'my love.'

**Morrígan** \- Mythological Irish Goddess of battle. Fought with the Tuatha Dé Danann against the Fomorians and prophesied the end of the world. Has been known to take animal form, as a raven or a wolf, and has appeared in Irish mythology as a beautiful young woman and as an old crone. Sometimes depicted as a trio of female Goddesses. She foretold the death of the hero Chú Chulainn (see Setanta), with whom she had a complicated love-hate relationship.

**Plamás** \- Gaelic word for smooth-talking manipulation.

**Rave** \- The human explanation for the addiction that has taken root in Dublin city is that a new, mind-altering drug, Rave, is circulating, one that causes nail discolouration and renders users sensitive to the effects of the full moon, leading to violence and rampant sexual activity. Users are referred to as C'ravers.

**Ravener** \- A hideous, harpy-like creature with a curved beak and razor talons, resembling a mutated raven. They are the piranhas of the skies, the Morrígan's guardians keeping the Fomorians in line. They hunt from the Fomor skies.

**Setanta** \- Mythical Irish hero, who, as a child, killed Culann's fierce hound in self-defense and offered to take the dog's place, gaining him the name Chú Chulainn (hound of Cullen). Mortally wounded, Chú Chulainn tied himself to a stone with his own entrails so he could die upright, and it was only when a raven landed on his shoulder that his enemies believed him dead. The Raven was understood to represent the Morrígan in animal form, guarding the hero's death.

**Sláinte** \- Gaelic word meaning 'health.' A traditional drinking toast.

**Skuldalid** \- Derived from the old Norse word for family, the members of the Fomorian King's elite vanguard are collectively known as the Skuldalid. Viciously loyal to MacTire. Originally six, Brandr, Fite, Rún and Tyr are the four remaining members. Crys was killed by the Morrígan's slayer, and Knutr, his félag, driven insane, was imprisoned in Fomor for the safety of all.

**Tá brón orm**. Maith dom é, mo ghrá - Gaelic for 'I am sorry. Forgive me, my love.'

**Tapetum lucidum** \- A reflective layer found behind the retina of many nocturnal, hunting animals. It improves night vision and causes a characteristic eyeshine when a light is shone on the eyes in the dark. The colour shows inter-species variations. Not normally found in humans.

**Thegn** \- Genetic runts of the Fomorian race, their human traits are dominant and they lack the ability to take Varg form. Not subject to the Morrígan's curse, the Thegn can walk the earth, independent of the full moon, and like the Vargs, they are immortal, unless they lose their heads or have their hearts ripped out. The defect becomes apparent at puberty, at which time the Thegn are forced into a monk-like existence, living to serve the Vargs and endure a life of celibacy, in order to prevent the weakening of the Fomorian blood line. They can be freed from their oath and allowed to reproduce with humans, but all ties to the Fomorians are severed. They cannot return to Fomor.

**Thrall** \- A human who has been bitten and is addicted to the eitr in a Varg's bite. Characteristically, Thralls are affected by the full moon, are attracted to the colour red and develop a black staining of the half-moons of the nail bed. The Thrall become subservient, sex-crazed slaves to their wildest urges. In some, especially bitten men, the eitr unleashes deep-seated, violent impulses. Many Thrall are driven insane by the addiction, which may have contributed to the lore of full moon madness and lunacy.

**Tír na nÓg** \- Translates from Gaelic as 'land of the young', a mythical land of eternal youth and beauty, without sickness, but if an inhabitant were ever to set foot on Ireland's soil again, it would result in rapid ageing and death.

**Tuatha Dé Danann** \- Mythological race of pre-Christian Irish Gods, who defeated the Fomorians and drove them beneath the sea.

**Untame** \- Fomorian beasts in their most primitive incarnation. These are the creatures who did not merge their souls with those of humans, therefore they lack the humanity of the hybrid Fomorians and are feral. They were caged and pitched against one another in dog-fights for the amusement of the Fomorians.

**Varg** \- A Norse word for wolf, used to describe Fomorians in their beast form. Red-eyed, they have limited colour vision, but see the colour red vividly.

**Vargrliker** \- Old Norse for one who takes on or assumes a wolf's body. An insult, with the implication that they are not a true wolf, but an imposter. Also used to mean a traitor.

## ABOUT THE AUTHORS

###

The writing duo of Jess and Paula met online through their mutual love of paranormal and urban fantasy romance. They sparked creatively and have been writing together for the past three years. Paula lives in Dublin, Ireland with her family. She set aside a career in medicine to raise her three children. Jess lives in Manchester, England with her mother and dog, Simi. When she isn't writing up worlds with Paula, she's a wedding planner for a large retail store.

