Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (7 page)

Griff held himself back, staring at the dragon, who stared right back at him.

He felt it happening, before he heard them gasp. His eyes were turning red, mirroring the dragon’s own blood-red gaze. Usually, when his eyes turned, he was feeling something very strong—mostly anger. Although, to his chagrin, his mother used to like to tell people that every time she nursed him, his eyes would turn red. But now, in this moment, he wasn’t feeling anger—an emotion he often associated with strength.

No, he was on edge, certainly, senses more alive than they might ever have been in his entire life, at least while he was in human form, but it wasn’t anger that filled him now.

It was power.

Pure, raw, unadulterated power.

He felt as if he, like the image of the dragon before him, could simply spread wings and fly away. He could burn cities to the ground with a simple sneeze. Fry a man to a crisp with a cough. And if he wanted to? He could rule them all.

Griff struggled to contain this feeling, to make sense of it. Gory hell, even his cock was hard with excitement—he felt like he had another sword under his plaid!

Then the dragon turned its head. It had no body Griff could see—mayhaps the rest of it was buried in the pool. He knew this thought would drive him mad if he lingered on it, trying to find the rest of the dragon who couldn’t really exist that appeared before him and filled him with such feeling.

But then the beast turned its scaly head and looked at Bridget.

Griff moved without thinking. He saw it happen—saw the beast’s eyes flash silver, instead of red, saw Bridget’s eyes, like an answering call, flash silver, too. That grey-green moved all the way to the other end of the spectrum, her eyes glowing, like someone gone blind.

“No!” Griff charged, leaping over the corner of the pool to cut the distance, nearly losing his footing on the slippery rock as he tackled the young woman, her ceremonial sword still flaming, aloft, pointing at the dragon’s head rising up from the center of the water.

He heard the other woman, Aleesa, cry out, heard Alaric shout, but he paid neither of them any mind as he covered Bridget’s body with his own, taking her down to the wet rocks with him.

Bridget’s sword dropped, hissing into the water behind them. She cried out as he covered her, mindful of his weight, not to crush her, just to keep her safe from harm. She stared up at him in wonder, their eyes locked, and for a moment he saw himself, the red heat of his own eyes reflected in the silver pools of hers.

“Griff,” she whispered, and he felt the way his cock hardened at the sound of his name in her mouth. His erection strained against the soft, silky material of her robe, and beyond that, against her incredible softness. He had never wanted a woman more than he wanted her in that moment, and if Alaric hadn’t called his name, too, he might have rolled her over and taken her without thinking—right then, right there.

“Are y’all right, lass?” Griff asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.

“I did’na need rescuing!” Bridget struggled under him, movements that didn’t make him any less hard for her. In fact, quite the opposite. She pushed against his chest with both hands—the woman had a surprising amount of strength for a human girl, even without armor and a sword. “Ye’re such an impetuous fool! The dragon’n’t’lady could’ve told ye what ye wanted t’know.”

“What?” Griff puzzled at her words. “What lady?”

“Did ye n’see ’er?” She wiggled out from under him and he saw that her robe was in disarray, parting slightly in the front, giving him a view of her pale, creamy thigh. Griff saw her noticing him looking at the gap in her robe and she pulled it closed, color rising to her cheeks. “If ye had’na interrupted, ye would’ve seen ’er. She was turning t’me. Did ye n’see ’er eyes go silver?”

“I only saw... t’dragon...” He frowned, moving to his feet, feeling a little lightheaded in the aftermath. He held a hand out to help her up and she made a face, ignoring it once again and standing on her own.

“Father?” Bridget frowned, glancing behind Griff, and he turned to see both Alaric and Aleesa approaching. The look on both their faces startled him, but what they did next left him truly speechless for the first time in his whole life.

“What’re ye doin’?” Bridget blinked as both of her parents took a knee before Griff, bowing their heads.

“Y’are t’one true king,” Alaric said, a slight quiver in his voice, gray head bowed. “How can we serve ye?”

What in the gory hell was he supposed to say to that? Griff stared at them, alarmed. Then he looked at Bridget. It was the fear in her eyes that forced words from his throat. He took the matter in hand as best he could.

“Firs’ of all, ye can get up.” Griff huffed, rolling his eyes. He gave them both a hand up, which they accepted, unlike their daughter, who still stood, tall and haughty and disbelieving, beside him. “And then ye can tell me where t’find t’lost packs. Tis all I wanna know.”

“Alas, we can’na tell ye.” Aleesa looked distraught, wringing her hands, looking at Alaric. “We do’na know.”

“But we can show ye where tis written,” Alaric replied.

“A’righ’,” Griff sighed with impatience. “I s’pose that’s t’next best thing.”

“Except...” Aleesa bit her lip.

“What?” Griff threw up his hands. “T’book’s hidden? We have t’tunnel t’the center of the country mayhaps?”

“No, it has t’be high moon time,” Alaric informed him. “That’ll be jus’ a few days from now.”

“Aye, a’course.” Griff ran a hand through his hair, wondering how in the world he was going to wait, even a few days in this place—for a full moon, of all things. “Do t’stars hafta be in alignment, too? Mayhaps I have t’strip naked an ’dance ‘round a fire while ye chant?”

“Aye, tis exactly righ’.” Bridget looked at him, unblinking, a little smile playing on her lips. “Ye hafta dance naked ’round a fire under t’full moon.”

“Bridget, hush.” Her mother sighed. “T’dragon will’na return now. We’ll hafta wait for t’high moon.”

“If I hafta wait…” Griff sighed, too. He hated waiting. “Can I trouble ye fer a bed, mayhaps?”

“A’course.” Aleesa nodded. “I’ll make up a bed fer ye.”

“And, while I’m thinking on it... a bath?” he suggested hopefully. He hadn’t bathed since the day of the Great Hunt, and the pool in front of him looked very inviting.

“Aye.” Aleesa smiled at him, putting a soft hand on his forearm. “I’ll start boilin’ water, m’lord.”

“M’lord?” Bridget snorted under her breath and Griff glanced at her, remembering the way she felt underneath him, all softness pressed between the stone and the rigid resistance of his body.

“Pardon?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Who d’ye think y’re, a king?” Bridget exclaimed, crossing her arms and glaring at him.

“Aye.” He chuckled, glancing at Aleesa and seeing her frown. Clearly the wulvers were now on his side, even if the girl was not. He told Aleesa, “And I’d like ’er to tend me.”

“I will not—” Bridget protested, her eyes widening.

“Aye, lass, ye will!” Aleesa’s eyes flashed, not silver or red, but there were some things far worse than curses and prophecies, and clearly Aleesa’s temper was one of them. Griff grinned as Aleesa took her daughter’s arm, yanking her out of the room. “Now come wit’ me.”

Bridget grumbled to herself the entire time as she carried buckets of hot water back and forth from the fire to fill the wooden tub. She had it halfway full, and the floor was wet where she’d splashed—not to mention the front of her robe, which clung to her like a damned second skin—when the big wulver-man, Griff, came into the room. He glanced at her as she put the last two full buckets on the floor beside the fireplace in his room. These were for rinsing, of course.

“Are ye ready fer yer bath, m’lord?” She couldn’t keep the venom from dripping off her tongue.

First, this beast bests her as temple guardian. Then, he somehow bewitches her parents into thinking he’s some sort of “red wulver” who’s here to fulfill a prophecy. Then, just when the dragon and the lady were about to tell them the truth, he attacks her!

Rescue, my foot,
she thought, glaring as the man began to undress. His sheath was empty—no swords, aside from the ceremonial ones, were allowed in the temple—and he tossed it onto the bed.

Alaric and Aleesa had given up their room, with the big bed and large fireplace, for their guest. And why? Because they thought this arrogant fool was some sort of wulver king? He was nothing but a bragging, boastful boy.

Bridget turned to watch him, leaning against the tub, arms crossed over her chest. Well, mayhaps not so much a boy, she corrected herself, as he pulled his tunic over his head, tossing it on the bed, too. At least, not physically. His shoulders were big and broad, tawny colored in the firelight. He was so muscled, the hills and valleys in his arms alone were breathtaking, like the scenery of Skara Brae. Rolling and rather delicious.

Bridget told herself it was the heat from the fire, and her own toil in carrying water back and forth from the kitchen, that made her face flush when the man divested himself of his plaid. He half-sat on the bed, pulling off hose and boots too, tossing them aside.

She knew Aleesa would want them washed, and so Bridget moved to retrieve them. She set them all by the door—his clothes, boots, sword sheath, belt—ignoring the fact that he was naked behind her.

She averted her eyes when he climbed into the tub, but she couldn’t help seeing the bulge of the man’s strong thighs, the hollows at the sides of his buttocks, before he sank into the water with a low, soft groan.

“What d’ye wan’ me t’do?” Bridget had hissed at her mother as they warmed water over the fire.

“Jus’ tend ’im, Bridget,” Aleesa told her with a heavy sigh. “Wash t’man wit’ soap’n’water. Ye act like ye do’na know what a bath is!”

Of course she knew what a bath was. She’d taken thousands. Okay, maybe hundreds. But she’d never had to wash anyone but herself before. She didn’t know anything about man parts, aside from the fact that, if you brought a knee up between their legs, they had soft stones that puckered and shriveled and turned them into howling babies. She’d learned that lesson by accident, but her father had used it, as he used everything, to teach her a lesson. If she absolutely had to hurt a man, if he was besting her and she had to escape, honorably or no, that was the best way to do so.

“Ye can leave me, lass,” Griff called softly as Bridget put his things in order. Mayhaps she was stalling, it was true. “I can bathe m’self.”

She glanced over, seeing his head tipped back, eyes closed, his big arms resting on the sides of the tub, elbows cocked, hands floating in the water. When she didn’t answer, he peeped one eye open to look at her. She stood near the door, undecided, worrying her lip between her teeth. Griff opened two eyes, then his gaze moved down her robe, all the way to her bare toes peeking out from underneath, then upwards until their eyes locked.

“D’ye ’ave any soap, lass?” he asked, running a hand through his thick, dark mass of hair. It curled even more when it was wet, she noticed.

“Aye,” she said softly, moving to get it for him. She had made the soap herself. Aleesa taught her that, the same way she’d taught her how to chant and throw herbs into the scrying pool. Her own soap smelled of heather and silvermoon, but this was sage and cedar, a far more masculine scent they made for Alaric, who protested going around smelling like flowers—when they could get him to bathe, that was.

Griff lifted it to his nose, sniffing it lightly, giving her an appreciative look as he soaped up his hands and began rubbing them over his chest. She noticed the hairs that curled there, circling his nipples, small and pink, like miniatures of her own. Hers were hard—probably because she’d gotten herself soaked carrying all the water back and forth, she told herself, trying to ignore the soft pulse between her thighs.

He had told her to go, but she didn’t. Instead, she knelt by the side of the tub, her eyes glued to the way his hands roamed his chest and shoulders and arms, wondering what it felt like to map that fleshy terrain. His hands dipped under the water with the soap, toward areas she didn’t dare peek at.

Her mother had bid her to tend the man, and so Bridget reached for a washing cloth, dipping it into the water to wet it, and then holding her hand out to him silently for the soap.

Griff looked at her for a moment, a bemused smile playing on his lips, but he handed it over, watching as she rubbed soap into the cloth, making suds.

“How’d ye come t’be ’ere, Bridget?” Griff asked, leaning forward when she put a hand on his shoulder and pulled.

“Tis m’home,” she said simply, standing and moving in behind him so she could scrub his back. His flesh was beautifully tanned, his shoulder blades jutting like wings as he let her scrub, up and down, back and forth. He gave a little groan when she rubbed the cloth hard over his shoulders.

“Ye like that?” She cocked her head, her fingers digging into the muscle, and he gave another soft moan.

“Aye.” He rolled his head from side to side. “T’was a long journey.”

“Where d’ye come from?” she asked, wondering about it, knowing now that his pack had been the same that her parents had left. They had once lived in the same den. “Where’s yer home?”

“Scotland,” he told her, glancing back in surprise at her question. He was wondering why her parents hadn’t told her. And she was wondering the same thing. “Middle March. Right on t’border b’tween Scotland’n’England. We used t’have a mountain den, back a’fore I was born. M’mother says t’was lovely, wit’ a valley contained in t’mountain range, an’ a stream runnin’ through it. Now we live in a den underground—on MacFalon land. Tis a beautiful place. Reminds me of this.”

“I’ve ne’er known any other home but this,” she admitted, her fingers digging into the hard, bunched muscle of his shoulders. He let out a sigh of relief at her touch, and another groan when she dug her thumbs into his flesh. “I’m not hurtin’ ye?”

“No, lass.” He chuckled. “Not likely.”

She stiffened at his words, withdrawing, knowing he was referring to their first meeting.

“Do’na stop.” He looked back at her in the firelight. “I did’na mean t’insult ye. It’s jus’… I’ve ne’er met a woman like ye a’fore.”

“What’s that mean?” She frowned, but she put her hands back onto his shoulders, continuing to knead his flesh like bread dough. He moaned again, eyes closing. He really seemed to like it, and for some reason, that pleased her. “Griff?”

“Hmmm?” His head tilted forward as she dug her fingers into his shoulder blades.

“What d’ye mean, ye’ve ne’er met a woman like me?”

“Where I come from,” he said, hissing when she scraped him lightly with her nails. “Women do’na fight. Wulver women… they’re not warriors.”

“Ye do’na think a woman should be a warrior?” She frowned, watched the water trickling down his skin in little rivers. There were no scars or marks on the man, and she wondered at it, but then she remembered—he was a wulver. A warrior, like Alaric.

She had once nicked her trainer with her long sword, a gash in his arm that would have taken her months to heal from—and would have left a very bad scar—but on Alaric, the wound had closed up in moments. Within a quarter of an hour, there was no sign it had even happened at all.

“Yer a fine swordma—swords
woman
.” He corrected himself, smiling back at her. “He’s trained ye vera well. Ye gave me quite a beatin’ out there, lass. I was afeared I was’na gonna make’t into t’temple after all.”

“Now you’re just humorin’ me…” She rolled her eyes, poking him in the shoulder with her finger.

“Mayhaps a lil.” His smile spread into a mischievous grin. “But tell me t’truth… d’ye wanna be a warrior?”

“What d’ye mean?” She wrinkled her nose at him, cocking her head. “I’ve been trained t’be t’temple guardian’n’priestess. Tis what I’m meant t’do.”

“Hm.” Griff’s gaze moved to the fire. In this light, his eyes were almost gold. “Mayhaps.”

“Ye came ’ere because of a prophecy,” she reminded him. “Ye mus’ b’lieve in destiny.”

“Ye’d think so.” He snorted. “Y’know, the Scots—they let women lead their clans. The MacFalon’s trained ’is daughters right alongside ’is sons.”

“The MacFalon...” Bridget frowned, remembering their conversation at dinner. It seemed a million years ago now, but the things that had been revealed at that meal had changed everything for her. She couldn’t look at her parents now without feeling a sense of loss and betrayal. Why had they not told her where they’d come from, what they’d left behind?

“M’father’s told me stories about the Scots—and The MacFalon,” she told him. It was true, but only in a general sense. Alaric had told her about a pact between wulvers and men that had been drafted by the king of England himself.

“Different man, I promise ye.” Griff assured her, seeing her expression as she moved the washing cloth over his shoulder, down his arm, as she came to kneel beside the tub. “Donal MacFalon would’na hurt a wulver. He married one.”

“Kirstin...” It was the first time Bridget had said the girl’s name aloud, and it pained her greatly. Her parents, the people who had loved and raised her from infancy, had another daughter. And she had never known. How could it be?

Griff’s wet hand touched her face, tilting her chin up so she was forced to meet his eyes. She knew he would see the tears there, the ones she’d been trying to hide. Her breath caught, her throat closing up, and she felt her lip tremble as he searched her face with those strange-colored eyes of his.

“Ye did’na know they had a child, did ye?” he asked softly.

“No.” She barely whispered the word. One of the tears that threatened trembled on her lashes and fell down her cheek.

“Yer not their own.” He wiped her cheek with his wet thumb, frowning. The look on his face made her want to sob—everything she was feeling was reflected in his eyes. Her anger, her sadness, bewilderment, confusion.

“They took me in,” she told him, reminding herself of this fact. They were the only parents she’d ever known, and they loved her. She knew that was true.

“How old were ye?” He leaned back as she soaped the cloth again, washing his shoulders, his collarbone. He seemed to like it when she rubbed hard, so she did so.

“Jus’ a bairn,” she said, making him lift his arms so she could scrub underneath. “M’mother says someone left me at t’temple, near t’secret entrance.”

“The one in t’rock?”

“Aye.” She traced the cloth down the center of his chest, between his ribs.

“How’d they know t’was there?”

“I do’na know.” She shrugged, grazing the cloth over the row of hills and valleys that made up the man’s abdomen. It was hard as rock, so unlike her own softness. “M’father thinks t’was a mage who knew there were guardians at t’ temple who’d care fer me—and train me t’be like them.”

“Tis strange, leavin’ a human child wit’ two wulvers.” Griff watched her move the washing cloth lower. His eyes were darker now, almost orange. “How’d they know you’d not be breakfast?”

“But they did’na eat me.” She laughed. The man had a line of dark hair that ran from his navel down under the water and she traced that with the cloth, too, fascinated. “All is as it should be.”

“Ye keep sayin’ that.” Griff tilted his head at her.

“Tis true.” She shrugged, wetting her lips—her mouth felt suddenly dry—when she saw the appendage between his legs had grown in size, pointing directly at her. She knew enough about mating—animals, humans and wulvers—to know what it meant. But Bridget found herself fascinated by it. She wanted nothing more than to reach down and touch him.