The Becoming Trilogy Box Set (Books 1-3) (47 page)

Mac moved with animal grace
towards the door, aiming gruff words over his shoulder. ‘I want to help you,
Ashling. Let me. In time, you will see Fomor as a home, not a prison, and
perhaps, what you feel for me … can be something more than just this blood-tie
we share. I have already waited an eternity. I mean to persuade you that you
can love me, Ashling, as you thought you loved him.’

T
riggered by MacTire’s exit, the tension keeping Ash
rigid and angry dissolved, opening the floodgates and turning her into a fetal
ball on the floor.

Her head was reeling with
Mac's revelations. Little wonder she'd felt a connection with Connal. Like
recognised like. They had history in common, so much he never had the chance to
tell her. He lost his mother young, just as she had. He'd been dragged from the
life he knew and was left to fend for himself. Sure, a few rough years bouncing
around foster homes didn't begin to compare, but the loneliness, the
abandonment, the fear. Those were her old friends.

Except that was where the
similarities ended.

He fought back.

Her heart refused to believe
he was all bad. She'd seen his compassion, with the damn dog, with the
graveyard, with his dead son. He’d given his life, for her.

What had she done? Cringed
away from the nightmare of her childhood, tried to make herself so small that
maybe nobody would notice her, and she’d be left alone. All her life, she
avoided friendships and relationships, too cowardly to face what life might
throw at her. She'd kept her head down, buried in ancient mythology, because
the real world seemed so much scarier. And for what? The monsters found her
anyway.

Maybe Mac was right. There
was nothing left for her in her old life. She'd been so busy avoiding life, it
had passed her by.

Ash cried until her heart
hurt and her chest seized up. She was alone, the cuckoo bird dropped into
another’s nest. She’d die without them, Mac made that much clear. But honestly?
What did he think she had to live for? Her man was gone, if he’d ever really
been hers, and she was left with some wolf hoodoo she was trying not to
understand.

Ash had no one.

Mac wanted to be her someone.

It was a mess, a big,
volatile mess, and she was exhausted by it. Tears blurred her vision and she
whined pathetically, giving in to the next wave of despair.

Sleep must have taken her at
some point because when she next opened her eyes, her head was pillowed. She’d
been moved and was sprawled on a giant bed, the weight of a powerful arm draped
across her waist, a large palm spread over her stomach. She was fitted flush to
the lines of a muscled body and in her waking fog, Ash could almost pretend it
was Connal holding her. But straight blonde was intertwined with her dark curls
and it shattered the dream.

The King’s bed held none of
the comfort Connal’s had, in fact … She lifted the arm pinning her and scooted
from under it, redistributing her weight on all fours for minimal disruption.
The mattress shifted, but Mac only growled, eyelids fluttering in sleep. He was
an arrogant bastard, forcing her to his bed when sleep made her helpless. Her
eyes were aching from the salt of her tears, raw and gritty under the rub of
her knuckles. The last time Ash had cried herself to sleep was that damn night
when Connal broke into her house, making the wolf-symbol of her nightmares a
reality. She’d recoiled from him then. Now? What wouldn’t she give for a
do-over.

She glared at the sleeping
predator, itching for a pillow so she could just … Gah, I want to smother him!
That would end all my problems. Or get me killed quicker. Settling for
stealthing the pillows from under his head, Ash returned to the fur rug and
fluffed her stolen luxuries.

Better to sleep on the floor
like a dog than be the King’s bitch.

Said king flopped over,
making the wood posts creak. Ash kicked her foot out to the base, frustrated.
The creaking stopped. Satisfied he’d shut up, she figured she could sleep some
more, while she waited for him to wake and leave.

The bastard was one of the
monsters, but he was the monster she knew right now. A prisoner of her own
fear, Ash was still lost. Her escape hadn’t gone to plan and she’d been
punished by the foreign desires that took her over.

Her next escape would end so
very differently.

She couldn’t stay. When they
started their plan to turn her into Mother Of The Year, she’d be better off
dead. Her imagination played out scenarios in cringeworthy detail, and none
ended well. Fomor was overrun with wolves, not a place to wander around
unescorted, especially for a woman. She'd seen what they did to Red Shoes, and
as much as it affected her, Ash refused to be a chew toy for their appetites.
They'd devour her and she'd lose herself forever.

As days passed, it became a
ritual of sorts. She’d fall asleep on the rug she’d claimed only to wake
snuggled into MacTire’s warmth as he nuzzled her hair and growled in his sleep.
Ash always eased herself free and settled back on the floor. As a show of
defiance, it was pretty pathetic. She’d drift back into dreams with her head
full of escape plots and wake again, captured in his bed. Truth be told, the
floor was not as comfortable, and she had bruises and aches from laying too
long on one side, but she refused to give in. He didn’t have the right to hold
her, or share the intimate trust that came with sleeping beside another person.
She didn’t trust him.

While her nights, or what
passed as night in this sunless realm, were filled with broken sleep, her days
were stuffed full of him. When Mac could be with her, he was. He fed her sweet
roots and some sort of meat she was too hungry to refuse. He seemed to take
pleasure in the task. The meals were haphazard creations of whatever they’d
managed to bring down at the full moon and what they somehow cultivated in the
wasteland. Her ‘What is this?’ was always met with a slow smile and a wink.
‘Just try it, you’ll like it.’ And since he didn’t die, she ate it too.

He did his best with her. He
curbed the asshole in him, telling her stories of his youth, the funnier antics
of his
skuldalid
and the tragedy of the aptly named Knutr who was locked
in the dungeon for his own safety. He was trying, and she tried her hardest not
to antagonise him, biding time and gathering information.

She behaved, sometimes, but
the endless darkness incited violent frustration. The days when she was caged
in his rooms, alone, were when she snapped, leaving his chambers destroyed on more
than one occasion. He’d greet her with a tight smile and usher the thegn to
clean up her mess. Then he’d stonewall her with his silence, leaving her with
her own thoughts. Mac was an ass at those times, but she learned quickly that
he could be soothed when she allowed his touches; the brush of his fingers
through her hair or the sweep of his palm up her spine, the possessive way he’d
grip her around the waist when they passed another wolf. He was never cruel,
never pushed her for what she knew his body raged for. Yet Ash still cried
herself to sleep, holding on to the last piece of Connal she had
.

S
uppressing a growl, the King’s outstretched arm
explored the rumpled bed, once again empty where Ashling had lain. He swung his
legs over the side of the platform and padded barefoot across the room.
Unaccustomed to stealthing about his own domain, a voice in MacTire’s head told
him the effect this woman had on him was dangerous. Very bloody dangerous. She
had a way of unravelling his intentions. She weakened him.

Impossible, stubborn
female
.

Lifting her sleeping form
back onto his bed had become a routine, from the first time he found her curled
up on the floor.

Patience was not in MacTire’s
repertoire, and what little he had with this softly-softly approach was wearing
thin, fast. Immediate gratification in all things came with the territory. It
was a millennium since he’d last locked wills with a mate, and that had ended
in carnage to rival any of the human wars. History would not repeat itself.
Ashling DeMorgan would bend to his will or she would break, just as all the
latents before her had.

Bundling her into his arms,
he settled her lax form into the nest of pelts. Swollen lids and hitched
breathing told him she’d cried herself to sleep, again. His hand hovered above
her pale cheek, the urge to smooth her hair a compulsion quashed in the fist of
self-loathing that branded his tenderness weak.

He would blame it on their
blood-tie, short-circuiting his brain, but this one was undeniably different
from the others. She was that elusive thing you wanted all the more because it
was denied you. Oh, he could take her, against her will. She wasn’t strong
enough yet to fend him off ... though that situation was changing by the day.
Hell, she would even enjoy it, thanks to the cruel irony of the blood-tether
that kindled lust even in the ice-pool of her hatred.

But you want her to want
you,
the voice goaded.

Yes, damnit, he was
egotistical enough to believe she would come begging on her knees.

As though feeling his
thoughts, Ashling moaned in her sleep and shifted, one hand falling limp across
the furs. Something bright caught his eye. Clutched in her fist was an old
coin,
that
coin. It dangled from the black cord MacTire himself had
wrenched from Connal Savage’s throat, right before he ordered his execution.
His j
aw tighten
ed and
he stiffened, restraining himself from ripping the detested thing from her
hand.

Even in fucking death …

A silent storm of frustrated
rage, he blasted from the room to stalk the stone corridors in search of
Brandr. He found him in his sleeping quarters, draped in a blanket of willing,
naked female.

‘Wake up,’ he snarled,
back-handing Brandr’s bearded face. The brunette stirred, Bambi eyes staring
groggily up at the King. At the prospect of the male joining them in their bed,
her expression quickly formed into one of lustful expectation.