MacRieve

TWENTY-NINE

MacRieve strode directly through Chloe’s obstacle course, ignoring Rónan’s drill. “Pack your men’s clothes, succubus,” he told her. “We’re leaving.”

Chloe waved the kid on. “You need to clear that in under a minute.”

Rónan nodded, giving MacRieve a glare, then continued his practice.

“Leaving? Let me guess, a prison transfer?” She wasn’t going anywhere with Head Case. “I’m going to have to say no to that plan, crypt keeper. What else you got?”

He scowled at her new nickname for him.

She could make fun of his age all she wanted, but that wouldn’t change how physically attractive he was. Even if she hated him, she could admire his looks. He stood so tall, still drool-worthy. Still obviously a douche.

After a figurative ass-kicking, Chloe was usually pretty good at picking herself up and dusting off her pants. But then, she’d never been quite as crushed as with him—so why did she still feel that connection to him?

Though he smelled like whiskey, she could detect that addictive masculine scent of his. With her stomach now empty, she was feeling a completely different kind of hunger. Her claws sprouted. She hid them behind her back. Sweat beaded her forehead. She needed to get away from him and nosh another round of food.

“We depart in an hour for Scotland.”

One of the few European countries she’d never played in. As much as she’d wanted to leave before, now she was suspicious. “No can do, MacRieve. You see, I’m currently employed as the clan AD—”

“AD?”

“Athletic director. Some of us actually have a job to do. Besides, why would I ever go anywhere with you?”

“Because your shortsighted plan to eat like a normal person dinna work out. I know you threw up.”

She swiped her arm over her forehead. “I’ve just been running too hard. That’s nothing definitive. I’m about to go eat again.”

He flicked his gaze over her face and eye, then scowled. Rónan had told her it was bruising. And more, her bad ankle was killing her. So much for immortality.

“You will no’ regenerate like this.”

She gazed away, then back. “I’ll continue to get worse?” Until what? She died?

A curt nod. “You need to feed. Resign yourself to this fact.”

Every time he used the word feed, her mind was cast back to their last encounter—when her claws had sunk into his lean hips as she’d swallowed him down. The most delectable taste she’d ever imagined.

Her claws were now aching to pierce his skin. Her nipples hardened under her shirt, until even two sports bras couldn’t conceal the taut points.

“Gods, woman, I can scent your arousal,” he said, voice gone hoarse. “Others will soon enough.”

How embarrassing! Her gaze darted to the lodge. Need an apple. And a shower. And perhaps an orgasm of her own, to release some pressure. “I can handle this. Eating food tamps that down.”

He shook his head. “It’s only a matter of time before you start strewing. And if I doona take you somewhere isolated, every unmated male around will fight to mate you.”

“If I say no to them—”

“Then they’ll fight to rape you.”

“Every male?” She shielded her eyes against the sun, watching Rónan dribbling around cones. Ben was practicing punting. Presently he could kick the ball about two miles. With her help, he could achieve three.

MacRieve followed her gaze. “Ben would be first in line.” His harsh voice drew her attention. She noted his fists were clenched. “Probably after killing his little brother for the pleasure.”

“I don’t want to emit chemicals. There has to be a way for me to control it. If you would just let me speak to one of my own kind! We could find those two who were outside the wall—”

“Never. This is my decision. You’ll abide by it.”

So arrogant! She longed to put him to the ground, to slide-tackle him till he ate turf. “I thought I couldn’t leave the compound. That the Pravus would find me through burning handprints or whatever.”

“We’re acquiring a talisman. Remember the mystical means I talked about?”

He was offering a . . . talisman? Holy shit! This would be her chance to escape! She knew he could detect any changes in her voice, could hear her heart speeding up. Calm yo tits, Chlo. “Oh? Is that so?” she said in a bored tone. “Wow, you’re going to spend that much money on me—and you plan to do business with my kidnappers. I hate your world.”

“And it hates you.”

“Your clan likes me well enough.”

With utter confidence, he said, “Because they doona know you.”

Bite your tongue. “I don’t have my passport with me.”

“We’ll travel through private Lore airports.”

All she heard was private escape-ports. “So when do I get this alleged camouflage doo-thingy?”

He narrowed his gaze. “Ah, look at the wee succubus making plans to flee. Your heart races. You truly think you can get away from me? Lykae hunt. It would no’ even be sporting.”

“I have nothing to lose by trying.” She gave him a long look. “Except for werewolf dead weight.”

“I should just let you walk out of here with your little hobo stick filled with men’s clothing.”

“Yes. You should.”

“You’ve been told that the Pravus males will gang rape you, and still you seek to leave. Mayhap you crave it from them?” He turned and strode away.

“Prick!” She lined up two balls. Taking aim, she reared back and kicked the first as hard as she could. The second followed in quick succession.

As planned, the first took him in the back of the head. When he spun around, the second nailed him in the testicles.

“What . . . the . . . fuck?” He gritted his teeth, but remained standing.

As others tried to hide their laughter, she shrugged. “Penalty.”

He bared his fangs at her, stalking off to the sound of Rónan singing the soccer anthem, “Oléeee, olé, olé, oléeee. . . .”