MacRieve

FORTY-TWO

Way to lower the boom on him, Chloe thought as she scuffed to the bathroom, turning on the shower in the oversize stall.

She’d meant to act like her old self, letting things roll off her back, rubbing dirt on it, rolling with the punches.

Instead, she’d lashed out at MacRieve. She didn’t even want kids anytime in the near future! But when she did have them, she didn’t want their father to gaze at them with that anguished expression.

Like the way my dad looked at me that last night.

Did MacRieve still gaze at her that way when she wasn’t looking? She wished she could talk to his beast—and tell it to whip MacRieve into shape.

She peeled off her abused clothing, glaring at her bracelet. That bastard had put her on birth control, like she was chattel! If he had to take a business trip, would he strap her into a chastity belt too?

Under the steaming water, she winced at her sore muscles. She might have been fed, but she was still feeling the day. Her head ached and her stomach felt weird. She supposed too much running—and too much rough lake sex—had worn her out.

One of her breasts had a grass stain across it, and claw marks dotted her hips. Hey, not much different from a soccer match, Chlo!

When she was finished showering, the bed looked too inviting to resist. She changed into her new PJs, tossed a log on the embers in the fireplace, then crawled under the covers.

She stared at the ceiling, glad to have this time alone. All these new aspects of her life had been hitting her so fast that she’d barely had a moment to reason through them. For instance, it was now dinnertime; she would never eat dinner again. That was going to take some getting used to.

Also, she should probably accept her familial situation—as in, she didn’t have one anymore. She’d told herself that as long as she continued eating, she might not be totally “detrus-ed out” to her dad. He might still accept her.

Now? The odds looked grim.

In time, maybe she could track down Fiore’s family—but then, MacRieve would never allow her to see them.

Noises sounded above her, as if he was rummaging around the attic. For what exactly? It wasn’t like there’d be scrapbooks or old yearbooks. No vids of MacRieve’s first steps. . . .

She’d just closed her eyes when he opened the door and strode in.

“Why are you resting?” He wore a black T-shirt and beat-up jeans, and he had a smudge of dust on his cheek that made him look less intimidating, almost boyish.

She shrugged. “I’m tired. I think I overexerted myself today.”

He tilted his head, surveying her face. “This will no’ take long. Then I’ll leave you to rest.” He sat beside her on the bed. “Listen, Chloe. I know I should have told you about the bracelet.”

Exhaling with irritation, she said, “No, you should have asked me about the bracelet before I ever put it on my wrist!”

“Aye, that’s what I meant,” he said quickly. “I regret no’ asking you.”

She sat up, almost grimacing when her headache intensified. “I need more, MacRieve. I need you to confide in me. I need to know why you hate my kind so much. Why even the thought of having kids with me makes you sick.”

He rose to pace. “It’s going to take more than a few days for me to work through my . . . issues. Can you no’ be patient with me?”

“Tell me why you beheaded the last five succubae you encountered.”

His nostrils flared, along with his claws. From the mere mention? “Over my life I’ve killed any I’ve come across.”

A horrific thought arose. “Were you killing one a little over two decades ago? Her name was Fiore, and she would’ve looked a lot like me.”

“I dinna murder your mother. We’ve obstacles between us, I grant you that, but no’ that particular one. I vow to the Lore I had nothing to do with her death.” He sat beside her once more. “Here, lass,” he said, drawing a polished wooden box from his back pocket. “I have a peace offering.”

“What is this?” She opened the box to find jade-green hair combs, each intricately etched with Celtic designs.

“My grandmother passed these down to my mother. I thought you might like them, now that you’ve taken to wearing your hair long.”

“You want me to have them?”

He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Doona sound so shocked, Chloe. They belong to the mistress of this keep.”

If he was giving her heirlooms, then surely he was starting to work past his hatred. She grazed her fingers over the engravings. “They’re lovely.” She set them on the bedside table, keeping them close.

“Patience, Chloe.” He ran his knuckles along her jawline. “I’m an old dog, and all this is a verra new trick for me. I’m no’ saying I canna change—just give me time. Can you do that?”

How much time? Maybe with enough of it, he could fall for her. Maybe if he loved her more deeply than he hated other succubae, he could see his way to having kids.

By that time, he might’ve snuffed out what she was feeling for him. She just needed to think about all this. “I’m tired.” She lay back down. “I’d like to go to bed.”

His brows rose. She could tell he’d expected her to react differently.

When he shucked off his shirt and joined her, she didn’t have the energy to rebuff him.

“Come, mo chridhe.” He reached for her, clasping her against his warm chest. “Sleep easy and rest. Everything will look better tomorrow.”

The heat from his skin increased her drowsiness. Before she drifted off, she murmured, “Gotta be honest. This clock might’ve zeroed out, MacRieve.”

His entire body tensed against her. She didn’t care because sweet sleep was enveloping her. . . .

In the middle of the night, Chloe woke from an ache in her stomach and another in her head.

She found MacRieve sleeping restlessly beside her, his chest slick with sweat. Was this the first time he’d slept since they’d arrived? Since she’d turned in the first place?

His eyes darted behind his lids, and he moaned, obviously in the grips of a nightmare. As she watched, his fangs and claws began extending, his face growing more wolven. The beast was rising, even in MacRieve’s slumber.

When he chuffed and whimpered, Chloe wondered which horror he was reliving tonight. Rape by a succubus? Battles in the dark Woods of Murk?

The shock of Chloe’s transformation?

Then he splayed his hand over his chest, his claws embedded in his skin—around the spot she’d once kissed with all the tenderness she’d felt for this man.

He was dreaming about the torture her father had ordered done.

This is doomed between us. Accepting that grieved her so deeply. Chloe would be punished by MacRieve if she stayed, and punished by her heart if she left.

Because she might have gone and fallen in love with him.