MacRieve

FORTY-THREE

Will paced anxiously. It was well into the afternoon, yet Chloe still hadn’t awakened.

The room was dimly lit. A storm raged outside, the sun obscured, the lands dark. Winds battered Conall’s bricks, pelting debris against the windows.

He sat beside her on the bed to stroke her hair. “Chloe, love?” Why this fatigue again? He must’ve hurt her yesterday in his throes. She would need rest to heal.

Chloe might be immortal, but strength and endurance came with age; she was still so incredibly young.

Mayhap he should have thought of that before he’d rutted her with all his might.

In sleep, her brows drew together. With a huff of irritation, she turned from him.

He wanted to talk to her, to gauge her anger. The more he thought about yesterday, the more he recognized how cutting he’d been to her.

Aye, Chloe, I’ll be withholding my parentage because of your species. He cringed to think that he’d used a bloody witch spell to bind her fertility—without her knowing.

She’d told him they were doomed, and as he reflected on his behavior over the past week, he feared she was right. Some part of her must hate him. In her place, Will certainly would.

He shook Chloe’s shoulder. “Wake, lass, I need to speak with you.”

She groaned, pulling the pillow over her face. “Jesus, MacRieve, can it not wait?” she snapped.

He drew his head back. “Aye, then.”

Soon her breaths grew even with sleep once more.

Nïx had predicted that his past would bury him. She’d told him he’d lose Chloe if he didn’t change.

He hadn’t buried his past, hadn’t changed, and yet he’d still expected Chloe to accept him. He’d expected an infallible soothsayer to have made a mistake.

Will was delusional.

On Chloe’s side table were the hair combs he’d given her. When he’d found them in a chest in the attic, he’d known they were for her. Last night she’d run her fingers over them as if he’d gifted her with a priceless treasure. They were so little compared to what she’d given him. Without her, he would’ve burned to death in a fiery pit. So why had he not claimed her fully?

Because I canna. Because I’m no’ right.

As he stood to pace, he remembered Mam’s last words more clearly. She hadn’t said, “Never with a succubus.” She’d said, “Never with one like her.”

Like Ruelle. A sick, child-molesting fiend.

His breath left him in a rush. Chloe was nothing like Ruelle, but he’d treated her as if she were. He’d mistreated her, heaping insults on her, lying to her. And then he’d marveled when she was hesitant about a future with him.

Will had been trying to get revenge on a goddamned dead woman by hurting his mate!

As if on a movie reel, he replayed all his abuse. The day of the wall alone . . . he’d called her a seed-feeder, telling her she was trash. He’d terrified her with vicious threats, humiliating her in front of enemies.

The days to come had brought no improvement. Will had told her she probably craved getting gang-raped by Pravus males. He’d all but told her she wasn’t good enough to have his bairns. He’d withheld his claiming bite, reasoning that enough would suffice for her—not his all, but enough.

He’d vomited after taking her virginity.

And she’d borne it all, even giving him yesterday. Which he’d then ruined. Slaoightear. Villain. As all his actions sank in, he stood numb, incapable of moving.

Wrong. Everything’s wrong. All my fault.

Sorrow, guilt, horror, hatred—all warred within him. The first three for how he’d treated Chloe, the last toward Ruelle.

And toward himself. As Will gazed at Chloe, his vision blurred.

I treated my innocent mate as Ruelle treated me. At the thought, he bashed his fists against his head, his face twisting. What is wrong with me? Sick, sick!

His beast tried to rise, to shield Will from pain. Yet Will wanted the agony, needed it.

Babes with Chloe? A new family between them? They’d figure it out.

All my fault. He chuffed, pulling at his hair. He wished Chloe would wake to hit him, wished she’d sink another shard into him.

Get right for her. Chloe was a fighter, scrapping for everything she’d ever gotten in life—Will would do no less for her.

Bury your past, or it’ll bury you. He was ready to; he just didn’t know how.

His Instinct urged: —Wreak your vengeance upon those who deserve it.—

How? Ruelle was long dead. Her memory alone lived on. And it was driving a wedge between him and his mate. Driving him nigh insane for hundreds of years.

Bury, bury, burn your past. . . .

One idea emerged from his chaotic thoughts. He strode to the line of windows facing south, staring out at the blustery Woods of Murk.

Burn your past, or it’ll burn you. There was something he could do to tear down that memory.

—Go there.— his Instinct commanded. Suddenly, he was as desperate to breach that forest as he had been in his youth. He would leave Chloe snug in their bed, warm and safe within the impervious keep of his ancestors.

He’d lived for more than three hundred thousand days; he felt like his entire future rested on what the next few minutes would bring.

—The answer lies within the forest. GO!— He jerked at the Instinct’s loudness.

He pressed a kiss against Chloe’s hair, then turned to leave. At the doorway, he gazed back at his mate.

Some unknown emotion threatened to engulf him. It was primal and raw, disquieting him so much his beast stirred once more, protectively.

With a low growl, Will charged out into the storm. Running to an outbuilding, he ransacked it for supplies, then sprinted toward the Woods. The path to his destination was overgrown, but he would never forget the way.

Once Chloe woke, he wanted to greet her as a new man. One who could accept her strew, the venom bond, everything about her. As he ran, he identified that unknown emotion, owning it.

He imagined himself made whole, refashioned into a mate who could cherish her fully, giving her bairns and love.

He felt frenzied with the need to give her these things. With each step closer to his destination, his beast fought to rise. Will struggled to keep it leashed, to think clearly, to reason.

As the storm strengthened, shadows closed in on him, leaves swirling, trees shuddering. The winds howled, disrupting Will’s hearing and sense of smell. Gusts brought confusing scents all the way from the sea.

Scents that would forever remind Will of that night.

His worry that he’d lost Chloe was so sharp, it was like pain coursing through his body. Will squinted through the tempest as he ran. He could make out the object of his hatred, the one he’d soon destroy. . . .