Bram mentally opened a portal around the manor and his childhood friend Lucan appeared in the room, a large hand clasped in that of his mate, Anka.
Lucan stuck out his free hand. “Hello. Greetings to you. Peace be with you and yours. I’ll even add live long and prosper if you’ll tell me what’s happened.”
A grudging smile settled over Bram’s face as he took in the well-mated couple. The match was a strong one. From good families, both of them. Powerful, magically compatible, well-educated, well-connected. Anka was light to Lucan’s darkness, the laughter in his silence. Bram hoped to make such a match himself someday. First, said witch would have to appear.
Bram shook his friend’s hand. “Peace be with you and yours. I plan to live long and prosper, thank you. Here’s what happened.” He scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes. “After the Council received a distress signal from the MacKinnetts in Surrey, I arrived to a bloodbath, despite my warning. All men and most women murdered—and branded with a certain symbol we all know. Every child missing—six of them, the youngest just four. The Council member’s daughter has vanished. Sound familiar?”
Lucan scowled. “Your vision has come to pass? Mathias is back?”
With a grim nod, he said, “The MacKinnetts clearly weren’t attacked by humans. Who but the Anarki would wield that symbol? And who but Mathias would be behind such atrocities?”
“Who, indeed? What can we do?”
The foursome drifted into a nearby sitting room.
“If the Council is going to flap its jaws, we must make plans, take action,” Bram insisted. “I think we must find witches and wizards willing to work together for the greater good.”
“Magickind banding together, without arguing?” Lucan’s piercing blue eyes sharpened. “You’re fantasizing. That’s been impossible for…what, nearly four centuries?”
“More to the point,” Sabelle added, “where would you find witches and wizards with the necessary strength and resolution to fight off Mathias—without so much hatred of their fellow warriors they spend all their time trying to kill one another?”
Anka smiled grimly. “A good question, that. My grandmother still talks about the old days, when magickind had a sense of community, not just jealousy and blind hatred.”
“I never said it would be easy,” Bram admitted. The rest of the Council still can’t see their Social Order has backed the Deprived into a corner they’re willing to die—or kill—to escape.”
Lucan cast a quick glance at his wife, so petite next to him. “Count me in, since Mathias seems to be up to his old tricks. We know from his last campaign that he’s wily and powerful. Defeating him will require a unified effort.”
“So now there are two of you.” Sabelle conjured tea for everyone and poured herself a cup. “But you are friends. Now you must look at acquaintances, strangers…and enemies. Who will you call on?”
“I’ll speak to Simon Northam. I suspect he would welcome such a conversation.”
“The Duke of Hurstgrove?” Lucan clarified.
“Yes. Oh, quite.” Sabelle smiled pertly. “He shall do. Very nicely.”
Silently, Bram agreed. Best not to let on just yet. Sabelle may smile sweetly now, but rebellion was nearly her middle name. “For the cause, yes. For you? We’ll see, little sister.”
Sabelle crossed her arms over her chest and glared.
Anka laughed and reached up to plant a kiss on her husband’s cheek. “Finding the perfect mate is worth the wait.”
Lucan turned to his bonded female, and his hard eyes softened as he lifted her small hand to his mouth. The love between them was so clear, it was almost tangible. Bram envied his friend’s good fortune.
“Who else would we approach?” Lucan asked a moment later.
Bram had thought hard on this. His choices were bound to be unpopular. “We could approach Isdernus Rykard.”
Sabelle nearly choked on her tea. “Are you off your trolley?”
Lucan added, “With the bad blood between you, that idea is completely mental.”
“He isn’t insane.” At least Bram hoped not.
With an arch of a blond brow, Sabelle added, “From the time I wore lace on my knickers, I’ve heard nothing about Ice, except that he’s unhinged. And violent. He despises you.”
“It’s mutual.”
“Whenever you’re near him, you have the self-control of a rabid animal,” Lucan pointed out. “That won’t be good for the cause.”
Bram rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll endeavor to deal with it. Ice is strong and has plenty of reason to want Mathias gone forever.”
“The man won’t welcome your overture.”
“He’s a powerful wizard. If there’s one thing I know about him, he will do anything to protect his family from Mathias. And he won’t wait on the Council.”
With a nod, Sabelle conceded the possibility. “Who else?”
No one spoke for long moments. The clink of Anka setting down her fragile white teacup mingled with the sound of Lucan’s sigh. Sabelle twirled a golden curl around her finger and looked at the carpet. Bram was pretty sure he knew what everyone was thinking.
“If matters grow as grim as I fear, there’s no help for it. We must approach Shock Denzell.”
Even though Bram felt sure Anka had been expecting his words, she started at the wizard’s name. She faced him like a tigress, her amber eyes morphing from sweet to confrontational in an instant. “No. He’ll do everything possible to kill Lucan.”
Her mate reeled her back to sit at his side. “That’s because I won the hot woman, love. He wound up alone.”
“And you taunt him with that fact each time we see him. I feel terrible! Shock will spend the rest of his life without love because I rejected him.”
“Don’t feel sorry for him. He had to know you were not going to answer his Mating Call. He’s tainted.”
“His background is hardly his fault.”
“His temper and reputation are.” Steel underscored Lucan’s voice.
Sabelle leaned forward and squeezed Anka’s hand, then faced Lucan. “Perhaps, but Bram is right. Unless we can wrest the Doomsday Diary from Marrok of Cadbury, we may be relying on every witch and wizard, friend and foe alike, to come together as one to defeat Mathias.”
The enormity of that task wasn’t lost on anyone.
Bram nodded grimly. “Our nightmare has begun.”
Daylight faded into night. Ominous shadows stabbed through the window, casting themselves over Marrok’s bed, across Olivia’s pale body now curled into a fetal position. He’d given her a cool bath but touching her skin was still like putting his hand in an open flame. She had not opened her eyes in hours or made a sound other than a pain-filled whimper that clawed at his gut.
He must either bed her or set her free—or she would die before morn.
Her death, for him, was unthinkable. He needed her in order to be released from his curse, which meant he must keep her safe from Mathias.
Olivia becoming his mate threw a twist in his plans. If he believed everything Bram and Millie said.
But why should he doubt? He’d met Olivia less than two days ago. Something had compelled him to speak magical vows with her. She’d induced him to actually feel, which he had not done in…decades? Centuries? They had shared scorching sex. She had tempted him closer to satisfaction than any woman since the Dark Ages.
But there was more.
An urge to keep her alive at all costs rode him hard. Because of the vows they had spoken, magic’s way of ensuring the survival of the species? He sensed magic was not entirely to blame. Her bravado, sass, and mystery drew him. She had moved across an ocean—without guidance or assistance—to fulfill two dreams. Her shop was a reality. With her determination, he had no doubt she would find her father. She had a tenacity he admired.
Had he met Olivia under different circumstances, if he had not known from the first that she was a le Fay, he would have pursued her relentlessly. After all, he had time on his side.
Olivia did not. He must decide what to do. He had not the luxury of trying sex, then resorting to a mate breaking if unsuccessful. If he took her to his bed and his curse kept him from climax…Mate breaking was an hours-long process, and Olivia would not live that long. Already, she was alarmingly weak. If she died, his curse literally could stretch to eternity.
What the bloody hell was he going to do?
The bond affects you as it does any wizard. The thought of never touching Olivia again is beyond endurance, right? Bram had deduced. Nor can you stomach the thought of her mating with another.
Even the words had made him violent. Though nonsensical, Marrok could not deny the feelings for her existed.
How Morganna would laugh if she could see him now.
Beside him, Olivia whimpered again. Marrok grimaced and placed a comforting hand on her. She curled closer, seeking his touch. Her silent trust in him warmed him—and scared the piss out of him. He, who had stood alone for centuries, now had someone who depended on him. Someone who mattered to him.
Someone le Fay.
He was well and truly tied. It may be foolish and wrong and selfish, but Olivia had issued a Mating Call, and he had answered. Nothing, no one, would come between them now. For her, he would sweat and grind and thrust all night, focus, pray—whatever necessary to finalize this bond, his curse be damned.
She whimpered once more in her coma-like slumber. Tamping down panic, he smoothed a dark curl away from her hot brow. “Olivia?”
No response. He breathed through the terror. Giving in would accomplish naught. With methodical motions, he drew his shirt over his head. With a button and a lowering of his zip, his jeans came next. He rarely bothered with drawers, so the slide of denim down his hips and the removal of his socks bared him.
Then he climbed onto the bed beside Olivia, sliding his naked skin against hers. It was like cuddling up to an inferno. Marrok braced against the natural instinct to retreat and fitted her against his body.
Such soft skin. He brushed his fingers across her cheek, his thumb over the pillowy curve of her lower lip. Everything, from the arch of her raven brows to the tips of her red toenails, made his body scream out for sex. For satisfaction.
Closing his eyes, he focused on their bond. Inside him, it had grown since they had first shared words and bodies. Thin but sturdy, their connection wrapped itself around him. Mentally, he reached out for it. Every instinct inside him screamed at him to cover her, kiss her, touch her, mount her. This instant.
Once he made this decision, there was no going back.
But he could make no other choice.
With a nudge, he rolled her to her back and followed, settling on top of her, resting his weight on his elbows. Her eyes drifted half open, and he rejoiced; that was the most alert she had been in hours.
Then her lips fell open a fraction, and she exhaled against his mouth. The sensation made him shiver. Made him harder than hell. Zounds, he was so aware of her naked body beneath him, the firm swell of her breasts, her flat belly, her thighs spread wide to him.
He drew in a sharp breath as impatient need stabbed him and demanded he slam inside her. But he restrained it. Slow arousal. Desire. Build it. Feel her. This was for her.
Focusing on Olivia was his only hope. Dwelling on his own frustration had denied him completion for more centuries than he cared to count. This time, he’d concentrate on each small detail, her scent, vanilla, peaches, and female, misting over her skin, softly tingeing every breath he took. Each inhalation a joy, a riot of luscious scents. Each exhalation a little bit of anticipation until he could smell her again.
Lured by her, Marrok lowered his head and brushed kisses across her jaw, then her neck. Her scent was strong here. Heavenly.
Inhaling her, he opened his mouth, tasting her with a slow lick. She was part salty, part sweet. The tang of her sat upon his tongue, made his mouth water. How had he missed all this sensory seduction the first time he’d been inside her? Too focused on their vows, on her identity, on the possibility of orgasm.
Not this time.
Under him, she moaned. The long, pleading sound went straight to his cock, as if she held him in her fist. God, the power this woman had over him. Never had he known its like.
“Marrok…”
“Aye, love.” With his blood surging, need pumping, breathing rough, Marrok was fast losing the grip on his restraint.
“I ache. So bad. Need you inside me.”
He closed his eyes. That was the wrong thing for her to say if she wanted him to take this slow and savor the experience of being with her.
“Soon,” he promised, caressing her shoulder, down her arm, until her fingers tangled with his.
Olivia fixed her feet on the mattress and lifted her hips in blatant invitation. “Now.”
Lord, the woman was killing him. His every muscle tensed. Sweat beaded on him.
He soothed her with a soft hand in her hair, across her cheek. “Let us not rush.”
