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His hand caught her arm gently and he drew her back down. It’s okay, alainn.
Okay? He obviously didn’t understand she was about to ruin his expensive Egyptian cotton sheets! Granted, she was at the end of her time, but still!
She tried to pull herself up once more, but he suddenly pulled her atop him. She struggled to get off, which was impossible as his hand was at her back, holding her steady.
“No, Conall, I’ll—”
“It’s okay, Vivienne. They’re only sheets.” He rubbed his hand gently down her back, and when she tried to push herself up again, he kept her still.
She exhaled, sulking. “Fine. It’s your sheet and your mattress!”
Using one hand, he lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes. She tried her best to avoid his gaze.
“Vivienne, there is nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a natural occurrence.”
“Thanks. I had this talk with my mother when I was twelve, you know!”
A little grin touched his lips before he smirked. “Did she also tell you that mates sometimes share this? That your mate will want you even now? Our attraction is hard to control most times, so it’s likely to find two mates sharing a bed, even during this time.”
Vivienne didn’t respond for long moments, and when she did it was to say in a curious, slightly disbelieving voice, “You didn’t do anything this morning.”
“Because I didn’t want to scare you. Humans are conservative and restrained in what they do with their lovers.” He paused and a hand went through her hair. She shuddered. “I’d intended on gradually easing you into this, but….” He let his voice trail off, but she knew what he was going to say: but Rafael had kissed her hand, and Conall had turned half-crazed as he staked his claim.
Zahira was right. Although they looked human, the tendencies that guided them were those of an animal. She tried to relax atop him and focus her attention elsewhere. “Who’s Rafe, and why does he bring out the beast in you?” She smiled at how she’d phrased that question.
“Rafael is one of Brennus’s sons. He fled the pack years ago.” So it was as she suspected. Rafe was related to Samia.
“Why?”
“A female was killed. His scent was all over the body, and then he disappeared.”
Vivienne gasped. Wow. Rafael was a killer? The things she learned, daily. Make that hourly.
“And now he’s back?”
“Until tomorrow,” he retorted with a finality that made her shiver.
“Tomorrow’s my blood rite with Samia.”
“Not anymore.”
“Excuse me?”
“Rafael challenged my position. That takes precedence.”
“So, can’t you fight him in the morning, and I fight Samia in the afternoon?”
Conall sighed and tightened his hold on her. “Vivienne, you don’t have to—”
“She isn’t going to stop unless I stop her.” She pushed out of his arms and rolled onto the bed beside him. “You’re not going to use Rafael to push this blood rite back.”
They stared at each other for long moments until Conall shook his head. Satisfied, Vivienne moved closer and placed her head into the crook of his arm.
“So, do you have any advice for a novice fighting a werewolf?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Maybe it wasn’t the right question to ask. His response was quick. “Don’t.”
A little smile curved her lips. “Any other advice?”
“Keep moving. Samia’s a good fighter, quick and strong. Don’t stay in one place too long.”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
“If you really wanted to thank me, you’d say you’re not going through with it.”
“Then don’t fight Rafe. Don’t go through with it, Conall.”
“Rafael,” Conall hissed. “Call him Rafael.” Vivienne lifted a brow. “He challenged me.”
“And Samia challenged me.” She kissed his chest, then snuggled close to him. “Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.”
***
“M-m-my lord.”
Maximilian Cronin wasn’t given to stuttering, but he wasn’t accustomed to seeing apparitions of long-dead druids, either. When he’d awoken to find himself standing feet from a very alive-looking Alexander Petraeus, he’d immediately called up his powers, only to find they were not there. The only place where his powers were voided was when he was in between worlds, or dreaming. So, this was obviously a dream. Which did little for his psyche, as witches were known to die in dreams.
“Maximilian Cronin.” When Alexander spoke in that familiar, calm voice, Maximilian swallowed. It was him. But how? He was dead. The grand wizards had killed him before banishing the druids. It was a tale passed down to young witches about the powerful twelve who’d defeated the undefeatable. And yet here he was, dream or no.
