I’m bleeding out, which is total bullshit. I’m a witch, my closest friends are demons and a vampire and a wolf, Death himself is practically stalking me… You’d think someone could figure out how to get me out of this mess. Yet here I am, lying in a pool of my own blood, pinned to the dirt by a gruesome hell-beast in serious need of a mercy kill—not to mention a doggie breath mint.
I don’t want to die here. Not in the place of my magic—a place I once held sacred. Not without saying goodbye to the ones I love.
"Please," I whisper, but there’s no one to hear me, no one to save me from the beast. The thing won’t look at me, but its ghostly jaws snap above my face, foul breath and blood and rot raining down on my skin.
There’s nothing left to do but scream.
* * *
The crash of a wooden door against the wall jolted me out of the dream, and then Ronan was at my side, hauling me out from under the beast’s powerful haunches.
Only… it wasn't a beast. It was a blanket. And I was no longer in my grove, but hunkered down on my bedroom floor, moonlight streaming through the windows, casting everything in an eerie blue glow.
The bedroom door hung half off its hinges.
Ronan’s body curved around me, shielding me from the invisible assailant. His skin was hot, his muscles tightly bunched and ready to pounce.
“What happened?" he demanded, jerking his head around to scan the empty room. “Where is he?”
I disentangled myself from the cage of his arms, and we both stood up, peering into the shadows. Bed, dresser, bookshelf, a chair that served as a clothes rack. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“It was… just a nightmare,” I breathed, though my skin was still pebbled with goosebumps. And my T-shirt was…
We both noticed it at the same time, looking down in sick horror. The once yellow fabric was torn and bloody, sticking to my abdomen in dark, wet patches.
“A nightmare with claws?" Ronan grabbed the bottom edge of the shirt, slowly lifting it to reveal three thin slashes across my abdomen. “Jesus.”
What the fuck?
I pulled the shirt back down, trying not to wince. “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”
Ronan wasn’t even listening. His eyes were black as night.
He stalked out into the hallway, tension and anger rolling off him in waves as he yanked open the linen closet door and dug around for the first aid kid.
“Bathroom,” he said. “Come on.”
I sat on the edge of the tub with my shirt pulled up, trying to describe the beast from my dream as Ronan patched me up. The gouges weren’t actually that deep, but they stung like a bitch, and when he pressed the gauze to my skin, I sighed in relief.
“I’m okay,” I said, trying to reassure him. But Ronan was in his own world, quickly losing himself inside his own silent rage. “Ronan, I said I’m—”
“Stay inside,” he ordered, snapping the first aid kit shut. “Don’t open the door for anyone but Asher.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“No one but Asher, Gray.” He shoved the first aid kit back into the closet and stomped back into the living room, jamming his feet into his boots. Without another word, he wrenched open the front door, and then he was gone, storming out into the endless dark of Blackmoon Bay.
I didn’t even have time to be shocked. Minutes later, a motorcycle rumbled to a stop out front, and I peeked out the window to see Asher dismounting and sauntering up my path, looking for all the world like the prodigal son returning home from some epic carnal conquest.
When I opened the door, he was standing on the porch, helmet in one hand, a paper bag in another. His hair was matted from the helmet, but unfortunately it didn’t dull his infuriating good looks.
“Whiskey or tequila?” He held up the bag, sea-blue eyes flashing in the moonlight, grinning that maddening grin of his. “Pick your poison, Cupcake. ‘Cause you and me? We’re in for a long night.”
Thirty-Six
Ronan
I hated the fucking desert. Felt too much like hell, which was probably what Sebastian liked about it.
