Page 113 of Blood & Claw

A tall, broad-shouldered man with an untidy mop of brown hair collapsed onto all fours on the needle-strewn ground.

“Darach,” she whispered now, shaking as she clung to the sticky pine branch. “I—”

“It’s all right, Ailsa.” His voice came out in a croak. “I’m back.”

She didn’t climb down straight away.

Her hands were locked around the pine branch, fingers aching, her breath coming in shallow pulls that rasped in her throat. Below her, Darach remained where he was, head bowed, shoulders rising and falling.

The fire crackled softly a few yards back.

Ailsa watched and waited, fear knotting in her gut once more. Why wasn’t he moving?

“Darach?”

He shut his eyes hard, jaw flexing. “Give me a moment.”

Holding her breath, Ailsa continued to stare down at him. His muscles quivered and twitched, as if the clag-doo still fought him. Her pulse fluttered. Maybe he wasn’t in control. Maybe her tattoo had completely failed.

Moments passed, and then he lifted his head. “Fuck,” he said hoarsely.

She sagged against the prickly branch, suddenly boneless. And then she forced herself to move. Each step down the trunk was clumsy, her boots scraping bark as she descended. Her legs nearly buckled when she hit the ground. Bracing herself against the trunk, she stood there for a moment, unsteady, her heart still pounding hard enough to make her lightheaded.

Darach sat back on his heels.

Sweat streaked his naked back. His muscles trembled faintly beneath his skin. The tattoo—her tattoo—was visible now, the ring of thorns dark and angry against his flesh, faintly luminous in the firelight.

“It didn’t work properly,” she murmured.

He grimaced. “No.”

Ailsa took a step toward him, then hesitated. The memory of golden eyes and bared fangs was still too fresh for her to relax around him. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice catching. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

He cut her an irritated look. “Haven’t you learned by now … you can’t push me into anything, lass.” Rising to his feet then, he limped back to the fire, where he’d left his clothes. He started to dress. “But you’re right … I could have killed you.”

Ailsa swallowed. Aye. It had been close.

She approached the fire and lowered herself down next to it.

Across from her, Darach stifled a groan as he sat down and pulled on his boots. “The Hag’s tits,” he muttered. “There isn’t a bone in my body that doesn’t ache.”

Ailsa wasn’t surprised. The change hurt him; she’d never seen anything so brutal.

Silence settled between them, heavy but no longer sharp-edged. The night pressed close, the firelight low and wavering. Somewhere beyond the pines, an owl hooted.

Ailsa pushed the hair out of her eyes, only to realize her hands were shaking.

Darach noticed too. “Come here,” he said, his voice still husky. “There’s no need to sit so far away from me … you’re safe now.”

Her breathing hitched. Safe. A short while earlier, he’d nearly climbed that tree to kill her.

And yet, she moved closer anyway, skirting the edge of the fire before sinking down next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The contact made her lean into him, just a little.

He reached out, his hand settling over hers, warm, calloused, solid. Her pulse fluttered. “Don’t blame yourself,” he said gruffly. “You did all you could.”

Ailsa cut him a sidelong look. “Your name was the only thing that reached you.”

He scrubbed his other hand over his face. “Names have power … you gave me something to grab onto.”