Page 83 of Blood & Claw

And now, he could feel it, clawing to get out. Especially now.

It had responded to violence and then to lust. If he stayed calm, so did it. But now, it yowled in his ears, demanding release. He couldn’t return to the room. Not in this state.

He limped on. He didn’t go to Rùn though. Instead, he slipped onto the empty street behind the ale-hall. Above, the moon rode high. A bright silver crescent against the inky curtain of night.

Ailsa’s observation assaulted him then. Your eyes.

He hadn’t meant to bolt like a startled deer, but he panicked. He couldn’t answer, couldn’t give her the explanation she wanted.

And he certainly couldn’t go back in there and finish what he’d started.

He’d crossed a line.

Not with her—with himself.

The tears in her eyes earlier, the desperate way she’d filed those sharp nails of hers.

The lass was troubled, aye; he’d marked it from the night they met. There were things she didn’t say, things she kept to her breast. He couldn’t blame her for it though. He, too, had his secrets.

She’d been getting under his skin for days now.

He should’ve kept his distance.

He hadn’t.

Ailsa was as lovely as she was strange. He’d seen her fight like a cornered animal. She wielded that wee blade of hers with untutored savagery, but her nails were the real weapons. And as she’d fought, her long, lean body had turned fluid. Her movements had been … instinctual.

There was something about her he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

And the worst of it was—it called to him.

Aye, the beast wanted her too.

She’d stirred something primal in his gut as they’d stood next to the hearth. He stared into the depths of those black eyes and got lost. Up close, her scent, rosemary and sweet musk, made heat kindle in places it shouldn’t.

He scrubbed a hand over his face.

Gods. This was becoming a problem.

Other men let their pricks get them into trouble, but he didn’t.

He knew better.

He sucked in a deep breath before letting it out slowly through clenched teeth.

He’d wanted her before tonight. On the road. By the fire.

He’d ignored it—had thought he’d shut it down.

But he hadn’t.

If he’d stayed, he wouldn’t have stopped. That alarmed him. His rod was still as hard as wood, and his balls throbbed. The urge to storm back indoors, throw her down on the furs, and plow her senseless pulsed through him.

Sweat broke across his back.

He wasn’t a fucking rapist.

He stumbled then, his body convulsing. It didn’t feel like his own.