Page 75 of Dark Embrace

Aidan felt his heart aching oddly. Determined to ignore it, he reached for the restless, hungry Wolf. It clawed through him, determined to get out.

Royce had started up the hill, his strides long and determined.

Aidan told the Wolf to wait and he composed himself. He would not allow himself any regret, not on any matter. Royce would be a good ally in this war, but Aidan knew Royce would never forgive him for his attack on Lady Allie. They would never be true allies—or friends—again. A Highlander did not forgive and he did not forget. He braced for his onslaught.

Royce paused before him, standing aggressively. “Why did ye take an Innocent hostage?”

Aidan curled his mouth. “To amuse myself.”

Royce’s gray eyes glittered. “Ye still act like a boy of twelve. ’Tis fortunate that she’s nay hurt.”

Aidan felt like striking him. “I’m nay a boy of twelve years an’ ye willna berate me like ye were wont to do. She’s an Innocent, an’ ye can protect her now. I’m done.”

Royce stared closely. “I dinna believe ye’ve protected her, Aidan. What game is this?”

Aidan fought the sudden fury of the beast seething in him, and it was very hard to do. “Moray has returned. She needs protection from him until he is vanquished. He is usin’ her to destroy me.”

Royce went still, his eyes flickering. “I dinna think to ever see the day he’d return,” he said softly, after a long pause. “Does Malcolm ken?”

“Nay.” Aidan smiled savagely. “Oh, afore I forget. He has powers from the Duisean.”

Royce paled.

Aidan shifted. Crouching, he growled long and low at Royce, but Royce did not step back in fear. Annoyed—he’d meant to frighten him, at the least—Aidan searched Royce’s mind, which was open. There was no fear, just wariness and anger. His hand, however, had crept to the hilt of his long sword.

He would love it if Royce raised that sword toward him. But he didn’t move.

Aidan turned away. It was time to hunt his deamhan father.

“Hunt with care,” Royce called after him.

Aidan leapt.

THE PACK STAYED BACK IN THE line of trees, a female whining nervously. The sun was shimmering high in the early morning sky. The wolves would not hunt in the broad light of day.

He did not care. Aidan stood a short distance from the tree line, intently watching Frasier’s army breaking camp, still in the Wolf’s body. He coursed with power and life; he and the pack had been hunting since dawn.

Frasier’s red-and-gold tent was being taken down and bundled up. Aidan’s gaze veered past the servants dismantling it, the cart and waiting team of horses. He saw the tall figure preparing to mount a charger and knew it was Frasier, not Moray. Frasier’s power was relatively weak compared to that of a deamhan, and it was very human.

Aidan sat down on his haunches, his patience infinite. Come to me.

There was no reply.

Behind him, the pack settled, lying down.

Come to me, coward.

The morning shifted ever so slightly—a whisper of leaves, a dancing of dust.

He stared at the army below, aware of his pulse pounding slowly and steadily, rising as he prepared for their final battle. Darkness gathered behind him.

His hackles rising, he turned. The wolves stood, growling. They all stared deeper into the forest. The shadows became longer, darker—emerald turning black, dark clouds forming in the woods.

Dead leaves crunched.

Aidan licked his lips, feeling the black power coming, and he snarled.

Moray appeared in his true form, clad in black robes and hose, carrying only a small dagger and a single ax. “You should fear me, my son,” Moray whispered softly.