Page 38
Whatever Darach’s reaction, she needed to face it.
She’d just spilled it all, had admitted everything that had been weighing upon her over the past moons. She expected him to recoil. It surprised her that he didn’t. Nonetheless, in the light of the Moon Fire lantern, his features were strained.
“You’re you, Ailsa,” he said finally. Deliberately. “You’re whoever you choose to be.”
She snorted, even as her belly hardened. “No. The bavaan part of me is stronger than you think. You didn’t see … but back at Craeg Aonaranach, Kayla had to pull me off a warrior I’d killed. The bloodlust had me.”
His tawny eyes shadowed. “That doesn’t mean—”
“Back there, I couldn’t stop,” she cut him off, even as she pulled the fur closer still. “I stopped thinking. Stopped caring. The thirst for blood was all that mattered … and I fear that part of me is only going to get stronger.” Her throat drew tight. “What if one day, I turn on you … or Kayla?”
Darach stepped closer to her then, before his hands lifted and came to rest heavily on her shoulders. The weight was oddly comforting. She raised her chin to hold his gaze; his honey-brown eyes were fierce, warm in the cold lantern light.
“Listen to me, Ailsa,” he said, his voice lowering. “You need to trust yourself more. Aye, you didn’t ask for any of this, but I’ve traveled with you. I’ve seen you fight. You kill when you need to … not because you want to. There’s a difference.” He hesitated then. “I don’t know what being half bavaan means … but”—his grip on her shoulders tightened— “I do know you.”
Ailsa stared up at him. Gods, he sounded so sure, but he couldn’t be. No one knew what happened when Marav and bavaan mixed, or what consequences would follow.
However, his gaze didn’t falter.
He wanted to believe so, and she’d let him. For the moment.
Craeg Aonaranach
An icy wind slapped Niall in the face as he stepped up on the walls.
Dusk had just settled. The sky had turned that deep shade of indigo it always did right before the first stars winked to life. But the king hadn’t climbed up here to look at the sky. Instead, he stalked onto the eastern ramparts.
Behind him, he heard the whisper of boots on wood. Maol. The warrior was his personal bodyguard these days. Wherever the king went, so did he.
Niall ignored him. He wasn’t in the mood for company.
Instead, he halted halfway down the wall and glared in the direction his brother had disappeared earlier. He’d sent fifty warriors in pursuit. It wasn’t just catching up with Darach and the tattooists that mattered though. He couldn’t risk any of them getting word to Duncrag. He didn’t want the High Queen to know what was coming.
His gut started to burn.
Darach had knelt before him—had sworn—but every word had been false.
He’d never intended to bend the knee to him, to submit to him. It had all been a trick so he could get close to the tattooists and attempt to rescue them.
Niall ground his teeth.
And he’d succeeded.
It should have been impossible.
It would have been impossible—if a Shee warrior hadn’t been involved, and if his brother hadn’t transformed into …
“Fuck!” His curse echoed over the ramparts.
Niall hadn’t laid eyes on the beast that had torn his warriors apart, but he’d walked amongst the carnage afterward. Those who’d witnessed it said he’d shifted from a man into a massive feline. A clag-doo.
His stomach lurched. Leaning forward, he gripped the palisade until his fingers ached.
How was it possible?
What had Darach done?
“Don’t despair, sire … all will be well.”
