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Viola had offered him everything he’d ever wanted. A chance to enjoy her at his leisure. To explore her body and soul, learning the most minute nuances of her past. Everything that made her who she was—the female who fascinated him beyond measure and drew him without cease. He wouldn’t have to wonder what she wanted; she would always tell him. He could ensure she remained well complimented and brimming with satisfaction while she filled his life with excitement and awe.
Could she be happy with someone like him? Truly happy long-term?
Would she move on when he failed her test?
Indecision tore at him. How could he choose Viola over McCadden? But how could he choose McCadden over the goddess? He needed them both in his life. His brother and…his woman. A female he’d kissed and caressed only once. Not nearly enough.
How was he supposed to reconcile his conflicting desires? Especially when he already knew the outcome of her test. He would fail, just like his brother, who’d chosen Brochan over the goddess.
How could Brochan do any less? But how could he let her go?
“Brother?” McCadden cupped his shoulder, drawing him out of his mind.
Without lifting his gaze, he reached up and patted his brother’s hand. While he remained in his chair, McCadden stood at his side.
Would the male forgive him if he courted the goddess, as every fiber of his being demanded?
“She is different with you than she ever was with me.” There was an odd inflection in his brother’s tone. McCadden eased into the chair next to Brochan’s. “After our introduction, Viola never sought me out, even though she planned to use me. I had to seek her. Looking back, I realize she never uttered a kind word about me, only herself. At the time, I was too enamored of her to recognize I was the only one invested in our relationship.”
“But?”
“Despite her changes, I still don’t trust her.”
“I know. And yet…I want her anyway,” he admitted, shame coating every syllable. “I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
“And if she’s using you the way she used me?”
She might be. How could he know unless he took a chance? Except, a part of him suspected the beauty who’d experienced such a painful childhood might actually mean what she’d said—she liked him.
The pain he’d continued to glimpse inside her never failed to lance his heart. Not to mention the self-hatred she usually hid so well. He remembered the joy she’d evinced as she danced in the rain, and a groan of regret lodged in his throat.
He flipped up his gaze, meeting his brother’s intense stare. “Do you seek to live forever, McCadden?” The words croaked from him.
McCadden jerked as if punched. “I—”
Searing pain suddenly erupted in Brochan’s forearm, on his tattoo, and he hissed. He jolted upright with a single thought. Viola. He jumped to his feet. “The goddess. Something’s wrong.” He didn’t wait for a response, just flashed to her bedroom, shouting her name.
There was no sign of her…only a pool of blood near the hearth. She’d been…she was… Horror punched him. A severed hand rested in the center of the blood—the tiny pink claws curled in with her fingers, except for the middle one, which was extended. The cuff lay next to the appendage. So did an ax.
Realization: She’d done this to herself. She’d chopped off her hand to escape him. All because he had refused to work with her. Instead, he’d worked against her. Of course, she’d left him. Anyone with good sense would have done the same.
Agony birthed a soul-deep roar. Frantic to find her, to help and protect her as she healed—she must heal—he studied his tattoo. The image showed her location was…nowhere.
The inside of his chest raw and stinging, he slapped the map. Shook his arm.
No change. He couldn’t track her. Couldn’t sense her.
Panic sprouted, gaining ground fast. Where had she gone? Think, think. He’d followed her for months. She’d visited hundreds of realms, homes and areas. But she’d frequented one place more than any other.
Hopeful, Brochan flashed to the mortal realm. Budapest, Hungary. A dark, overcast sky framed a massive stone fortress seated atop a tree-lined hill. When they weren’t warring in the Underworld, a band of demon-bonded immortals and their assortment of significant others lived here. The powerful men and women bore no love for Brochan.
A cool breeze clapped branches together. Insects sang. No unusual activity outside the fortress.
Though Brochan comprehended the danger, he flashed inside the fortress. Empty rooms. Unmade beds. Haphazardly emptied closets. A half-filled coffee mug on the kitchen counter. Cold. The occupants had left in a hurry. His panic sharpened.
Where was she? Weak and injured, she was easy prey for anyone interested in her harm. And the other Forsaken were only interested in harming her. Red dotted Brochan’s vision.
