Rebecca Zanetti: Hunted

He followed her inside, bringing the masculine scent of gunpowder and sage into her space. A low whistle escaped him at the sun setting over the sparkling view of the Liffey. “Beautiful.” The door shut behind him, and she held back a nervous hop.

The scent of lemon hung in the living room, the tables polished a deep brown. Plush pillows she’d spent days choosing with her sisters were scattered across the room. With a sweep of her hand, they lifted to line up perfectly on the leather sofa and matching seats. Moira cleared her throat. “Ah, make yourself at home, Connlan. I’ll be a minute.”

How she’d get him to stay in the apartment and not follow her to the meeting was beyond her. She’d need to knock him out. Quantum physics and magic wouldn’t work—she needed a brick.

“Moira.” Low and soft, his voice caressed nerves across her skin.

Her shoes squeaked when she pivoted to face him. “Yes?”

He more than overwhelmed the small entryway, his combat boots looking lethal on the white marble. Cocking his head to the side, he took in the tumbled stone fireplace with the northern seascape painted by her sister Brenna perched above the mantel. “You live here?”

“Sometimes. It’s easier to stay here when I’m teaching at the college than go home to the cottage.” Though teaching wasn’t why she owned a condo in Dublin. “I’ll hurry, Conn. Grab a beer from the fridge.” She needed to get a move on. The man would have to fend for himself.

Scurrying to her bedroom, she closed the door, wasting precious moments to lean back and sigh. The deep maroon comforter her sisters had given her as a housewarming present beckoned her to jump inside and hide—like they let her do when she was four. Her light scent of lilac perfume, specially made by her sister Molly, hung in the air and propelled her to action. Quick movements had her at the closet, tearing out the appropriate clothing. She hurried to change.

The laptop dinged on Darcy’s hand-me-down desk in the corner.

Dread wound down her spine. Tugging her top into place, she crept across the room and answered the call. “Hello, Vivienne.”

Vivienne Northcutt, head of the Coven Nine, gave a curt nod. “Moira.”

“Kell and I are on our way, ma’am.” Moira glanced at the antique clock ticking away the minutes on her bedside table. She’d found it at old Malley’s garage sale the year before, and the darn thing was always five minutes slow.

“I’m issuing a formal order for you to bring Connlan Kayrs to the meeting today.” Not by one flick of an eyelash or catch in her voice did the leader let on this was anything but astounding news.

Moira gasped. Her heart thumped hard. “That’s impossible.” The security developed by the witches in protecting their leaders was unbeatable—even by the ultimate vampire soldier. “I don’t understand.” But she did. The ramifications all but slapped her across the face.

Vivienne pursed thin lips in a parchment white face. “I think you do.”

Temper threatened to flare and Moira shoved anger down. “Then why would you ask this?”

Fire flashed in the witch’s coal black eyes. “The king requested his brother’s presence at our meeting today. I am acquiescing to the king’s wishes.”

Ah. The phone call Conn had asked Dage to make. Moira shook her head. Absolute panic ripped through her system. “He’ll die.” While vampires were difficult to kill, even Conn wouldn’t survive trying to reach the council.

“Maybe.” Viv drew air into her lungs loudly. “I explained that fact to Dage, but he insisted Conn would survive our security because of the mating ... which he might.”

Moira smoothed out her expression. Did the Nine know of Conn’s abilities? “Do you believe our mating has given Conn powers vampires don’t usually possess?”

Viv could give lessons in donning smooth expressions. “We’ve considered the possibility since your mating. But, well, no. Not unless he’s spent the last century studying our ways.” She sniffed.

It was exactly what Conn had done.

“I see.” Realization settled heavily on Moira’s shoulders. “So you expect him to die today.” It was certainly a possibility. Being able to harness her energy didn’t mean he could pass through the veil. “Quite the strategy, Aunt Viv.” Moira shook her head. Even more than usual, she dreaded the day she’d sit on the council.

“Strategy?” Viv lifted her eyebrows.

“Conn dies and it’s the king’s fault.” Moira grabbed a moonstone bracelet off the table, clasping the silver around her wrist. “The Nine withdraws from the Realm ... or the Realm kicks us out. Either way ... it’s smooth for you.” They couldn’t withdraw from the Realm. What was the council thinking?

Viv’s eyes darkened. “Quite the strategic thinker, aren’t you, Seventh?”

Oh, her aunt had no idea. Fear forced Moira to lower her voice to keep from stuttering. “We don’t want the Kayrs family as enemies, Viv. You should’ve told Dage no.”

“Refusing the king’s request would’ve been tantamount to withdrawal, and we’re not ready to take that step.” A dark flush slid up Vivienne’s face. “We shall worry about the consequences later.”

“Consequences?” Fire rushed through Moira’s veins. “Aunt Viv—”

“Enough.” Electric green energy crackled on Vivienne’s skin. “Moira, you are the seventh sister of the seventh sister. You were born to lead this council, and you’ve taken an oath to obey our laws.” Her narrow nostrils flared as she settled her face into firm lines. “These type of difficult decisions will face you every day.”

The weight of destiny almost knocked Moira to the ground. The rush of anger kept her standing. “If Conn doesn’t make it through the veil, the vampires will be the least of the coven’s worries.” Reaching out, she cut the line. An empty threat, unfortunately.

She considered calling Dage and quickly discarded the thought. The king would back up his brother. Her only choice was to deal directly with Conn.

Conn swallowed another gulp of Guinness, his gaze on the inside of Moira’s refrigerator. Everything was lined up neatly and by color. Beer to the left, limes to the right. Sodas on the second shelf, condiments, lined up by size, on the first. Weird. Shouldn’t he know this about her? They’d been mated for nearly a century. He knew what kinds of food she liked because she’d told him in a recent conversation, though he had no clue she was nutty with her food organization.

Nutty and far too vulnerable for his peace of mind. He’d hurt her by agreeing to the coven’s demands a century ago. How had he missed that? Maybe because the relief in being given time to deal with the overwhelming feelings of possession and need that had clawed at him.

When he’d left Ireland, his heart had firmly stayed in her delicate hands. She owned him—body and soul. Distance had assisted him in finding peace. Time had given him a chance to plan. He was older and wiser ... and was not letting go of her, so the woman had better find peace with that.

He closed the door, leaving the peaceful kitchen with its ocean fresh walls and burnished oak cabinets—original Jono Dungs, a master craftsman for the last two hundred years. Wide steps had Conn in the living room. The jewel tones she’d chosen spoke of sensuality and sex. It was much different than her sweet cottage with the homemade quilt he’d visited so many years ago. The cottage belonged to a girl. This room, well now. It belonged to a woman.

A movement near the hallway caught his eye, and he turned, stopping short.

Moira had emerged from the bedroom dressed in a tea-length black skirt and scarlet buckled jacket. Long, calfskin black boots covered her calves to the knee. Rioting curls had been tamed with a clip at her nape, and dark makeup enhanced otherworldly green eyes. She was stunning.