Rebecca Zanetti: Hunted

To Tony Zanetti for doing more than his fair share with the kids, dogs, and house so I have time to write—the heroes in my books have nothing on you. I will remember this and not say a word next time I break a toe stumbling over the size fourteens you’ve left by the door.

To Gabe Zanetti, who rises to every challenge with strength and determination as well as an excellent sense of humor;

To Karly Zanetti, whose kindness and great intelligence will come in very handy when she takes over the world someday;

I love you.

Thank you to my agent, Caitlin Blasdell, for the time, effort, and incredible insight she brings to my writing;

Thank you to my editor, Megan Records, who works so very hard for each of her authors while still keeping an incredible sense of humor;

Thank you to all the folks at Liza Dawson Associates and Kensington Publishing for the support;

Thank you to my critique partners, Jennifer Dorough and Sayde Grace—you’re both brilliant;

Thank you to my Beta Readers, family, and friends: Jessica Namson, Gail English, Jim English, Debbie Smith, Stephanie West, Brandie Chapman, Kathy Zanetti, Herb Zanetti, Augustina VanHoven, and Bonnie Paulson;

Thank you to my colleagues and friends: Cynthia Eden, Kate Douglas, Lynn Rush, Lethal Ladies, FF&P Mudpud-dlers, and the IECRWA group.

“She’s going to kill you,” his old friend muttered.

Conn Kayrs raised an eyebrow, cutting his eyes to Kellach from across the scarred table. He hadn’t been in Shea’s tavern in a century, yet the tables were the same. Beaten and solid. “She can try.” Damn, he hoped she tried. For no other reason than the excuse it gave him to put his hands on her. Finally. After all this time.

Kell tipped his ale back, his dark gaze remaining steady on the tavern door. “She’s coming.”

That she was. The air thickened as if in anticipation of a lightning strike—or a witch’s temper. Conn relaxed in his chair, stretching his long legs to cross at the ankles. His boots caught on worn grooves in the wood. “You might want to make yourself scarce.”

Kell tied his dark hair back at the nape, his shoulders tensing. “You may need backup.” He glanced at the row of patrons lining the bar on hand-carved wooden stools centuries old. Mostly witches, maybe a couple humans. People who lived on the northern coast of Ireland, happy in the knowledge most of the world didn’t know they existed. “Though we should clear everyone else out.”

Conn fought a grin. His friend sounded almost ... concerned.

As a fierce witch and a dangerous warrior, the enforcer for the council was trained in witchcraft and traditional war. Kellach’s main job was to protect the leading council, the Coven Nine. He feared no man. But a woman? Well now, that was another story.

“Your cousin isn’t that dangerous, Kell.” Though what did Conn know? Moira had been training for a century. Her skill set might be deadly. If so, they needed to get a couple things straight.

Several folks lining the bar cast wary glances over their shoulders. Even in this day and age, vampires were a scarcity in the north, so Conn kept his fangs hidden. He didn’t want to spook them—although his metallic eyes probably gave him away.

Watching carefully, he wondered if anyone would challenge him. He’d never battled a witch. They’d been allies of the Realm for centuries, though he often wondered about that. Witches kept their powers shrouded in secrecy. Not even his king knew the full extent of what magic allowed them to create.

Kell’s lips tightened in his rugged face. “Moira is the seventh sister of the seventh sister. All power. You have no idea what you’re doing, my friend. She told you not to come to Ireland, and you should’ve listened. You shouldn’t be—”

The door swept open on a gust of wind. Electricity crackled through the room. Moira stepped inside, her green gaze hard on Conn. His heart seized. How had he forgotten her beauty? Her power? Her tiny size?

Conn scraped back his chair and stood. “Hello, mate.”

Her focus remained on him. “Get out.”

Stools toppled, chairs clattered, and patrons stumbled in a mass exodus. He couldn’t help his grin as the door slammed shut behind her. Even from across the room her scent of lilacs whispered toward him. Tempted him. “Feeling dramatic, Dailtín ?”

“I believe I’ve asked you not to call me a brat.” She stepped into the empty tavern, all grace, all intent. “Kellach, please leave.”

“Yes, Kell. Get the hell out,” Conn said cheerfully, his gaze on his mate. He’d missed those rioting red curls and that translucent skin—almost as much as he’d missed the fire in her eyes and the spirit in her tiny form. Almost. her lilting voice grabbed him around the throat and squeezed.

With a muttered, “It’s your funeral,” Kellach stalked outside. The air relaxed as his power dissipated.

Silence. Alone in the bar, Moira and Conn stared at each other for a moment.

Finally, she sighed and tugged a hand through her wild curls. “You need to go home, Connlan.”

He ran his gaze to her toes and back up, truly appreciating the faded jeans and tight white shirt decorated with Celtic knots. The sight of the dainty witch in modern clothing reached deep in his gut and twisted. The need to take her to the floor nearly had him lunging. “Or what?”

Fire flashed in her emerald eyes. “Or I’ll destroy you.” Power all but danced on her skin with the threat.

Damn. That voice, that spirit. His heart leaped to life and his cock jumped to attention. “Think so?”

She sucked in air, her hands fisting and then relaxing at her sides.

That’s right, sweetheart. Center yourself. He gesture toward Kell’s vacated chair. “Have a seat.”

“No. You need to leave, Conn. Please.” Determination and a hint of desperation broke through her calm façade.

He cocked his head to the side, unease tickling his nape. “Did you just say please ?” Every instinct he owned flared to life. “What the hell’s going on, Moira?”

Her eyes widened just enough for him to doubt her intent. “I need time, Conn.”

“I’ve given you a hundred years.” Why the hell was she trying the innocent approach with him? He knew her better. “I told you eight months ago I was coming.” He’d meant to fly across the ocean the next day, but war had intruded. Being commander of the Realm’s soldiers often took a heavy toll.

“I need more. Just a bit, to prepare to, uh—”

“Prepare for what?”

The morning after he’d marked her, when her father wanted his head on a spike, he’d tried to make peace. One moonlit night he’d taken her virginity and she’d taken his heart. Fate had made an appearance, forming the Kayrs marking on his palm that he’d transferred to her hip during sex. Even so, he’d signed the treaty promising to leave her be for a century—to train as the Seventh. Time was up.

“We had a one-night stand and ended up mated. That’s all.” She sighed. “You want to solidify our alliance. But I’m not ready to, um, concentrate on us.”

He waited.

She clasped her hands together. “I’m asking for more time. Just a little.”

“Why?”

“Do you trust me?”

“No.” Not in a million years. “Try to play me and you’ll regret it, céadsearc .” Sweetheart. He’d learned the endearment the night she sighed it in his ear, her body wrapped around his, her darkening eyes stealing his heart forever.