Kresley Cole - MacRieve

“It’s in my blood, remember?” With a saucy grin, she brushed off one shoulder, then the other. “Raw talent. Rookie phenom. At least I won’t embarrass myself with the new sword-fighting fam.”

He’d relayed all that had occurred in the Ubus Realm. She’d been amazed by the developments, convinced, as he was, that everything had been fated.

That littlest hope-spark? Now an inferno, never to be extinguished.

The morning after the full moon, she’d wanted to let her new kin know that she was okay, but there’d been no need. They’d found a note from Nieve affixed to the front door:

Judging by the shock waves originating from Conall Keep throughout the night, we assume you’ve made a complete recovery—and that Uilleam MacRieve, Lord of Conall, is indeed your fated mate. Please do us the honor of joining us for our Cider Fair. . . .

The fair was this weekend, and MacRieve had readily agreed to take her: “They healed my mate. For that, I’ll even be civil to Nieve.”

In truth, she was a little embarrassed to see them again. By now everyone in that realm would know she’d been hauled off by a ravenous werewolf for Richter-scale sex under the full moon. That was probably scandalous, even to the Ubus.

She shrugged. Oh, well, I’ll be sure to wear red.

Only a few things marred her honeymoon with MacRieve. One was his unrelenting remorse over the way he’d treated her. She made sure to jank him continually for all his misconceptions, which seemed to ease his guilt.

Yesterday he’d drawn her close, saying against her hair, “I canna get enough of you, Chloe. Gods help me, I know I never will.”

“I’m sure it’s just my strew—oh, wait . . .”

He’d nipped her neck, making her squeal with laughter.

Her confusion over her father was another source of worry. When she and MacRieve talked late into the night, they’d discussed his childhood and Ruelle, his parents—and her dad.

By clinging to some tenuous belief in his goodness, was she being loyal—or willfully blind? MacRieve had been grievously harmed by him. Immortals all over the Lore had. Her relatives believed Preston Webb had killed Chloe’s own mother. Yet she didn’t feel right passing judgment until she’d heard his side of the story.

Which might never happen.

For MacRieve’s part, he’d relinquished his urge for vengeance, explaining, “I canna kill my mate’s sire. I’m too much in his debt. Without him, no Chloe.”

Now MacRieve said, “I doona understand why Munro has no’ rung me back.”

Another worry. He couldn’t get in touch with his brother.

MacRieve had left his first message for Munro the day after the full moon. She remembered him placing his phone on the bathroom counter just before they’d taken their first shower together.

She shivered to recall that shower. MacRieve had knelt before her, placing a hand over her belly. “When you’re ready, I’m goin’ tae put a babe in here.” His hand had been so hot, even in the water. “Mayhap even twins.” He’d gazed up at her, his eyes flickering. “Honor me so?”

Breathless, she’d only been able to nod.

“ Tha gràdh agam ort, Chloe. I love you. And I’m about tae show you how much.” Then he’d leisurely— lovingly —washed her from head to toe, still learning her body. When she’d done the same to him, one thing led to another.

By the time he’d finally released her to get dressed, the water had grown cold and she’d been grinning ear to ear like she’d just medaled. Since then, they always shared showers. As he’d repeated, “We like to conserve water around here.”

And so it went with them.

“Has Munro ever gone this long without calling?” she asked.

“Since telephones were invented, Munro has never no’ returned my calls. I worry.” In a gruffer tone, he said, “Feels strange to be apart from him again.”

She couldn’t imagine how it must feel to be separated from one’s twin, wondering if he was safe and well. “Let’s give it to the end of the day. If no one at the compound has seen him, then we’ll return to Louisiana.”

He lowered his sword. “You’d miss the fair with your family?”

“Munro’s my family too,” she said, making MacRieve’s brows draw tight with feeling. “Why don’t you go try him again? I’ll chill for a bit.”

He nodded. “Doona leave the immediate grounds, no?” After giving her a sweet kiss, he jogged off.

Alone, she strolled through the courtyard, treading upon cobblestones where countless MacRieves had walked, long before Will was born.

God, this place was so beautiful. Over these four days, he’d drilled into her head that this was her home. “Conall belongs to you as much as to me. You’re Chloe MacRieve, lady of this keep.” She could invite whomever she wanted, could decorate it however she chose.

She wouldn’t touch a thing, already found it perfect. Finally, she lived in a home with character. No McMansion here!

She and MacRieve had even talked about reviving the area, bringing in more sheep, inviting clan members to resettle in the old village of Conall.

As she walked, she ran her fingertips along the cool stone wall. She could feel the history here, and it grounded her. No longer did she feel like her world had been upended. She’d landed on her feet.

Here. With MacRieve.

Maybe the lads could come and stay for the summer? She missed them. But then, she might be seeing them directly. She’d meant what she’d said earlier: she and MacRieve would be on a plane tonight if he didn’t hear from his brother—

“Chlo . . .”

She whirled around at the strange voice. Standing not ten feet from her was the same towering, cloaked demon that had been in her father’s study.

“You!” She raised her sword. “What do you want from me?” She didn’t expect a real answer; last time, it’d barely been able to speak.

It surprised her by saying, “You don’t recognize me?” Its words were still rough, though much clearer than before. It stepped closer.

Recalling this creature’s strength, she choked up on her sword. “Should I?” Chloe was first and foremost a fighter. But she wasn’t above calling on her ally. She drew a breath to scream a heads-up for MacRieve—

The creature pulled its hood past its horns.

Her scream died on her lips. Her sword hand went limp, the blade clattering to the ground. “Dad?” It was him, but he’d been altered.

When she’d seen him before, he’d been obscured in shadow; now every feature was sharp in glaring daylight.

He had unnaturally pale and flawless skin, ageless. Tapered fangs had replaced his teeth. Matte-black horns rose from his head like an old-timey devil drawing. His irises were so dark, they brought to mind the bottom of an abyss.

Yet he was arresting, with the air all Loreans seemed to possess. “Dad? Wh-what happened to you?” She rushed up to him, tentatively touching his face. “You were the one in our house? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

With a claw-tipped hand, he brushed a curl of hair from her face. “I was trying to ask if you were still mortal, but I’d only recently been transformed. I’ve had to relearn how to speak, how to move, how to think.”

“Transformed into what? You need to explain this before I freak the hell out.” And before MacRieve scents you. She lowered her hand, reminded of what her dad had done to the male she loved. “Start spilling.”

A hint of Dad’s old smile rose. “I see you haven’t changed—even with your own transformation.”

She bit out, “Talk.”

He inclined his head. “I was being hunted by one of the most fearsome vampires in the Lore, Lothaire the Enemy of Old. I knew sooner or later he would find my hideout. But I was prepared. Just before he drained me to death, I popped a capsule full of blended immortal blood. Though he did kill me, I was resurrected.”