Sydney Somers: Primal Temptation

He dreamed of her death.

The images shadowed his mind, creeping along the edge of conscious thought as he jolted awake.

He struggled against the heavy chains around his wrists and ankles, the abrasive steel tearing at his skin. Caught between dreams and the reality of his imprisonment, it took a few moments to recognize the dark, impenetrable crystal walls of his cell, the claustrophobic ceiling that left barely enough room to stand.

How long had he been here? Weeks? Years? Centuries?

It was impossible to tell.

He leaned into the cool stone where he sat on the ground, the uneven rock digging into his back. He ignored the uncomfortable sensation. It would pass as quickly as the irritation from the already-healing scrapes on his wrists.

He tipped his head back, staring up at where he imagined the sun might be shining overhead. By the gods, he longed to feel the warming rays on his face, the heated tingle of them sinking into his skin.

Instead he felt only the damp, gritty earth beneath him and the chill of the dark broken only by fragments of muted light from a torch in a nearby tunnel. A tunnel that might as well have been on the opposite end of the world for all the good it did him.

His eyes slid shut, the dream growing more distant as it did every time he fought to recall the details—blood, darker than crimson and smelling faintly of old magic, the cold unforgiving metal of the blade, the crippling sense of betrayal, heartbreak and fear.

So much fear it coated the back of his throat until he nearly choked on it.

The harder he concentrated, determined to learn everything he could from the images that would come to pass, the more he grappled with slippery fingers to catch hold of a cloud.

He punched the ground and threw a bloodied handful of dirt and rocks at the wall. He couldn’t remain here, couldn’t wait for his sentence to pass, especially not if he was meant to rot here for eternity.

If he did nothing, she would die.

And it would change everything.

“You are a goddess.”

Grinning, Briana Callaghan wiggled out from under the desk after checking the local connection on the custom-built security system she had nearly finished upgrading. “Say it any louder and you might be struck down by the real deal.” Immortal beings could be notoriously vain, and the goddess who came to mind was known for striking out for far less.

Mac sprawled in the chair pushed away from the desk, arms crossed and legs stretched out in front of him. He wore a white shirt and dark suit that probably cost more than her commission for this job, the top buttons undone and his tie half stuffed in his pocket.

He looked like he’d just come from a cover shoot for sexiest man of the year—an image at complete odds with her earliest memories of him swinging a sword, covered in dirt and sweat as he sparred with her brothers on a muddy field, talking of one day joining King Arthur on the battlefield.

The six-foot-plus gargoyle shifter shrugged, his wolf half glittering in his eyes. “What’s Rhiannon going to do? Curse me to spend my daylight hours trapped in stone?” He straightened in the chair, changing positions for the tenth time in less than three minutes.

Briana stood, smiling and bumping him with her arm in passing. “I’d tell you to get over it already, but you’re too broody to forgo personal pity parties.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed, and she laughed.

Every predatory cat, wolf and dragon gargoyle who called Avalon home had felt the goddess’s wrath when King Arthur, her only son, died on the battlefield at Camlann centuries ago. The vicious and bloody war between Arthur and his half-sister over Camelot had raged for years before Arthur fell at the hands of his own nephew.

Blaming the gargoyle race for Arthur’s fatal wounds, Rhiannon had made sure that even those who crossed the veil to hide in the human realm couldn’t escape the curse of being trapped in their stone gargoyle from sunrise to sunset. Overnight, the mystical stone once viewed as a gargoyle’s ultimate protection against enemies was turned against them, a prison sentence with no expiry date.

Although plenty of gargoyles shared Mac’s lingering resentment for the unjust punishment following Arthur’s death, Briana had made her peace with it a long time ago.

It was the latest change she struggled to adapt to.

With a glance at her laptop, she crouched once more to check the installed hardware. “Shouldn’t you be used to it by now?” How many centuries did the rest of the gargoyle race need to get used to the way things were? She scanned the programming code on her screen.

“Easy to say coming from someone—” Mac leaned forward, his voice lowering, “—who can now control the shift to stone.”

Her head snapped up, her smile vanishing. “My brother has a big mouth.” Considering how much time her brother Cian spent with his new mate, it was a wonder he’d pried his mouth off Emma’s long enough to do more than devour a few Big Macs, let alone confide in Mac.

Feeling the wolf’s curious gaze burning holes in her back, Briana deliberately focused on her laptop.

Control was still too loose of a term to describe the fact that she didn’t automatically turn to stone with every sunrise, and she’d gladly give that up if it would undo the fact that—like her three older brothers—she’d found her mate.

She refused to discuss who her mate was with her brothers, so she sure as hell wasn’t talking about it with Mac. He might have a reputation for getting people to open up to him, but she knew better. For every second he spent looking like he didn’t have another place in the world to be, he was pinpointing a weakness that he could use to his advantage later.

When she heard him fidget again, she turned around. “Don’t you have a casino downstairs to oversee? I’m almost done anyway, and you know you don’t need to be here for this.”

He stared at her, waiting.

“You know that dominant wolf thing and staring everyone into submission doesn’t work on me.”

His eyes narrowed, and she knew he was probably trying to remember a time he’d been successful with it before. She rocked back on her heels, glad she wasn’t at the mercy of the whole “pack” mentality that wolves placed such an importance on.

A few moments later Mac stood, wisely giving up on probing for more information. Cian had undoubtedly put him up to it. “I’m going, but only because we both know that when you say you’re almost done, it really means you’re going to tweak things for another couple hours.”

“I like to be thorough.”

“For what you’re charging me, I’d damn well hope so.” He shuddered. “Cristo would have only cost me half as much.”

Briana snorted. “That hack? He’s also the reason you needed me to begin with.” Frowning at the screen, she pulled up the chair Mac abandoned and dropped into it. “You’re not going to have any more theft problems when I’m done with this upgrade.”

“And you’re sure it will scare the shit out of any human thieves stupid enough to break into the hotel guest rooms, but not give them a heart attack?”

“I can’t promise that the Fae glamour I’ve got wired into this system won’t make a mortal piss his pants, but the illusion is nothing that’s going to bring the media or a huntress to your doorstep.”

Mac shuddered at the mention of the latter. “Crazy bitches. Did you know they got their girdles in a bunch when I refused to rent out my penthouse a couple weeks back after they decided to turn the Wolf’s Den into their new favorite playground?”