Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

SOPHIE FOCUSED ON THE EVEN POUNDING OF HER STRIDES until she sensed a second echo, a second rhythm interrupting hers. It was her only warning before her feet left the ground.

It happened so fast, inhumanly fast, she had no time to react other than to hold out her hands to accept most of the fall. One moment she was running and the next she was on the ground, face first, gravel cutting into her palms with a large mass on top of her.

The form of a man— not a wolf —held her down with forearms and large hands.

“Don’t move,” an all-too-familiar voice growled next to her ear; the weight of his body forced air from her lungs.

“Good God . . . Dylan? ” She practically melted with relief that she hadn’t retaliated, and yet the hard earth beneath her cheek was a cold reminder that she should have. If it had been anyone other than Dylan, that split-second hesitation could have cost her life. She twisted out from under him, using a root from a nearby tree for leverage to crawl forward. “What is wrong with you?”

“Did I tell you too much yesterday?” He grabbed her leg and pulled; her sweatpants caught on a rock or fallen branch, she wasn’t sure which, just something sharp that exposed her calf as he continued to yank and her clothing refused to follow, bunching up around her knee. “Is that why you’re running away?”

“What?” she seethed through clenched teeth. “Running away? Are you crazy? I’m not running away. I’m jogging.”

“Jogging?” He sounded confused.

“Yes, jogging. You know . . . like . . . exercise .” She lunged forward, grabbing at the ground for more leverage, kicking backward and hoping to land a solid blow on his chest if her calculations were correct. “I would never leave my son.”

He grunted as her foot landed on something solid. Unfortunately it didn’t dislodge his hand, which continued to remain a vise around her ankle.

But then his motions stilled and his voice took on a strange tone, low and barely audible. “What is that on your leg?”

“It’s called a knife,” she snapped, twisting onto her back to face him, forcing him to let go of her ankle or be tangled in her legs. He loosened his grip enough for her to turn. Her new position freed her right leg. She braced her foot against his groin, eyebrows raised in challenge and ready to kick.

His eyes were not on her knife.

But on her exposed skin instead.

With proficient motions, he yanked off her calf holster and threw it onto the path, uncaring that it fell within reach. He left the other leg alone, obviously not threatened by either weapon. Instead, he tried to push her pants farther up her exposed leg. After a few seconds of fighting with the elastic material, he decided to yank them down, and off , instead.

Aware now of what he’d seen, of what he wanted to see more of, Sophie kicked out, only to have her free leg caught and disarmed, his movements a blur to her human eye. Her sneakers followed. She fell back with a groan, knowing a struggle would only prolong the inevitable. Genetically, he was stronger than her. She was human. And he was . . . more .

Besides, she was beginning to accept the fact that she really didn’t have the heart to fight this man; her heart had an entirely different desire.

He peeled the pants completely off and threw them to the side. She had removed her sweatshirt during her run and tied it around her waist. It had untangled sometime during their scuffle, offering no protection from his heated glare.

Irritated, more with herself than him, she rose to a semi-sitting position and leaned back on her elbows, looking down the length of her bared body. All that remained were her sleeveless concealed holster shirt over a sports bra, purple underwear and white ankle socks. Her gun bulged outward from her side. Pine needles and dirt clung to her sweat-coated skin, but not enough to hide the purple scars that puckered her left leg from hip to mid-calf, more prominent because of the chilled air and her matching hip-hugger briefs.

“Who did this to you?” His voice was raw, almost broken as he knelt before her.

Her answer lodged in her throat as Luc chose that moment to barge into the clearing. Wild silver eyes scanned the area until he looked down and found his quarry. Six others followed: three men, two women and a brown wolf. One of the women was Taran. Without being asked, the guards formed a circle around Dylan and Sophie.

There was a gasp and several murmurs as they assessed the situation—and Sophie’s exposed leg.

“Who did this to you?” Dylan asked again, uncaring that they now had an audience.

“It happened the night I left you . . . but it looks worse than it was,” she told him, only because she wanted out of there as quickly as possible. “I think if I had gone to a hospital it would have healed better.”

His voice lowered to a deadly whisper. “Are you telling me that Siân did this to you?”

“Yes,” she answered with more calm than she felt, feeling the weight of eight sets of eyes. “I told you that Siân threatened to kill us if we ever returned. And that I had reason to believe she’d try. I don’t make false accusations.”

A strangled sound came from Taran, a moan of feminine denial laced with fear.

“You didn’t tell me she had harmed you,” Dylan ground out, tracing his hand over the puckered scars.

Gritting her teeth, she placed her hand over his to stop the movement. “The scars are sensitive to touch,” she explained.

“Your nerves were damaged.” A tremor entered his voice, an odd sound coming from a man who never showed emotion. “You were not treated well here . . . were you, my wife?” It was a question he obviously didn’t expect an answer to and so she remained silent. “I brought you into the woods that night to help you understand why I kept you away from your family. And in return you were attacked by one of my people. It’s no wonder you never returned.”

At a loss for an appropriate response, she clung to the obvious. “I’m here now.”

“Yes,” he challenged. “But for how long?”

“I will always choose the path I believe best for our son. That path has led me back to you. Joshua needs you. And I will stay as long as my son wants me to.”

Looking somewhat consoled, Dylan shifted onto his side and stood, helping Sophie up. With calm proficiency, he found her sweatpants and handed them to her. Ignoring the pine needles and dirt stuck to her skin and bottom, and probably other areas she didn’t want to think about, she yanked them back on. She walked over to her discarded sneakers, paused to unroll her wet socks, and shoved her bare feet into the shoes. Next, she retrieved her knives, letting the holsters dangle from her hands rather than bending over to strap them back on.

Feeling more secure dressed, she looked up only to find Luc watching her with one black eyebrow raised to her weapons and a slight grin on his face. He dipped his head in acknowledgment.

Dylan took a step toward the circle of guards. “Taran, did you know of this?”

“I didn’t.” Taran fell to her knees, her head bowed. “I swear, Penteulu , I didn’t know.”

“You sensed nothing,” Dylan spat.

Her breath fell from her lips. “I . . . I knew something had happened. My sister changed after that night, her mind became whole again for a while.” Absolute fear laced through the woman’s voice, a plea more than an explanation. “Siân thought . . . She thought you were free again. She refused to believe that woman’s child was yours. She refused to believe you were mated.”

Sophie frowned at the woman’s choice of words. Mate was a very specific term, especially when referring to the habits of wolves.