Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

She didn’t need the reminder.

Moving the shattered wood with her foot, she stood in front of the window, her gaze unfocused; the gardener below was a blur of brown color, and the thud of his shovel a distant sound, although she stood only one story above.

Dylan could hate her for leaving, if he wanted. They all could hate her and she wouldn’t care, because her actions had kept her son alive until he was old enough to defend himself.

Her decision to stay away, Sophie reminded herself, as she always did when guilt poisoned her conscience, had been justified.

Run, human. Run far away and never return . . . because if you do, I’ll kill you and that bastard child you carry in your womb.

Dylan’s steps were almost silent as he approached, not that it mattered; she sensed his presence more than she felt the racing of her own heart. He leaned down, his chin brushing the side of her cheek, smooth from a recent shave. “What are you thinking about?”

Cool air radiated off the window and she let her forehead rest against the glass. “That I never thought I’d be standing here again . . . in this room . . . with you.”

“You belong with me.” A soft statement filled with quiet conviction.

She sighed, not so sure. “Before I agree to stay, I feel I must be frank with you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I have come to accept a few things about myself. My instinct to protect our son is not rational or reasonable, and sometimes . . . it’s even cowardly and selfish. But it will never change. I will always put Joshua’s welfare before all others, even my own, by any means necessary.”

“You should save your breath, if you’re trying to warn me away.” His hands lifted to her shoulders, warm and gentle as he turned her. The glare from the window reflected off his black gaze; a glint of hunger moved from within before he pushed it back. “I have begun to realize why the Goddess has chosen to favor you, my human wife, who not only accepts both the dark and light aspects of herself, but also embraces them—in order to protect our child.”

My human wife? “You’re not going to stop calling me that, are you?”

“No.” His hands tightened on her shoulders briefly before trailing down her arms.

“You act as if we can just forget the past.”

“Not forget.” He turned her wrist and pushed something cold and jagged into her palm. “But we can learn from it and move forward.”

Avoiding his hardened glare, she unfurled her fingers and stared down at a modern brass key. “What does it open?”

“Both doors to this room. It’s the only copy,” he added. “So don’t lose it.”

“You changed the locks?”

“You stole the master,” he reminded her.

Not trusting her voice, she closed her fingers around the key. One of the first skills she’d acquired after escaping was how to pick a lock. But Dylan wouldn’t have known that.

“I need to do a few things,” he said, turning toward the outer door. “You know where my office is. Meet me there when you’re ready. I’ll show you around the kitchen and larder.” His hand rested on the doorknob, and he watched her with hooded eyes, as if he expected her to renege on her offer to cook, or run for dear life.

She didn’t intend to do either. “Just give me fifteen minutes to wash up and change my clothes.”

It was time to stop running, as her mother had irritatingly, and rightly, suggested. And perhaps . . . her belly gave a little flip at the mere thought . . . perhaps she may even fight for what her heart wanted.

In response, his features stilled, darkened, as if he sensed her thoughts. The effect was disquieting, reminding her—and maybe him as well—that not all their memories in this room were unhappy ones. Her gaze lingered on his mouth, feeling as if the pine wood floors had just given way under her feet.

“Sophie . . .” His knuckles turned white around the doorknob, and the wooden door gave a groan as if too much pressure had been applied. He released his hand and stepped into the hallway. “This room is yours,” he said through the open doorway, putting space between them. “I want you to feel safe here. I’ll not disturb you, or come to you at night. But you need to remember that I’ve been sixteen years without my mate. I’ll do my best to keep my distance until you’re ready to accept your future here . . . until you’re ready to accept me.” His voice took on a sensual timbre, full of dark promise. “However, the next time you stare at my mouth as you’ve just done . . . I will use it upon you.”

DYLAN WAS QUITE CERTAIN HIS WIFE WAS GOING TO BE the death of him before this was over. Leaving Sophie in the kitchens had not been an easy task; her innocent excitement over inane objects, like an industrial bread mixer (of all the bloody things to get excited over), had almost driven him mad.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure her proximity without claiming what was rightfully his. His body ached; his skin felt like strung leather over taut nerves and his temper ran short. Luc and most of the guards had begun to avoid him. Not that he blamed them. He was in no mood for companionship other than that of the one who could ease this torture.

Francine’s lecture on how not to smother her daughter had prompted him to get some fresh air, and much-needed distance. Well aware of his tenuous limits, he took a walk around the back of his home, moving away from the more visible trails and into a dense section of his woods, and, more important, away from his beautiful wife. He wanted nothing other than to carry her up to his bedroom where she belonged, and do exactly what his mother-in-law had warned him not to.

As he traveled farther into the forest, his instincts heightened to alert. He stepped onto a small, winding trail, where branches and knotted roots formed a tangled path, and listened. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he felt something was amiss.

Malsum and Porter had this area firmly secured, he knew, and yet he continued to have a distinct feeling of being watched—of a powerful presence that didn’t belong.

Were the Guardians getting closer? Had they already arrived? Or was this someone connected to the gathering?

So many possibilities, none of them reassuring.

The sound of footsteps, four-legged and aggressive, warned of his visitor’s approach. Dylan tensed, ready to shift. The white hound that came crashing through the barren brush was unexpected, as was the man with golden hair who stepped out of the shadows and whistled a sharp command. The creature heeled, teeth bared, eyeing Dylan with malicious distrust.

“Taliesin,” Dylan acknowledged with a sharp nod. It was customary to kneel; he remained standing. “You look like shit.”

Resembling a vagabond, Taliesin wore plaid pants and a ragged shirt—sleeping garments perhaps?—stained and wrinkled, as if he’d worn them for days, or at least since Sophie’s departure from his home.

“Be careful, warrior,” Taliesin said, “I might actually think you care.”

“You kept my family.” Dylan held back a growl, not an easy task when anger was like acid on his tongue. “I should challenge you for what you’ve done.”

“You would lose,” he said simply.

“Are you so sure?” A searing pain shot down his spine as his wolf rose to the challenge and was denied release.

“Calm your wolf, warrior.” White heat filled the air, a warning to behave, and a promise to retaliate. “Your jealousy is vile and unwarranted. If not for my protection, you would have lost your family.”