me find you a table.” The shifter who’d escorted her down from the mating rooms had his arm around her shoulders as if unwilling to let her go. They’d had a pleasant mating, and to her delight, he had a sense of humor. It was really fun to laugh during sex.
Spotting an empty table, he guided her across the tavern and pulled the chair out for her.
“Thank you.” She sat and smiled up at him.
“Thank you.” The werebear patted her shoulder and took himself off.
Margery leaned back, straightening the pretty top that Heather had given her.
Looking around, she tried to spot the redhead in the crowded room. No success, which wasn’t a surprise. Since Gatherings were all about matings, females didn’t stay together, especially at first.
But the moon was setting, and the Gathering was almost over. If she didn’t find Heather, she’d head back to their bed and breakfast room by herself.
For the first time tonight, she wasn’t surrounded by males and had a chance to examine her surroundings. Rather than in a house, the North Cascades Gathering was in a huge tavern, which was owned by the Cosantir. The shifters were well-behaved on the whole, although a male would occasionally burst out with a masculine challenge to all comers to gain a female’s interest.
Fighting, however, was taken outside. Unlike Pete, this Cosantir supervised the Gathering and didn’t tolerate brawling inside. In fact, the werebear said the Cosantir himself was tending the bar.
She turned to look.
Dear Goddess…
Leaning on the bar, the dark-haired Cosantir surveyed the crowd. A terrifying amount of power shimmered around him. His gaze landed on her, pinning her in place, stealing her breath, and then he nodded politely before turning his attention elsewhere.
She carefully turned her chair so she wasn’t facing him before letting out a soft, “Whew.” Don’t stare at the scary Cosantir. No wonder there were no fights when he was around.
Still…scary Cosantir or not, she far preferred this Gathering to Rainier’s.
“Who are you looking at, Donal?” A well-endowed brunette sat down beside the single male at a nearby table. “Seriously? That stumpy one? She looks like something a werecat wouldn’t bother to drag in, even if the cat was starving.”
Margery hoped she wasn’t the stumpy one in question.
But the female was staring right at Margery. Ouch. Well, all right. The rude statement wasn’t a falsehood. Margery was short, not particularly pretty, and the scar didn’t help.
She glanced at the male and blinked. Tall and lean with cheekbones sharper than knives—the mesmerizing healer from the Scythe garage, the one who’d taken their trackers out. Donal. No wonder his name was familiar.
The way his thick black hair spilled over his pure white shirt made her fingers curl with a desire to comb through the strands.
When the brunette wrapped her hands around his biceps, clinging like a burr on a wolf pelt, the oddest pain sliced deep into Margery’s heart. Talk about stupid.
Margery Lavelle, why would you think you could ever attract a male like him?
His silvery gaze met Margery’s for an infinite, stomach-tightening second before he responded to the female tugging on his arm and turned away.
Without saying anything to Margery.
No recognition had shown in those eyes she would never forget. The way he’d tended to her and the other captives left an impression on her, but to him, she must have been just another face among many. No one memorable…which shouldn’t bother her as much as it did.
Margery noticed the female was scowling at her.
As the animosity sent a chill down her spine, she rose. No need to stay where she was uncomfortable.
On the far side of the tavern, a cheerfully crackling fire drew her. Ignoring the shifters seated near the stone fireplace, Margery remained standing, holding her hands toward the flames.
Two salamanders danced in the fire, their sinuous red bodies twining and spinning in a celebration of their element.
“You guys are gorgeous,” she whispered.
Hearing her, they blinked black eyes like cold coals and leapt higher in a fountain of flickering sparks.
“Aye, I’m going to have to look for work soon.” A male’s compelling baritone came from the shifters behind her. “It’s resting I’ve been, but the itch is on me to do something.”
The Irish accent was familiar. He sounded like the male who’d bossed the shifters in the Scythe garage. The one named Tynan.
Warily, she checked over her shoulder.
It was him.
Standing, Tynan had one foot resting on the coffee table, his forearms crossed on his raised thigh as he spoke to his friends on