Having left his vehicle at a trailhead parking area, Donal loped through the silver fir forest, heading for the festival grounds. The mid-afternoon sun was bright, the air warm and dry with the dusty tang of evergreens. Fir needles were soft underpaw.
Yet he couldn’t really enjoy the day—not with last night preying on his mind.
Aye, maybe it shouldn’t bother him so much. He might have more power than most healers, but it could still run out. Like last night.
That had been far too close.
All the remainder of the night, he’d stewed over the difficulty in drawing power from Farrah. She’d shared her energy with him before. It hadn’t been that long since he’d mated with her. The only thing that had changed was the bond between them.
Aye, when he thought about it, the bond between him and the females with whom he’d mated had narrowed. All except for one female—Margery.
His feelings for her were impacting the bonds he had with other females. The knowledge was a swamp of unhappiness within him.
Because if he couldn’t recharge, shifters would die. He’d fail them.
By the Gods, he wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t.
He needed to back away from Margery. Create some distance so he wouldn’t lose those connections.
At the Gathering tomorrow night, he’d mate with as many Cold Creek females as possible. No matter how unhappy it made someone else…or him. He had enough control over his dick to get it to rise.
Reaching the festival grounds, he slid into the storage tent from the back and trawsfurred to human. After sniffing out his and Tynan’s pack, he dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt.
Outside, the scattering of large tents on the north and south edges created a token street. There was a dining tent. A sleeping tent for the elderly and cubs in case of rain. An entertainment tent. A smaller healing tent.
“Hey, healer.”
At the rough-sounding voice, Donal turned and spotted Owen inside the crafts tent where artists could display their wares. The brown-haired cahir hadn’t bothered to shave, and dark scruff shadowed his jawline. He was seated on a blanket with his carvings arranged on another blanket.
Donal studied the wood sculptures: A wolf led a small pack. A panther perched on a limb above a rabbit. There was a female wolf with her head tilted, paw raised.
She looked almost like Margery. And wouldn’t that carving be perfect for the shelf in his bedroom? “You do good work.”
“Thanks.” The cahir gave Donal a half-smile. “It’s good you weren’t here earlier. The females were lapping up alcohol-laden hot chocolate last night—and some hadn’t realized the after-effects of drinking.”
Shifters didn’t suffer hangovers as badly as humans did, but since most Daonain weren’t used to feeling ill at all, the first few times could be a shock. “Good to know.”
Owen snorted. “When Angie dropped some cast iron pots this morning, Bree let out a sound… I haven’t heard screeching like that since a werecat caught her tail in a forked branch.”
Donal winced. Tails were almost as sensitive as testicles. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Margery’s pretty much recovered.” Owen nodded toward the right.
Donal followed his gaze and spotted Margery talking with Darcy near the back of the tent. Gawain, a blademage, was showing her a bracelet he’d made.
A lifemating bracelet.
Fucking, sprite-cursed irony. Donal could feel the blood draining from his face.
Owen gripped his arm. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Donal shook his head. “Nothing.”
He stiffened his spine. It had to be done. Letting their female—no, not theirs, she couldn’t be theirs—letting Margery get her hopes up wouldn’t be right. Would be cruel. “See you later, cahir.”
Everything in him wanted to pretend it was all going to be all right.
No. He was an honorable male—act like it, cat.
He walked across the tent. “Margery.”
“Donal, you’re here!” Face lighting, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged.
Unable to help himself, he bent his head and took her lips in a warm kiss. By the Gods, he’d missed her, last night at the accident, in his lonely bed, at his silent breakfast. Her laugh, her scent, her joy, the peace that pooled around her—she was buried in his heart so deeply he’d never be able to remove her.
Maybe it would be all right. Even if he couldn’t lifemate her, he could still love her. Maybe love her a little less. That would work, wouldn’t it?
Would she see it that way?
Dread made his bones feel as if they’d shatter at a blow.
“Are you feeling all right, Donal?” She stepped back, holding his hands between hers.