Moon Burning - By Lucy Monroe Page 0,69

blinked, but the image did not shift. She had no choice but to simply accept as her body surpassed even the earlier moment of completion to the point she was barely lucid.

He curled her into his body as they slipped into sleep and she heard him whisper against her hair, “Tomorrow, you will show me your raven.”

Sabrine finished her search of Rowland’s room and his things. The Clach Gealach Gra was nowhere to be found. Though she had come across a disturbing collection of raven and eagle feathers, which she took to burn in the way of her people.

She did not know of a certainty that they came from Éan, but she could not help believing the feathers were a way of counting kills. She took them to the hall and built a fire from the banked embers in the fireplace. She lay each feather on the flames, whispering the words of departing for Chrechte warriors as each one caught and was consumed by the fire.

Her heart ached as she watched evidence of the Faol’s treachery against her people disappear in the flames. Éan disappeared, never to be heard from again. How many of those she had known could be accounted for in the collection of feathers she now burned with reverence and respect?

The sound of a wolf’s nails clicking across the floor brought her head up.

She had been so intent on performing the final rite of passage for her Chrechte brethren, she had not sensed her mate’s approach. The fact he did so as a wolf and she still had not known chilled her with a deep terror she could not shake.

The giant blond wolf came toward her, his eyes filled with intelligence, with Barr. But his form was that of his Chrechte nature. The Faol. A jaw that could tear a bird in half with one well-placed bite, claws that could cut through all-too-fragile skin and feathers with an ease that sent shards of atavistic fear through her.

Even knowing this wolf was in fact her newly discovered true mate, she could not hold back her flinch as revulsion washed over her.

A low whine sounded from his throat, but he did not drop his head or look away from her.

“Your former laird was a hunter of the Éan.”

Chapter 15

Barr shook his majestic head, a low growl sounding.

But she would not let him dismiss the situation so lightly. “He may not have been your laird, but he was pack alpha of the Faol in this clan. The clan you now lead.”

Barr moved closer, his regard intent, the scent of his wolf stronger than it had ever been around her.

One part of her, the woman who had been raised to protect her people from all potential threats, but particularly the wolves among the Chrechte, demanded she move away from the danger. Her raven insisted on moving nearer her mate; she needed the man who had taught her such pleasure to show himself, and her heart and mind felt torn in two.

“Shift.” She meant to demand it, but the word came out more a plea.

You fear my wolf? he asked with their mental connection.

She shook her head, refusing to matespeak with a wolf. Didn’t he understand? In this form, he could not be her mate.

The air shimmered around them and then Barr was there in his human form. He straightened, towering over her, his expression grim. “You hate my wolf.”

She could not deny it. “The Faol has always been my enemy.”

“Not all wolves are murdering bastards like Rowland.”

She looked down at the last feather in her hand; it was from a raven. “He killed many in their bird form and more as humans. It is not something I can forget.” Not ever. He had not killed her parents, his scent had been wrong, but he had no doubt been cohort to the ones that had.

“He had nothing to do with me.”

“He was laird here before you. You shared your table with him for more than a month.”

Barr’s scowl darkened, but guilt shadowed his eyes. “I did not know he was a murderer.”

“You knew he was wicked.”

“There are wicked among all people, human and Chrechte alike.” He looked at her as if expecting agreement.

She was in no mood to be agreeable. “None so wicked as the Faol.”

An inexplicable sense of guilt pricked her as the words fell between them and his anger spiked along with unmistakable hurt.

“Your people are so peaceful that your women train as warriors.” This time his mocking tone dared