“Yeah, that potato-famine thing was sure lucky,” Connor growled, but Sean felt the lad’s body relax under his touch. Sean rubbed Connor’s arms, kissed his hair.
Take care of Con for me, Kenny had whispered the night he’d been killed, his broken body in Sean’s arms. Promise me, Sean.
Sean had promised to protect Connor with his life as he’d held his brother close and come apart with grief. Kenny had died before Liam and Dylan could arrive, and Sean had rocked Kenny’s body and wept.
Then Sean had gently laid his brother on the ground, taken up the silver Sword of the Guardian, and sent Kenny to dust. That had been the hardest night of Sean’s life.
Under Sean’s light massage, Connor calmed. He reached up and rubbed Sean’s hair, indicating he felt better. Sean released him, and Connor went back to drinking his beer. Connor had insisted on buying his own beer and going to the bar now that he’d reached the lofty human age of twenty-one.
Sean kissed the top of Connor’s head, touched Liam’s shoulder as he went past, and told them both good night. He went up to his room, the smallest in the house, but Sean didn’t need much. A bed, a desk for his computer, a place to stash his clothes, and life was good.
The wooden case that held the sword—polished, inlaid, velvet-lined—rested on his dresser, the elegance of the case incongruous with the functional sword inside it. The Sword of the Guardian itself, made more than seven hundred years ago, was fairly plain, with runes covering the magically hardened silver-alloy blade.
The hilt was unadorned and easy to grip, though runes had been etched on it as well. It was an ancient thing, made by the best swordsmith in the old kingdom of Kerry, a Shifter called Niall O’Connell, and passed down through the generations. The Morrisseys were descended from the smith, through his offspring from his first mate, a Feline Shifter who’d died, leaving him two sons. Naill had taken as his second mate the Fae woman who’d woven her spells through this sword, the legends said.
Sean turned off his light and sat on the end of the bed. From this position he could look across the yard that separated the two houses to Andrea’s bedroom window. She’d pulled the curtains closed, but light glowed against them, and he could see Andrea’s silhouette moving about the room.
He watched Andrea’s shadow pull off her top and slide down her jeans, and Sean’s mind filled in what he couldn’t see. The curve of her waist, the slashes of lace that would be her bra and panties, the soft round of breasts that had teased him from behind her tight shirt all night.
He adjusted himself on the bed, his skin hot, his arousal hard and painful. She was a delectable woman, and this edge of mating frenzy was driving him crazy. He’d told Andrea that she could leave his mate-claim unanswered for as long as she wanted, to give Wade’s pack time to get used to her. Sean wouldn’t force the issue, but he might burn up and die before she made her decision.
The light went out in Andrea’s bedroom, and the night flowed into silence. Andrea had closed her window against the cold, but Sean knew when her nightmares began. Andrea cried out in her sleep, tossing and turning, the frightened noises she made heartbreaking.
“Hush now,” Sean whispered. “Hush, love.”
As though she heard him, Andrea quieted and settled into even breathing. Sean made himself lie down and pull the covers over himself, but sleep eluded him for most of the night.
The next day, Andrea had time off from the bar, but Glory had business to take care of—she wouldn’t say what. Whatever it was, it made her spend forty-five minutes in the bathroom before she waltzed out again bathed in perfume and every hair in place. Meeting Dylan? Andrea wondered.
Dylan, Sean’s father, had been living here with Glory but had left for who knew where the night Andrea had moved in. That had been two weeks ago, and Glory had been in a foul mood ever since.
Andrea had long ago given up trying to figure out her aunt Glory. Glory was nothing like what Andrea remembered of her mother, Dina. As far as Andrea knew, Dina hadn’t worn outlandish outfits, mile-high shoes, and rivers of Oscar de La Renta. Andrea’s mother’s scent had been like warm baked bread overlaid with the freshness of the outdoors. Andrea remembered her mother’s