War of Hearts (True Immortality) - S Young Page 0,18

waited.

Trying to watch as inconspicuously as possible as people walked by or into the restaurant wasn’t easy when he was built like a brick shithouse. Thankfully, just as he thought he might need to move along, he watched the scene with the American couple unfold. When the arsehole crooked his finger at Thea, Conall had focused, using his heightened hearing to cut through the chatter of the other diners. Although muffled, he made out the proposition and watched with distaste as the man slid his hand over Thea’s jeans-clad arse.

For a moment, he forgot whose side he was on, cheering his prey on when she shoved the man’s hand off her and suggested he leave.

But then she stole his wallet and as much as the guy was a prick, thievery was dishonorable. Murdering innocent people made you scum. Thievery just made you scummier.

Watching her disappear into the kitchen, Conall followed her scent and soon detected her in the alley behind the restaurant.

When he’d come upon her hiding the wallet, he felt a moment of disgust before he shut his emotions off completely. When Thea turned to him, Conall had smelled no fear, which surprised him considering most people were afraid of him before they even knew him.

He hadn’t enjoyed watching the supernatural fall to the ground in agony from whatever fucking drug he’d injected into her neck. Ashforth hadn’t mentioned that part. Conall had just expected her to pass out.

Instead, whatever pain she was feeling strained her features as she crumpled to her knees. Her eyes had turned from their natural warm cognac to a supernatural bright gold, as a hoarse sound rattled in the back of her throat. And Conall saw it. First the recognition, followed by intense fear.

She knew who’d sent him.

And he’d smelled the musky odor of fear, like fresh sweat, sharpen to an intense coppery, blood-like tang. So strong, Conall could taste it on his tongue.

Terror.

Not fear.

Terror.

Conall refused to overanalyze it. It would terrify anyone to face a man whose wife you’d murdered, knowing what awaited you.

However, he couldn’t ignore the determination and grit he saw in her eyes. She wouldn’t scream. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. And as much as he tried, Conall couldn’t help but admire that just a little.

When she slumped to her side, eyes closed, body limp with unconsciousness, Conall bent toward her. Lifting Thea into his arms, he refused to think of how fragile and feminine and helpless she felt. Instead, he focused on getting her back to the car. People stared at him in suspicion as he strode through Old Town with an unconscious woman in his arms. A few people even stopped to ask what he was doing, some of them tourists. Others were natives asking in broken English. He explained his girlfriend had passed out and he was returning her to the hotel for care.

One man tried to stop him from continuing on.

Conall growled, the wolf rising. The human sensed it and backed off in confused horror.

The minutes-walk seemed to last forever, but finally Conall reached the hotel where he’d parked the rental car. For a second, he tightened his hold on the feminine, powerless form in his arms, ready to gently settle her into the back seat. Then he remembered the photographs of her victims and he practically threw her in with a snarl.

His prey was caught.

It was time to get the hell back to Scotland, hand the murdering little wench over, retrieve his cure, and except for rejoicing in his sister’s recovery, forget the whole bloody thing had ever occurred.

The first thing Thea became cognizant of was the whooshing sound she’d soon realize was the noise of the road passing beneath her. Then the smell of leather. The feel of leather beneath her cheek. Followed closely by a slight rocking motion.

Instinct held her frozen, and she automatically cloaked her body in silence. Just until she got her bearings. Eyes still closed, she let awareness move through her, and with it came the memories.

The wolf.

She tensed and then forced herself to relax. Using her preternatural senses, she pushed beyond herself and the scent of earth and something darker, spicier, filled her nose. The wolf was here, driving her somewhere.

And Ashforth had sent him.

Rage and terror fought for supremacy and she was thankful for her cloaking gift that kept her shuddering from being detectable to the wolf. The bastard had injected her with Ashforth’s concoction, one of the few things on this planet that caused her agonizing