Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (8 page)

“If ye do what yer thinkin’ of, lass, ye’ll n’leave this room a maiden,” he told her, voice low, and she startled, blinking up at him in surprise. “Not that I’ll stop ye…”

“Oh… I…” She cleared her throat, leaning back, gripping the edge of the tub, and saw the way his gaze dropped to her breasts. Her nipples were achingly hard and completely visible through the thin, wet material of her white robe. She glanced down at them, and saw they were like little pink pebbles. Ripe cherries, waiting to be plucked and devoured.

“Ye’ve ne’er been with a man,” he remarked. His voice was low, matter-of-fact, and it moved over her like a caress.

“I’m t’be a temple priestess,” she confessed, swallowing past some sort of obstruction in her throat. “As well as a guardian.”

“So ye mus’ retain yer maidenhood, then, aye?” Griff inquired, eyebrows going up just slightly, waiting for her response.

“I… no…” She shook her head, denying it, although why she was so quick to do so, she didn’t understand. Just like she didn’t understand her body’s response to this man’s closeness—and his nudity. “A priestess mus’ be whole in herself. Aleesa is no maiden, nor was she when she came ’ere. But a priestess mus’na be subservient to anyone—man or woman.”

“Aleesa isn’t subservient to Alaric then?” Griff asked. “But they’re mates, aren’t they?’

“Aye,” she agreed, frowning. “But their marriage is that of equals. Aleesa holds far more power here than Alaric.”

“I do’na understand.” The man puzzled this out, brow drawn. “A man is naturally more powerful than a woman.”

“Physically mayhaps.” A smile played on Bridget’s lips at his assumptions. “But energetically, a woman’ll always be more powerful than a man. She’s t’ocean, t’weather, t’very air ye breathe. She’s t’life giver. N’man can say that.”

“Has any man e’er told ye how beautiful ye’re, Bridget?” He reached a hand out to rub a thumb over the line of her jaw. He stopped at her chin, his thumb moving over her bottom lip, back and forth. He seemed fascinated with her mouth and she swallowed, trying to take in the man’s words. Earlier, he had infuriated her with his arrogance and sense of entitlement. He had come here assuming he would best the temple guardian, gain entrance to their sacred space, and then find and exploit whatever information he could glean from them. She didn’t feel him deserving of the knowledge contained here, even if he had bested her.

But in the end, that was her own failing—if Alaric had been the one to confront him, mayhaps things would have been different?

But now, here in this room, with the two of them alone, he didn’t strike her as overconfident. He’d let his guard down, and she wondered at it. His words didn’t matter to her—although when he told her she was beautiful, something ignited inside of her she didn’t quite recognize or comprehend—as much as the soft look in his eyes when he told her.

“M’father’s told me I’m beautiful.” Bridget cleared her throat, using the soap in her hands to create suds. “Now close yer eyes, wulver. I’m gonna wash yer hair.”

“Aye, mistress.” Griff dutifully closed his eyes as she stood to run her hands through his hair. It was thick, even wet, and she used her fingernails to scrape his scalp, hearing him give a little growling noise in his throat in response. “So tell me, Bridget, d’ye really believe e’erythin’ happens as it should?”

“Aye,” she agreed, moving around the tub to retrieve a bucket of warm water to rinse him. “Tis all as it should be.”

“How can ye say that?” Griff wondered, opening his eyes as she approached with the bucket—but his gaze was on her body in her robe, the way it clung to her skin. “I mean… yer parents abandoned ye…”

“Mayhaps.” She lifted the bucket, looking pointedly at him. “Close yer eyes, wulver.”

He did, reluctantly, and she poured the bucket over his head, washing the suds away. She took a bit too much pleasure in the way he sputtered and rubbed his face with his hands at the onslaught of water.

“Mayhaps they no longer live,” Bridget mused. “Mayhaps they could’na care fer me. I do’na know. But Alaric’n’Aleesa’ve been t’best family I could’ve asked fer.”

“But livin’ here?” Griff rubbed his eyes with his thumbs and focused on her, frowning. “Ne’er leavin’?”

“Oh, I can leave,” she told him, smiling. “Before I take m’vows as priestess, I can come’n’go as I please. I go hunting. I trap small game. I fish. I jus’ do’na wander too far from t’temple.”

“But they cannot leave?” Griff pondered this, glancing at the closed bedroom door.

“Aleesa can’na.” She shook her head. “I do’na know what’d happen if she tried. And Alaric—he will ne’er leave her. The Temple of Ardis’n’Asher was meant always t’have both a guardian an’ a priestess. They complement one another. Male an’ female. Masculine an’ feminine. He protects an’ contains, and that allows ’er life force t’flow. He’s t’riverbank, and she’s t’water, ye ken?”

“Tis madness,” Griff murmured, frowning as she leaned her hands against the side of the tub. She realized, then, that he was looking at her body in her robe, and her breasts were eye-level to him.

“Tis love,” she countered softly. “An’ devotion.”

“I do’na understand. Help me understand,” he lifted his gaze to hers, real confusion on his face. “How could she jus’ leave?”

“Did ye n’leave?” Bridget asked, arching an eyebrow at him, seeing him startle a little. A flash of guilt crept into his eyes and she wondered who he was thinking about back home. Who had this man, this wulver, left behind? A mate? A child? The thought made her throat want to close up for some reason and she cleared it, standing and crossing her arms over her breasts to cover herself.

“Aye, I left,” he admitted, running a hand through his dark, wet hair. “But I left no one behind.”

“No one?” Bridget swallowed, waiting for his answer. She didn’t know why it suddenly mattered to her so much, but it did.

“M’mother…” He shrugged a shoulder, and there was that flash of guilt again. Then his face hardened. “M’father.”

She nodded, pursing her lips, eyes narrowed at him. “No one else?”

“Friends, kin…” He shrugged again, then a smile began at the corners of his mouth. “Why? What’re ye askin’, lass? Certainly no pups.”

No pups. Something in her chest loosened. That must mean, then…

“No mate?” She just asked him directly, giving up on trying to hide what she wanted to know.

“No, lass.” That bright, knowing look in his eyes made her want to smack him—or kiss him. She wasn’t sure which.

“So,” she mused. “You haven’t found your true—”

“I do’na b’lieve in true mates,” Griff growled, holding up his palm in protest, as if he could hold back the phrase “one true mate” from even being uttered. “I do’na b’lieve in magic. An’ I do’na b’lieve in prophecies.”

Bridget couldn’t help smiling at this. “What
do
ye b’lieve in?”

“M’self.” He crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring her.

“Why’m I n’surprised?” She laughed, and then did so again, even harder, when he scowled at her.

“What d’
ye
b’lieve in, then?”

“Magic.” She said this first, not that it wasn’t true. It was. But she also liked the way this fact seemed to irk him. “The divine. Love.”

“Tomfoolery.” He rolled his eyes, dismissing it all with the wave of his hand. “Nonsense.”

“Ye came ’ere ’cause of a prophecy, wulver,” she reminded him, delighting in the way his jaw hardened and his eyes flashed. They weren’t red, like they had been when they mirrored the dragon’s in the pool, but they were close.

“I came ’ere t’find m’kin,” he said through lips that barely moved.

“Aye, an’ ye succeeded.” She nodded toward the door, meaning Aleesa and Alaric.

“I came ’ere t’find’n’reunite t’lost packs,” he replied with a shake of his head. “If there’re more wulvers in t’world, I wanna find ’em.”

“Is that n’yer destiny?” she asked softly, remembering what her mother had said at dinner. “Is that n’what t’prophecy says t’red wulver’ll do? Reunite t’lost packs?”

“I do’na care a rat’s ass ’bout t’prophecy!” Griff’s eyes were definitely red now. She stared at them, fascinated. It was as if a fire had been lit inside of him. Did he know, she wondered, when his eyes did that? “I wanna lead a pack of wulvers. If I was born t’do anythin’, I was born t’do that.”

“Tis all as it should be, then.” She smiled at the way that stopped him—at least for the moment.

“Stop sayin’ that,” he finally snapped, asking, “D’ye ’ave any wine in this place?”

“Aye.” She nodded, doing her best to hide the smile that irked him so much, making her way over to the table near the fireplace. Her mother had left a bottle of their best wine, thinking the wulver might want to indulge. She’d tasted the stuff, but only ceremonially.

She poured a glass, bringing it to him.

“Why d’ye n’wanna hear ’bout yer destiny?” she asked, handing him the mug. He drank from it, meeting her questioning gaze over the rim.

“’Cause tis jus’ magical nonsense,” he protested, then he looked at the cup. “This is good.”

“More?” She glanced into the cup and brought the bottle back over, filling it again. “I’d think ye’d like knowin’ yer destiny. That ye had a place in t’world.”

“I’m bigger than m’destiny,” Griff said simply, a statement that served to stop her. Bridget’s breath caught as she looked at him, incredulous. Was he so arrogant, then, so full of himself?

“Ye think so?” She blinked at him.

“I know so.” He glowered at the fire, that red color back in his eyes as he drank his wine.

Bridget went over and poured herself a glass of wine, taking a sip. He was right, it was good. It burned her throat a little and made her eyes water, but it was good. He glanced at her as she took a seat beside him on the stool they used to get in and out of the tub. The fire was warm and the wine made her feel even warmer.

“S’ye wanna be a leader,” she mused, sipping her wine. “Like yer father?”

“Aye.” His frown deepened. “M’father’s a great leader. But I wanna lead m’own pack.”

“What if t’lost packs a’ready ’ave a leader?” she asked, thinking aloud.

“Then they would’na be lost would they?” He sighed. “Can y’imagine what tis like t’be lost? Leaderless? T’have no pack?”

“Aye.” She nodded, feeling the weight of his words. Alaric and Aleesa were her family, had always been, since she could remember. But this man, this wulver, reminded her quite painfully that they were not really her family. She didn’t belong with them, to them. They weren’t even her same kind.

They had a family. Another daughter.

Bridget finished her wine and poured herself more from the bottle.

“Aye, I s’pose, ye can.”

She felt his wet fingertips brush her cheek, moving hair away from her face, and she glanced at him. His eyes weren’t red anymore. They were back to that strange gold color, and his expression was thoughtful.

“I wanna bring t’lost packs home. We’re a’ready outgrowin’ our den. Mayhaps, when I return wit’ t’lost packs, we can move back t’the mountain den. Tis bigger, more accommodatin’, and there, mayhaps, I can lead our pack.”

“But yer father… Raife?” She looked at him, questioning, and he nodded. “Is he n’the leader?”

“Aye, he is now.” Griff gave a little nod. “But when I return home wit’ t’lost packs, he’ll know I’m ready t’lead. T’will be m’time.”

For some reason, Bridget was thinking about taking her vows. It would be soon. And then… then she would be finally fulfilling her destiny. It was something she’d always believed, had always known. She’d grown up her whole life knowing it, understanding it, not even questioning it.

So why was she questioning it now?

“I hope ye find ’em,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. Water beaded his skin, making it slippery to the touch. “I really hoped t’dragon an’ the lady would help ye, but now…”

“Ye saw that, too?” Griff’s voice dropped, shaking his head. The wine was loosening his tongue, she thought. Breaking down those barriers he had put up against things that couldn’t be explained. Like magic. Like love. “I thought mayhaps I was dreamin’… or seein’ things.”

“Ye were seein’ things,” she said softly, finishing her wine. “Ye saw t’dragon.”

“I saw
somethin
’,” he admitted, holding his cup out, and she obliged, filling it. “I thought… I thought ye were in danger.”

“Far less danger than when I faced ye at the crossroads,” she teased, smiling when he looked at her. His gaze moved over her again, his eyes gone from gold to a rich, dark amber. His gaze moved to the V her robe made above her breasts and he frowned, reaching out to press a finger below her collarbone.

“Did I do this?” Griff touched the purple discoloration of the bruise there. Bridget saw it when she glanced down.

“Mayhaps.” Bridget shrugged, setting her cup aside. The wine was making her head fuzzy. She was remembering the way he had pinned her against the rock, how thick and hard his thigh had been between her own. “I do’na remember. Tis nothin’.”

“If there was such a thing as magic, I’d make it disappear.” Griff stroked her bruise, frowning at it, as if it displeased him. It was an intimate gesture. Bridget felt very warm all of a sudden.