The Becoming Trilogy Box Set (Books 1-3) (24 page)

Clawing at unrelenting metal,
her nails tore and bled as she went into a screaming meltdown, a frenzy of
hysteria smashing down on her and submerging her in the past. She couldn’t see
beyond the terrified vision of herself ripped into unidentifiable pieces of
Ash. It didn’t matter that it was Connal, didn’t matter that she’d been so
close to it before. What mattered was that it was conscious and in pain and
snarling at her like she’d shot it somewhere precious.

Its scarlet eyes were
feverish as its massive head turned towards her. Sad eyes, scared eyes. It
growled and she cowered back against the bars. One huge paw swiped its finger-like
digits in her direction, but the motion fell short.

‘Please no! Connal, no! It’s
Ash, I’m Ash ...’

It crumpled as fast as it had
swiped at her, the burst of pain-charged energy dissipating and leaving it
boneless and whimpering on its side again.

She pulled away from the
bars. Ash got the distinct impression it was trying to keep as still as
possible. She inhaled on the beast’s exhale, channelling the quiet into
something that would slow her tears and calm her galloping heart. It wasn’t
easy. Every fibre of her being was screaming at her to get out, fight had taken
a nosedive off the edge of a cliff and flight was driving the truck that had
hit it.

The beast’s watching eyes got
heavy, flickering as it fought against the pull of unconsciousness once more.
The pain of movement had taken its toll, opening wounds and spotting fresh
blood to its matted coat. She knew the moment it succumbed, the physical strain
of staying awake softening into relaxed, hopefully pain-free, oblivion. Ash
lost all control of her legs. Her knees buckled and she took to the floor in a
limp heap of relief. She was still alive, Connal was still alive. The beast
inside of him was real. He was one of them.

Her nightmare.

Her saviour.

How could he be both?

It was insanity.

She should want the thing
dead. Yet there went the ache in her heart that felt pity, and sorrow and an
emotion she was struggling to name. She still wanted to soothe him, to touch
the man within through the pelt of the beast.

Slowly, Ash reached for the
towel she’d dropped, grasping a clean corner as she shuffled forwards on her
knees. Its eyes didn’t even flutter.

Safe, she was safe, it
wouldn’t hurt her, not really. It was Connal. She was just touching Connal.
Seriously, Ash, you’re very convincing
. The beast rolled slightly and she
startled, ready to jump back. Its head butted at the hand she wasn’t quick
enough to pull away, urging her to keep sweeping the towel down the back of its
neck. She relaxed. It was still out cold.

Gathering what little bravery
she’d stored up over the years, her hand replaced the towel, tentatively,
feeling as though it was a forbidden thing to sink her fingers into the thick
pelt. It was so luxuriously soft, white and slightly curled. Drooped ears
twitched as she murmured his name. The beast coughed roughly, back paws kicking
slightly, flank twitching as she massaged its ears and cautious fingers
smoothed along the top of its muzzle. It really was magnificent up close, mad
scary but beautiful. Its restless shifting made her nervous, flexing its paws
to reveal dagger claws, before it relaxed and they retracted. Her heart stopped
every time. But she never removed her hands. She petted and stroked and twirled
her fingers through the white pelt like she would if it had been Connal’s hair.

‘Exquisite.’ Ash breathed.
Irresistibly soft, and ferally honed. At odds with everything she knew of these
creatures, this one needed her and she had to answer the voice inside her that
told her this was where she was meant to be.

‘Exquisite.’ She purred.

The guards restrained him as
the two robed women inspected his body, yanking down the chain of his collar,
forcing his jaw high, as though punishing him for the female's appreciative
gaze. The veins in his neck stood out against the strain of the asphyxiating
hold, his wrists tightly bound, feet shackled, averted eyes gifting him only a
glimpse of flaxen hair with the texture of spun silk.

He had grown accustomed to
being displayed for the pleasure of visiting chieftains and nobility, a prize
animal to be prodded and goaded. Normally, a healthy dose of fear kept their
admiration at a distance, but not this time. Connal stiffened as a soft palm
stroked the bristled line of his jaw.

‘So, my dearest sister, this
is the notorious male whose name is wetting the lips of every bitch in the
longphort? The wolf raised by men.’

‘In the flesh.’ Her companion
formed the word slowly, as though it were a slice of erotic poetry, something
to be savoured on her tongue. ‘Isn’t he divine, Cáit?’

The flame haired woman
withdrew her hand and raked his body with heavy-lidded, lascivious green eyes.
‘Indeed, Aoife, a God in chains, truly, a magnificent specimen. So impressive
in the arena.’

Aoife lowered her voice to a
conspiratorial whisper that was edged with giddy amusement. ‘Even more
impressive at close quarters, wouldn’t you say? So dark and wild. So different
from MacTire.’

MacTire. It was a name he had
heard fall from the mouths of the guards. He would not soon forget the name of
the golden-haired bastard who had him tortured with the branding iron. His eyes
narrowed almost imperceptibly and he tensed as fingers stroked his abdomen,
mapping indentations of muscle that ripped the strength under his skin to
perfect, honed lethality.

‘One would scarcely believe
this male and your husband were born of the same mother.’

The revelation seized
Connal’s attention, sure as if the redhead had punched him in the gut. The
spike of his heartbeat was a living thing in his throat as he fought to
maintain his composure.

‘It’s not so unusual for
littermates sired by different fathers. Think of Brandr and Rún. One could not
imagine two more different males.’

‘True, sister. It was no
secret the King and his lady shared their bed with his félag, Vise. MacTire
clearly favours that warrior’s fair features.’

‘Exactly so.’ The blonde,
Aoife, circled Connal’s shackled form, devouring every inch of his chiselled
body with openly predatorial eyes. ‘While this one’s dark looks favour the
King.’

The King. The warlord who
ripped him from his home, claimed him as his blood, then collared him and left
him for dead in the dog pits. Connal waited for the rage to boil up inside of
him, but nothing came. Only numbness. It had been years since that male’s
shadow darkened the arena’s stands.

Connal had no father.

‘Fortune favours you, Aoife,
you lucky bitch. This one rivals your mate with his handsome brutality. Who
would not want to be the juicy meat in that spit roast?’

‘Indeed, such a roast would
be stuffed beyond capacity and duly tender.’ Aoife spoke dreamily, exhaling the
words on a sigh. ‘But sadly, MacTire denies me the pleasures of his half twin
in our bed. He refuses even to acknowledge the male as his Fostbrodir.’

‘And yet he bears the brand
of félag?’

‘Yes. MacTire had him marked,
purely for show, to satisfy the King, and the loose tongues in the longphort.
Elatha forbid he be branded a coward.’

‘So he keeps his own
Fostbrodir hidden down here like a dirty family secret, with none of the
privileges of rank?’

Aoife released a frustrated
sigh. ‘MacTire says that by denying me, he is protecting me from a savage
animal, that such a beast cannot live free, let alone lay with nobility.’

Her fingers marked a path
across his flesh, and though the scrutiny was enforced, this female's touch was
so very soft, and his starved body responded, true to his animal nature.

‘I say MacTire is jealous.
Who is to say, if the two had stood in Contest, it would not have been this
glorious brute that claimed me?’

Her warm fingers wrapped
around his girth and a low growl escaped from deep in his throat. His body
hardened in her grip. She made a sound, somewhere between a coy laugh and a
whimper, dilated eyes lifting from where they were fixated, between his legs,
to find his averted gaze. ‘And then I might have them both in my bed.’

‘You would take such a risk?
Look at his eyes, sister ... steel, silver lightning over calm waters. So very
terribly cold.’

‘They say the King’s plan
worked too well, that in trying to save his son, he created a monster.’ Aoife
spoke the words, breathless, against the stubble of his jaw, as though
challenging him to deny his own nature.

He remained impassive,
locked-down on the tempest of emotions warring inside of him. Her beauty hurt
to look upon it. He’d only ever seen her from a distance, from the filth and
stench of the arena's sands. Up close she was too much, too radiant. She
smelled of the ocean, of freedom. Rigid as iron, Connal felt his muscles
twitch, rippling beneath his skin with the force of his restraint. The curl of
her fist, grasping the hard length of his shaft, ripped the breath from his
lungs. Primal instincts roaring to life, they rode his body with a violence
that rivalled the heat of battle. The growl that escaped his own throat was a
foreign sound, more animal than man.

‘You truly believe him to be
wild?’ Cáit’s hand strayed to the flush blooming at her throat, lips parted.

‘I believe there is no male
that cannot be tamed betwixt the thighs of a powerful female. MacTire may deny
the sharing of his bed. That is not to say I cannot take this male into my own.
Let us see if I cannot melt the ice.’ Her fingers possessed the girth of his
rigid length in a fist of twisting authority, working along the inches
displayed before her in a proud column of thick, hot flesh.

‘Guard!’ With the snap of her
fingers, the ugly brute leapt to attention. ‘Have him bathed and brought to my
private quarters.’

Cáit gasped, a hand shooting
up to cover her mouth. ‘What will MacTire say?’

‘MacTire will never know.’

How sleep claimed her, she’d
never know. It came as a pattern of sweeping caresses. A lullaby drawn in the
raw, primeval scent of the beast, the heady musk and richness of its fur so
familiar. It was him. Not blood and death. Only Connal.

‘Oh, Connal.’ Her head fell
forward, throat constricting around her tears. She buried her face in the downy
fur behind his ears, finding the man inside and clutching him tight. ‘Please
don’t die.’ The darkness took her like that, head pillowed on the nape of a
monster, heart synchronised to the drum of its life. She was trusting that her
nightmare would not kill her and pleading to anyone that would listen that she
got her stalker back.