Dread pulled at her insides for a cold moment and then the wolf stirred. Bones cracked and popped, the body around her arm shrinking. In the next breath, she felt smooth, hot skin, and Ian was in her arms, as weak as a pup as he fell to his knees. His chest heaved as he glanced up at her with reddened eyes. “I think,” he said, “I am going to be ill.”

He clung to her, his body damp with sweat and shaking. Daisy held him close. But she felt him stiffen as he caught sight of the twisted body on the ground. All color leached from his face, and he wilted.

“Maccon.” Such pain in that utterance.

Daisy’s blood stilled. Maccon? She glanced at the poor body of the man and back to Ian, who tore himself from her grasp and stumbled forward. Devastation marked every line of his countenance. I had a son. Maccon. He was perfect. A good lad. Her head went light. Oh God, Ian’s child. A sharp pain lanced her chest. Ian. What did I do?

Ian’s breath rattled as he sank to the ground next to the body.

“But he died,” she said, in a panic. “You said he died.”

Ian did not look at her. “He’d already turned.” His throat worked. “I-I did not know.” Lightly, as if he feared the body would break, Ian gathered his son against himself. Maccon’s head lolled back, his eyes sightless and staring.

Daisy gripped herself so tightly her knuckles cracked. No, no, no. Not this. “I killed him.” Such a stupid thing to say. What had she done?

“Yes.” Ian did not take his eyes from his son.

“Ian…” Her voice cracked. “I’m… I did not know.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “Lyall had him. All this time. Watching my son go mad. A grand joke.”

“Lyall?” She thought of the crafty lycan who’d been Conall’s right hand. He’d been the one to capture them at the cemetery. He’d been everywhere.

“Lyall kept him when he turned. All this time he was playing Conall and me against each other. He used Maccon so I would challenge Conall. And it worked.” Ian’s shoulders lifted on a breath. “My brother is dead. And my son…”

“Oh, Ian.” Were Lyall here, Daisy would kill him. Yet she knew in her bones that he was already dead. Ian would not have let him live after such a betrayal.

“Are you hurt?” Still Ian would not look her way.

Suddenly she was glad for it. She could not bear to see his eyes, and the accusation there. She deserved it, but she could not bear it. “No. I… he…” Daisy couldn’t bring herself to say that Maccon had begged for death. It sounded like an excuse. She wouldn’t excuse herself for it.

Ian’s head fell forward, his hair swinging down to hide his face. Shame choked Daisy as she watched him. She wanted to say she was sorry but knew it wouldn’t matter. When he finally spoke, his voice was a broken thing that made her heart ache. “I need to bury him.”

She licked her dry lips. “I’ll help you.”

“No!” He took another breath. “Just… just go into the house.”

She went, because it was the only thing she could do for him.

Chapter Thirty-eight

It was not Ian who sought her out hours later but Talent. Daisy stirred from her cold spot on the settee as he limped into her bedroom, his battered body bandaged up like a mummy.

“You should be in bed,” she said. Her throat ached and her eyes burned, but the man before her looked like hell.

He slumped onto the seat beside her and closed his eyes. “Doesn’t matter where I am,” he said. “I’ll hurt like a bitch regardless.”

“Your arm…” It was missing below his elbow. Guilt flooded her at the sight. He had been defending her.

“Will grow back. Eventually.” He did not sound very concerned, merely annoyed. “Jesus, it’s cold in here. Haven’t you any notion of how to start a fire?” He cracked one eye open. “Or are we feeling sorry for ourselves?”

She didn’t rise to his bait but stood and lit the coals that had been laid out, and then found her thick shawl to drape over him. Talent grunted in acknowledgment and kept his eyes closed. He didn’t try to speak anymore, for which Daisy was truly grateful, but simply sat with her for a long while as they stared into the fire. Every bone in her body hurt. She ought to go home, only that place didn’t feel like her home. Ian was her home. And she’d destroyed it. Eventually, she knew he’d seek her out and tell her to go. Until then, she would remain hiding away in cowardly fashion and aching to hold him.

“You had no choice.”

She sucked in a breath at the sound of Talent’s voice. It took her a moment to find her own voice. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It should. Maccon was insane, and hurting.” He turned his head to look at her. “I heard him beg you.”

Daisy winced, but he kept on. “You did him a kindness. Ian will understand. Hell, you called him back after the wolf claimed him. He ought to be thanking you.”

Her laugh was weak and pained. “It was his will and the wolf’s trust that brought him back. Not I. And as for his son, I fear logic and emotion never go hand in hand.”

“No,” Ian said from the door. “They don’t.”

Daisy and Talent stood up as one.

Ian stepped into the room, his expression implacable. He’d cleaned himself up and dressed. Yet he looked so defeated that she wanted to run to him and beg him to let her hold him. But she did not move. They stared at each other from across the room, the tension between them pulled as tight as a bowstring. Daisy could not think of a word to say to make things right.

Talent frowned and then stirred.

“Utter one word, Jack,” came Ian’s fierce growl, “and I’ll rip yer sharp tongue from yer mouth.”

Well.

Talent’s mouth snapped shut. With a terse nod, he left them. Ian slammed the door shut behind him and stalked across the room.

All protest died on her lips as he hauled her against his chest in a bone-squeezing embrace and he buried his face in her hair. He stood shaking, holding her as if she might be snatched away.

Nothing had ever felt better than his embrace. She clung to him and wished that it would never end.

“Don’t,” he pled when she started to speak. His grip tightened. “Just… don’t. Not yet.”

Whatever she felt at that moment receded in the face of his disquiet. He eased only a little when she slid her hands up and cupped his cheeks. Firelight turned his features into a patchwork of gold and amber angles and reflected in the haunted sheen of his eyes.

“Ian,” she whispered, because she knew he liked his name upon her lips. Then she kissed him. He made a sound close to a whimper and then fell into the kiss, a man gripped by need.

She pulled back and touched his face. “Ian, you don’t need to…”

“I do need.” A cracked, raw sound left him as he rested his forehead against hers. “I need more than you know.”

He unsheathed one claw and reduced her gown into tatters with stunning adeptness. Cold air shivered over her skin as he tumbled her onto the bed. Soft bedding enveloped her, and then he was there, the long length of his body pressing her deeper into the covers, the wool of his suit warm and rough against her nakedness.

His knuckles grazed her damp sex as he unbuttoned the fall of his trousers. The hot length of his c**k fell against her thigh, and Daisy undulated against him. Unsteady hands slid along her arms to capture her wrists. Their fingers twined, and he lifted her arms above her head.

His kiss was a desperate thing, without finesse. “I don’t know any other way,” he said against her mouth. “I don’t know how else to show you.”

His eyes were wild and frightened as he gazed down at her, pausing as if to see if she understood. She was pinned to the bed, his thighs holding hers so wide apart that she felt the exposure acutely, and with it, the need to be filled. Her heart knocked against her rib cage. For suddenly, she did understand. She blinked back the mist blurring her vision and tightened her grip upon his fingers.

“Then show me your way,” she whispered.

A deep shudder racked his frame. She expected him to act, to take her with quick brutality, but he did not. He simply looked at her, his eyes wide open, hiding nothing, letting her in. What she saw took her breath. He was utterly beautiful to her just then. And she knew her heart and soul was no longer her own.

Holding her gaze, he tilted his head and kissed her, a soft, open-mouthed kiss of melting heat. The tip of his c**k nudged her opening, drawing her attention until it was the only thing she could think on. She wiggled against him, impatient and hurried. But he would not let her rush. Murmuring soothing words against her mouth, he gentled the kiss once more, his silken tongue dipping, tasting with smooth strokes.

Only when she panted with need and small cries left her mouth did he ease into her. Slow enough for her to feel every inch tunneling through her flesh, filling her up. She shuddered, her thighs aching to move. But she was pinned. And he was withdrawing with the same steady deliberation. Invasion, retreat, he worked an undulating rhythm that tormented. All the while, he kissed her, working her mouth as he worked her.

Her body shook, perspiration blooming along her heated skin. God, but this could become essential. A woman could want this every day. All the time. The feeling within her was almost angry, a blinding, dark thing that had her biting his lower lip before licking to soothe it.

He squeezed their twined fingers, his thrusts growing harder, his breath coming in shallow pants. She was burning up beneath him, the feel of his clothes heightening the sensation. She wanted to feel him without barrier.

His deliberation fractured into desperation. Groaning deeply, he dropped his forehead to her neck, burrowing there as he pushed deep.

A shiver lit over her skin, through her flesh, and into him. He shook with a violent tremor, but stopped. “Ah, God, I need—let me…” Shuddering, he withdrew, and before she could think, he turned her around to take her from behind. He stilled, remembering, perhaps, what had happened the last time he had tried. His big hand trembled as it pressed against her belly. “Please, Daisy, will you let me?”

The very idea set her aflame, released something wild within her, but his hesitation and concern for her was a kick to her heart. Her voice was barely a whisper when she responded. “Yes.”

He expelled the breath he’d been holding. Stepping away, he ripped free of his clothes and then came back to her, his breathing as ragged as her own. She groaned as he nudged her legs apart. Daisy’s eyes fluttered closed as she slumped forward and lifted her h*ps to him.

“Christ,” he hissed as he sank in deep, and then his hands grasped her h*ps and he took her. It was brutal, savage, and Daisy shivered from the shocking pleasure of it, her mind crying out yes. And more.

Ian’s body surrounded her, holding her, keeping her. His strong teeth, so unlike the wolf’s, clamped down on the soft junction of her shoulder, and Daisy shattered. He followed her with a sharp cry as he strained against her.

In the resounding silence, he fell onto the bed next to her and threw an arm over his eyes. His glistening chest heaved as he lay there, struggling for breath. She moved to touch him, and he lowered his arm. Daisy’s vision blurred as she saw the raw pain in his eyes.

“Ian.”

“You brought me back.” His voice was a ghost of itself.

“You came back. I wanted to be afraid, but I knew in my heart that you would.”

“I came back to you.” Without another word, he curled against her, burrowing his face into the crook of her neck. She held him tight as he silently wept for the loss of his son, and even his brother. Eventually he calmed, his long body becoming loose and warm against hers. As they drifted off to sleep, her last bit of peace shattered when he whispered, “They all die.”

They would have to talk. Eventually. Daisy knew this. Pull the thorn out quickly, was what her mother used to say. But she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to see Ian hurt any further. And she knew he would be. So she let him sleep. And sleep Ian did, his big, lean body taking up their bed in a sprawl of golden limbs and tousled auburn hair. He slept like the dead. Grief could do that to a person, make them seek the oblivion of sleep rather than face the day. Daisy knew from experience.

Acting the coward, she dressed and then watched over him until the sunlight crept up his long legs and played with the flat muscles along his back.

When he finally stirred, she went to him. Sleep mussed and grumbling, Ian tugged her near, wrapping his arms about her waist and resting his head in her lap. He seemed to breathe her in, his chest lifting with it. His fingers plucked at her dressing gown. “You’re dressed,” he said from the comfort of her lap. It sounded like a complaint.

Though it made her want to smile, she couldn’t. Softly she stroked his silken hair. A lump rose in her throat. “It’s midday.”

“Is it?”

“Mmm.” She smoothed a strand of hair between her fingers. Ian sighed and nuzzled against her. So very wolfish, she thought, a smile rising at last. But the smile faded. “Ian.” She laid her hand upon the crown of his head. “Ian, I am so sorry.”

Tension tightened along his body. She felt him swallow. His voice was low but controlled when he spoke. “Talent was in the right. You did Maccon a mercy.” Lightly, he traced along the swirling pattern in her skirt. “I was coming to do the same thing, love. I… He did not deserve to suffer.

“Last night,” he said after a moment, “when I…” A rough exhale sent warmth against her belly. “I thought I was too late,” he rasped. “I thought—” He sucked in a deep breath. “Fuck.”