Dreams of a Dark Warrior

FORTY-THREE

Is someone out there in the dark? Regin’s ears twitched. Watching me?

She stilled in the water of the stream she’d found not far from their camp.

With narrowed eyes, she scanned her surroundings—a marshy plateau cradled high in the mountains. Here the stream widened into a chest-deep pool before spilling over into a waterfall.

Her sword and her recently washed clothes were laid out on a nearby boulder, a mere lunge away.

A second passed. Then another. Could just be the misting rain that continued to fall.

She continued her bath, scrubbing sand over her arms in agitated swipes, fearing she might be on the verge of introspecting again.

The unmerry band of six had traveled all afternoon and most of the night, but had decided to break till dawn. Though Regin was good to go—her chest had healed completely—Brandr, Chase, and Natalya needed to eat, were out hunting right now.

And Thad had begun to flag. Three beers hadn’t helped him. He’d grown maudlin, missing his family, friends, and school. Regin had told Natalya, “The kid needs to be drinking blood, not suds.”

The fey had replied, “Are you offering, Valkyrie?”

No matter how much Regin liked Thad, she wasn’t ready to tap a vein for any vamp. Not hating a vampire was one thing; filling an empty beer can with your blood to feed one was another. …

All afternoon, Chase had been ignoring her, just as he had when she’d been in that cell. Unable to stand it, she’d taken Brandr aside, demanding to know what the four males had talked about. He’d shrugged and said, “Ask Declan.” She’d smacked Brandr on the back of the head and stormed off.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Chase, about the scars he’d revealed to her. They’d looked old, which meant he must’ve been young when he’d gotten them—

The memory that had tickled her consciousness the night before finally surfaced, and she recalled the picture he’d shown her of the couple who’d been eaten alive by Neoptera.

Those curling, deliberate wounds the man and woman had suffered matched the distinctive shapes of Chase’s scars. She remembered the ragged tone of his voice, the knotting of his shoulders. The way he’d pounded his fist on the desk.

A gasp left her lips. They were his parents.

Declan Chase’s mother and father.

Had he watched the Neos devouring his family as his own flesh was stripped?

The couple had been middle-aged. Which meant Chase had been young when the creatures had … had fed on him. She shoved the back of her wrist against her mouth.

He must’ve barely survived. How terrified he had to have been.

She gazed at the cloudy night sky. Yet just because she could understand his motivations didn’t mean she could forgive his crimes. He might have had nothing to do with her vivisection, but he’d still tortured her, he’d still brought her and her friends to this hell-on-earth island as his prisoners.

Had MacRieve and Carrow even made it out of the facility alive? Was that vemon Malkom Slaine out stalking the witch and her ward? Regin had faced a vemon in the past and was lucky to have escaped with her life. They were phenomenally strong and fast. If Slaine wanted revenge, then who could possibly protect Carrow?

And because of Chase, Regin had been kept from Lucia. She had no idea how her sister was faring out in the world. Would Lucia be foolish—or desperate—enough to face Cruach alone?

Regin ducked her head under the water. What would she want with Chase anyway? There was no happily ever after with him. He scorned immortals. As of yesterday, he was a jobless, homeless drug addict, with a target on his back the size of the entire Lore.

And that was if he lived. If they didn’t kiss or have sex. Otherwise he’d kick it before anyone in the Lore got a chance to off him—

She stilled when she sensed Chase nearing. Couldn’t ignore me for long, eh, Paddy? She peered over her shoulder, found him standing at the edge of the water.

Without his cuffs. Damn it, Brandr.

Then she frowned. Chase’s mien was determined, his dark brows drawn together over his blazing gray eyes.

Determined to do what?

His pullover sweater and pants seemed tighter on him. As if he’d grown over the day, which made no sense—

He grasped the bottom of that pullover to remove it. Does he think he’s coming in with me?

“Pool’s taken. Run along, Chase.” He didn’t, so she opened her mouth to deliver a caustic chew-out. The words died on her lips when he dragged the sweater over his head, revealing his flexing torso.

His scars seemed to be stretched flatter than when she’d seen them last night, as if his chest had grown. As she surveyed his torso, she found herself staring as much at his sculpted slabs of muscle as she was at the scars covering them.

Rock-hard ridges descended to the low waist of his camo pants. Her gaze dipped to his flat navel, then to his goodie trail. And lower … She swallowed. He’d begun stiffening in those pants.

She yanked her gaze up, determined to look at anything else. Around his neck he wore dog tags, and a big, butch military watch was strapped to one brawny forearm. With the combat boots, low-slung pants, and tacticool accessories, he looked good. Even scarred, he looked better than good.

Was he gorgeous, like the original Aidan had been? No. But he was intriguing.

And right now, Chase looked like a man who knew what he wanted and who was on the cusp of taking it.

Magister Chase, the man, was … sexy.

When he sat on a nearby boulder, pulling up one knee to unlace a boot, that eight-pack of his rippled. She watched with a reluctant fascination as he removed both boots.

Then he stood, his hands at the fly of his pants, pinched fingers tugging down his zipper. She was going to tell him to stop. Any second.

Shoulders back, he let the pants drop, stepping from them.

Breathe, Regin. His shaft was semihard and growing, rising from a patch of crisp black hair. Pulsing with aggressive jerks, it distended before her eyes. Behind that taut flesh, his balls hung down, heavy but visibly tightening.

The clever and relatively young Declan Chase met two out of her three criteria.

He’d always been generously endowed, but this … Her claws were curling for it.

Stop staring at his dick, slore.

Yet the rest of him affected her almost as much. His legs were powerfully masculine, dusted with black hair that led up to his groin. His hips were lean, the muscles up his sides flexing.

She was transfixed. But when he took a step closer, she snapped out of it. “Thanks for the view of your junkyard.” She turned away, continuing to wash her arms. “But you’d do well to stay away from me, Magister.”

“No’ a magister anymore, no’ one of the Order.”

She shrugged. “Oh, because you’ve lost your installation?”

“I’m no’ a magister anymore, because you wouldn’t be a magister’s woman.” He strode into the water.