MacRieve

THIRTY-TWO

Blech, blech.

Chloe drew the wastebasket toward her, then spat out a mouthful of saltines as if they were radioactive.

Surrounding her on the floor was a moat of cracker wrappers and crumbs.

She remembered when one of her middle-school friends had fed her beagle some cheese-covered broccoli. The dog had been happily smacking away—until it got to the harsh broccoli center.

I feel you, dog. Blech.

Was food truly no longer an option? With shaking hands, she unwrapped another package, biting through two crackers. Anything not to strew. Chewing, chewing . . . was this mouthful going to do down? Please go down—

Wastebasket! She emptied her mouth, hooking a finger around her gums to get out all the offending particles. Then she tested the rest of her drink. Natch, the whiskey went down like silk. But she knew it wouldn’t be nearly enough to sustain her.

Field position? Her body was failing her. She’d done everything she could to stay the course, but maybe it was time to admit defeat.

With each minute she suffered an empty stomach, her desire blossomed. Awakening? Oh, yeah. Like her libido had mainlined crank.

And it remained fixated on MacRieve.

Did that mean all his predictions were about to come true? Would she go crawling to him? Or plead as he denied her again and again?

She’d always heard that you remembered your first time forever. She didn’t want to remember groveling for his dick—especially since forever, in her case, could be literal.

The idea of that made her more ill than the crackers.

Was she one of those women who got off on cruelty? Some spring-loaded dojo dummy, perpetually bouncing up for another strike?

No, she refused to believe that. He was simply the target of sheer desperation. When she was young, she’d gotten lost in the woods without water; she remembered being so thirsty that she’d eyed a stagnant puddle with serious consideration.

MacRieve was simply a big Lykae-shaped puddle.

Maybe she should just do it. He’d given her bliss once before, and if sex was supposed to be the most pleasurable act of all . . . Once she was stronger, she could escape him. Would it be so bad to feed and heal?

Her succubus half avidly recalled the energy she’d received from that blow job. If she felt like that again, she could jog straight out of this place, this country, away from him forever.

This would be the last night she’d ever have to see his hateful smirk.

Still, as desperate as she was, she balked at the “crawling to him” portion of tonight’s program. She could handle anything but the begging.

Or his beast.

So much confusion. And trying to ignore her escalating desire wasn’t working. Her panties were wet, her sex achy.

Could she release some pressure? Or even delay more strewing?

She rose, heading for the shower. As she undressed, she gazed into the mirror. She was slimmer from hunger, but her bruise didn’t look too bad.

Her hair had almost grown out. Earlier, she’d thought about finding scissors, but was too tired to be bothered. Pulling it up in a ponytail would be quicker and easier than shearing off that thick mane each day.

Would MacRieve find the length more attractive? Did she care?

She turned on the shower, impressed with the array of toiletries. She stepped under the steaming water, then soaped up a cloth, starting with her breasts then letting her hands linger over her every curve. Her hips, her backside.

As she touched herself, she imagined MacRieve downstairs in front of the fire, his golden eyes lit by flames. She fantasized that his hands roamed her body. She cupped her sex as he had on the plane, massaging herself like that.

She was on the verge of coming, whispering his name, when a spike of worry that he’d scent her shattered her concentration. Visualizing his head between her legs, his strong tongue working her flesh, brought her back into striking range—but then she jumped at a noise, which turned out not to be him at all.

In the end, she was just too weak. All she’d done was leave herself even hornier.

She dropped her hand, leaning her forehead against the wall. With a groan of frustration, she slapped the tile with her flat palm—and it didn’t even crack.

MacRieve had been right. If he came upstairs, ready to have sex with her, it would happen. Gods help them both?

And if he didn’t come for her soon, would she go limping through the keep, chasing after him?

With a curse, she dried off, wincing when the terry cloth rubbed her swollen nipples.

Perusing her new clothes, she saw there was really only one choice for a night like this. . . .

Though the weather was mild by Highland standards, Will had stoked the fire in the keep’s great hearth, forcing himself to sit before it, drinking for fortitude.

This was going to happen. He was about to bed a succubus. Which meant he needed to get as numb as possible before he relived his nightmares.

No. He was a grown man. If he was to mate a succubus again, it didn’t have to be anything like last time. He didn’t even have to fuck Chloe—a tidy blow job would nourish her. He didn’t have to claim her, didn’t have to mark her as his mate.

With a perfect mix of misery and eagerness, he knew he’d be inside her tonight. He’d fall on that sword, letting her use his body.

Because that was what succubae did.

He’d heard water running in the master bathroom, unable to resist picturing her in the shower, streams cascading over her naked body. He’d imagined her soaping those glorious breasts of hers, gliding her fingers over sensitive nipples.

He swallowed, gazing down at his stiffening cock. Oh, aye, she was strewing more potently. He decided he would hold out as long as he could, testing his will against the force of her need.

Shaking as badly as he had the night his family had been ripped apart, he stared into the flames. Not ten feet from him was the spot where his mother had stood the last time Will had seen her alive. Never one like her, my Uilleam.

His father had sat before this very fireplace, telling his sons about how he’d met their mother, adoration in his tone.

When Will had predicted that his father wouldn’t last the week, he’d been wrong. Da hadn’t lived past the next sunset. No one in the clan had been surprised when he’d entreated a trusted comrade to deal his deathblow.

Nothing Will or Munro could say would change Da’s mind. He’d been out of his head with grief, unmoved by their pleas, half taken over by his beast already. Will and Munro had just lost their mother and sister, and then their father as well.

All of that because of a succubus. And there’s one in our home.

The shame of it! And in the midst of his turmoil, he needed Chloe. He needed her hand on his brow, a loving stroke against his face.

He needed to be inside her—because that was the only place in the world he hadn’t yet tried to find peace.

He finished the bottle, setting it down too close to the edge of the whiskey service; it fell to the floor. Nothing left to spill. He collected another fifth, then proceeded to top off his highball glass repeatedly, chasing that numbness.

By the end of the second bottle, all he’d achieved was drunkenness.

When he’d heard her turn off the water, his pulse had quickened. Now he could detect the faintest scent of her arousal, making him quake, like a dog maddened by the scent of heat.

—Claim!— There was nothing preventing him from being inside his mate—nothing but his stubbornness. His battered pride.

He needed to accept that it was his fate to surrender and cede. He told himself that for the nine hundred years between succubae, his life and his will had been his own.

He should be grateful for those centuries at least.

Grateful? With a yell, he shot to his feet, throwing his glass into the fire. Before it shattered, he’d already sped halfway up the stairs, having no idea whether he’d throttle her, rut her, or just clasp her tight against him.

He’d made it all of two hours here before succumbing to her call.

Why did he always lose, when he so badly needed to win . . . ?