“Levin? Ran?”
“I’m alone, brother. I sent them on tae Edinburgh. I didnae know you’d been hit, and the others need help.”
“Why?”
“Firefight.”
“Grizgunn?”
“Aye.”
“Fuck,” Kruger said, part growl, mostly groan. Injured, in pain and still, he felt his temper rise. The news pissed him off. Goddamn Danes. Just his fucking luck. After months of nothing, then weeks of hoping, wishing, praying for a fight, of course Grizgunn had picked tonight of all nights to poke his head out of his hidey-hole. “I’m missing it.”
Wallaig huffed.
Kruger hissed as his friend prodded a sore spot.
“Shite, Ruger. You’re a right mess.”
“Need tae… Gotta…”
“Get tae yer female,” Wallaig said. “I know it. Just hold on a—”
“Go, brother. Leave me here. Join the fight; go help the others.”
A beat of silence, then, “What the fuck?”
“I’m a lost cause, Wallaig. I’m not going tae make it.”
“Bullshite.”
“I’ve lost too much blood.”
“Ruger—”
“I need you tae listen tae me now. Listen good, brother. A message from a dying male. Take what I say tae Cyprus and the others. I need them tae know…I…”
His voice cracked as his vision faded, going black around the edges.
Deep in the agony, Kruger struggled to stay awake, to say what he needed to say. He’d been foolish, beyond arrogant—so full of pride, hiding who and what he was, guarding his heart along with his secret. Lying in the dirt, bleeding out, none of it mattered anymore. Not his pride. Not his fear of rejection…or the need to protect his brothers-in-arms from a phantom threat that hadn’t yet struck.
Under a black sky, with his enemies close, only one person mattered—Ferguson.
Her safety meant everything. He’d die over and over—again and again—just as long as he knew she’d live her life happy and safe, free of the filth his sire smeared on him.
“Laddie, you’re delirious.”
“I’m not. I’m not,” he said, desperate for the truth to win out. “I need you tae know—for her. If the worst should happen, if Dragonkind comes looking for me and finds Ferguson, I need tae know my mate will be protected. Despite our bond, she’s innocent, Wallaig. I didnae tell her. She doesn’t know who I am. About my sire and what he did. You need tae know, so you can protect her. Promise me, mon. Promise that you’ll—”
“I know, Kruger.”
“Nay, you donnae. I’m—”
“Silfer’s son,” Wallaig said, shocking the hell out of him. “I know all about you, Ruger. I was there when the Goddess of All Things visited Leonid all those years ago. I watched her place you in his arms. Leonid accepted you gladly. In return, the goddess gave him energy-fuse—the sacred words tae the mating ceremony—then told him where tae find Imogen.”
“His mate?”
“Aye.”
“Do the others—”
“Cyprus knows. When we voted him in as pack commander, I told him. Felt he had the right tae know. And before you worry yerself silly about that too, he doesn’t give a shite. Never has, never will. Nor will any of the others.”
“But—”
“Shut up and shift, Ruger. I need tae move you, but I willnae get verra far with you like this.” A sharp tug, and Wallaig rolled him over, exposing his belly wound. “Jesus.”
“Told you.”
“Where’s Ferguson? At the inn?”
“Nay.”
“Are you able tae track her? Can you guide me tae her?”
Listening to his friend, Kruger shifted from dragon to human form. The pain intensified. He groaned and curled in on himself. “Too late. She willnae be able tae—”
The thunder of paws rattled through the quiet. The ground beneath him trembled.
A shout came next. “Kruger!”
“Fuck,” he growled as her voice rolled over him. Pleasure trickled through him. His dragon revived, engaging energy-fuse, connecting with her through the mating bond, needing to feel her. “Fazleima…”
“Thank the goddess,” Wallaig said.
“Fuck,” Kruger muttered again. “Donnae let her, Wallaig. Donnae let her leave the Parkland. The Danes’ll spot her. They’ll—”
“Too late.”
The thump of small feet across thick turf. Skidding. Sliding. Heavy breathing and the chaotic beat of her heart. He sensed it all as she sprinted toward him, but couldn’t move. All he could do was wait—hope and pray Wallaig kept his word and Ferguson made it across the dell in one piece.
Big hands pressed into Kruger’s shoulder, Wallaig tensed. “Brace, Ruger.”
Something cold and smooth slithered around him.
“What—”
“Vines,” Wallaig said, holding him steady. “They came with her.”
Knees landed in the dirt beside him. “God, God, oh my God. Kruger…tell me what to do. What do I do?”
Incapable of moving, he lay with his eyes closed. Thick vines curled up and over his body, securing their hold on him. They tugged, dragging him toward the edge of the forest as Ferguson shuffled alongside him and he drank her in. Fuck, but she felt good. Didn’t matter that she wasn’t touching him. Didn’t matter that he was dying. Not anymore. Her proximity, the soothing scent of evergreens and candy canes, was all he needed.
“He’s in a bad way, Ferguson. You need tae touch him. Skin tae skin, lass.”
“Who’re you?”
“Wallaig.”
“You coming with, or staying here?”
“I go where he goes.”
“Good. Now—”
“Fazleima,” he said in protest.
“Quiet, cowboy. Now’s not the time for back talk.”
Wallaig snorted in amusement.
All business, Ferguson ignored Kruger’s faint protest, instead doing what he feared most: stripping off her hoodie, pressing close, putting herself in danger to save him. He tried to shake his head. She murmured, then lay down and tucked in, aligning her body with his, palms pressed to his bare skin. The Meridian surged. White-hot current arced through him. Pleasure and pain slashed, blazing a trail through his veins.
Magic detonated.
Her bioenergy whiplashed.
Wallaig cursed.
Kruger bared his teeth as the bond twisted, sucking him into a whirlpool of sensation. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. All he could do was feel the beauty of his mate and the life-sustaining energy she fed him. Energy-greed bit, killing his control, loosing unimaginable need. Hooked deep, unable to stop, Kruger took everything she gave, feeding fast, drawing too much, making Ferguson jerk as he sank into the abyss and pulled her under.
19
The Innkeeper’s Cottage — four hours shy of three days later
Fire crackling in the hearth, Ferguson sat cross-legged in an armchair with a leather-bound ledger open in her lap. The smell of smoke and cedar combined, bringing little comfort as she trailed her fingertip over columns of figures. Lots of numbers. More than a few notations in the margins. Some scribbled by Hendrix. Most of it written by her.