She glanced at the stack she’d already flipped through piled on the desk across the room. Such a regal piece of furniture. Massive, rooted by turned legs to the wooden floor. Her father’s, well used by him in the ninety years he’d cared for The White Hare.
A pang belled through her until her soul ached. Icabod McCrae—her father. She knew his name now, had even seen his picture. Just the latest tidbit of information delivered by Hendrix.
Every time her major-domo delivered food from the inn to her private cottage, traveling the garden path that reached deep into the woods, he gave her something new. One of her father’s journals. Another story about his life, anecdotes of his tenure as innkeeper. Sometimes the gorgon’s stories made her laugh. Sometimes they made her want to cry. She drank in each one anyway, like parched earth did rain, needing to understand her history and the radicalized group of Druids who’d stolen her time with the man who’d loved her.
Hendrix tried to be gentle about it. He never gave her more than she could handle, feeding her information at the rate she needed to receive it.
The ledgers, though, were a real boon. She’d been poring over the numbers for days, learning about the inn’s financial health, identifying areas of improvement. She used accounting and her business acumen as a distraction, waiting for Kruger to wake up, praying every second of every day that he did.
Three days.
She closed her eyes as worry set off a chain reaction.
Almost three days since the attack.
All the what-ifs came calling, banging around inside her head, making her believe she hadn’t reached him in time. The fact he was still breathing did nothing to alleviate her fears. He was unconscious, maybe even in a coma, and she didn’t know what to do. Listen to Wallaig and feed Kruger another round of healing energy? Scream and try to shake him awake?
Ferguson frowned as the column of numbers went wavy. She clenched her teeth. No more tears. She refused to allow any more to fall. Curling into Kruger every day and crying was wearing her out. He needed to wake up. She wanted to stop her mind from running down all the what-ifs. What if she’d been quicker? What if she’d gotten to him sooner? What if she lost him before she ever really got a chance to know him?
Drawing a shaky breath, she glanced toward the bed. Pushed into an alcove jutting out the side of the one-room cottage, Kruger lay unmoving, eyes closed, chest rising and falling at even intervals.
The touch of color in his cheeks gave her hope. Something to cling to in a sea of uncertainty. Yesterday, he’d still been in bad shape, so close to death Wallaig refused to leave, summoning Amantha—his mate—to the cottage instead of flying home with his packmates to the Scottish lair.
Fast asleep, back flat against the leather couch, Wallaig slept like the dead now, Amantha tucked against his side, her head beneath his chin, his arms tight around her.
Ferguson’s throat tightened. She wanted what Amantha had—Kruger’s arms tight around her, instead of remaining limp at his sides each time she snuggled in for another energy feeding, pacing herself the way Wallaig had taught her.
“Dude,” a voice whispered. “Lighten up. He’s still breathing, ain’t he?”
Ferguson blinked. Her head snapped toward her father’s desk.
Perched on the edge, bleach-blond hair sticking straight up, Jethro rolled a joint and raised a brow.
She battled through her need to cry. “Where the hell have you been?”
“The North Sea, bro,” her dead friend said. “Radical, dude. Totally extreme. The waves are, like, a hundred feet high.”
“Have you seen Cuthbert?”
Jethro rolled his eyes. “Visited the inn. Gotta say, nice digs, dude. But the butler’s lost his fucking mind. I got outta there the minute he started complaining about the improper use of tablecloths in the dining room.”
She laughed through the sudden sheen of her tears.
Thank God for Jethro. It never failed—he always showed up when she needed him, lightening the mood, putting things into perspective, invading her space with his irreverent attitude…and the pungent scent of weed.
With a flick of his cheap lighter, he lit the end of his joint. He squinted through the smoke, then blew on the end. The tip burned bright orange. The acrid smell increased. Ferguson shook her head, about to tell him to put it out, like she always did, and—
“What the fuck?”
The curse snapped her gaze toward the bed.
Dark brows furrowed, up on one elbow, Kruger wrinkled his nose. “Who the fuck are you?”
Jethro’s mouth fell open. “Dragon dude—can you see me?”
Ferguson tossed the ledger aside. The heavy volume landed with a thump on the floor. Chanting, “Thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you, God,” she raced across the cottage, heart throbbing, mind burning, her relief so stark it hurt to breathe.
“Fergie.”
Kruger’s deep baritone curled around her. Her chest heaved. A sob tore from her throat. She ran through the pain, her gaze on him, only one thing on her mind. She needed to touch him, hold him, make sure that she wasn’t dreaming, and he was really awake.
20
Long hair flowing in waves behind her, Ferguson entered the bed at full tilt.
Kruger braced for impact. A wise decision given she didn’t slow. Planting her knee on the edge of the mattress, she launched herself at him. He grunted as she slammed into his chest. Rolling with the momentum, ignoring the dead, pot-smoking male perched on the desk, he wrapped his arms around her.
She snuggled in.
Ripping the covers away, he fit her small frame to his much larger one. She whispered his name. He held her tighter, absorbing her shivers, registering her upset, regretting it even as relief hit him hard. Goddess, she was sweet, willing to show the depth of her feelings instead of hiding them away. The bond between mates was powerful. An unstoppable force fueled by primal instinct and intense need, scorching him with the desire to soothe her.
Her breath hitched. She burrowed deeper, trying to get closer.
Kruger adjusted his hold and, brushing her hair aside, palmed the nape of her neck. He pressed his other hand to her lower back, then turned his head, and set his mouth against her temple. Three points of contact against her skin, and energy-fuse sparked. The Meridian unfurled, opening a channel inside him. Her bioenergy flared. He drifted into the stream, loving the feel of her, embracing the gift as his dragon fed her from the source, soothing her the only way he knew how. With profound connection. With intense closeness. With him abandoning the emotional guards that had protected him for years, but no longer served to keep him safe.
He didn’t need to be guarded with Ferguson. She nourished him, accepted him, wanted him in ways he felt soul deep, and yet, for some reason, still didn’t believe he deserved. His mate was beauty and light. He was death and destruction, a warrior without equal, incapable of compromise.
Self-preservation urged him to reestablish his boundaries. The bond he shared with her refused to allow it, upping the ante by cracking him open, pushing him into places he’d never gone before, but felt right with Ferguson in his arms.
Firming his grip on her, he hooked her knee over his hip. As his thigh settled between hers, Ferguson whispered in welcome, kissed the underside of his jaw, and held on tighter.