She turned to look.
Dear Goddess…
Leaning on the bar, the dark-haired Cosantir surveyed the crowd. A terrifying amount of power shimmered around him. His gaze landed on her, pinning her in place, stealing her breath, and then he nodded politely before turning his attention elsewhere.
She carefully turned her chair so she wasn’t facing him before letting out a soft, “Whew.” Don’t stare at the scary Cosantir. No wonder there were no fights when he was around.
Still…scary Cosantir or not, she far preferred this Gathering to Rainier’s.
“Who are you looking at, Donal?” A well-endowed brunette sat down beside the single male at a nearby table. “Seriously? That stumpy one? She looks like something a werecat wouldn’t bother to drag in, even if the cat was starving.”
Margery hoped she wasn’t the stumpy one in question.
But the female was staring right at Margery. Ouch. Well, all right. The rude statement wasn’t a falsehood. Margery was short, not particularly pretty, and the scar didn’t help.
She glanced at the male and blinked. Tall and lean with cheekbones sharper than knives—the mesmerizing healer from the Scythe garage, the one who’d taken their trackers out. Donal. No wonder his name was familiar.
The way his thick black hair spilled over his pure white shirt made her fingers curl with a desire to comb through the strands.
When the brunette wrapped her hands around his biceps, clinging like a burr on a wolf pelt, the oddest pain sliced deep into Margery’s heart. Talk about stupid.
Margery Lavelle, why would you think you could ever attract a male like him?
His silvery gaze met Margery’s for an infinite, stomach-tightening second before he responded to the female tugging on his arm and turned away.
Without saying anything to Margery.
No recognition had shown in those eyes she would never forget. The way he’d tended to her and the other captives left an impression on her, but to him, she must have been just another face among many. No one memorable…which shouldn’t bother her as much as it did.
Margery noticed the female was scowling at her.
As the animosity sent a chill down her spine, she rose. No need to stay where she was uncomfortable.
On the far side of the tavern, a cheerfully crackling fire drew her. Ignoring the shifters seated near the stone fireplace, Margery remained standing, holding her hands toward the flames.
Two salamanders danced in the fire, their sinuous red bodies twining and spinning in a celebration of their element.
“You guys are gorgeous,” she whispered.
Hearing her, they blinked black eyes like cold coals and leapt higher in a fountain of flickering sparks.
“Aye, I’m going to have to look for work soon.” A male’s compelling baritone came from the shifters behind her. “It’s resting I’ve been, but the itch is on me to do something.”
The Irish accent was familiar. He sounded like the male who’d bossed the shifters in the Scythe garage. The one named Tynan.
Warily, she checked over her shoulder.
It was him.
Standing, Tynan had one foot resting on the coffee table, his forearms crossed on his raised thigh as he spoke to his friends on the couch. A big-boned Gaelic male with fair skin and blunt features, he seemed even taller and more broad-shouldered than last fall. His square jaw looked purely stubborn—and somehow sent a low hum, accompanied by a wave of heat, through her body.
No. Absolutely not. He might be wearing jeans and a T-shirt here, but the memory of him in a uniform shirt and weapons belt chilled her.
As if he felt her attention, his head lifted. When his intent gaze met hers, his head tilted slightly. If he’d been in wolf form, his ears would have turned forward. After saying something to his friends, he straightened and walked toward her.
No, no, no, no. He even moved like a guard, shoulders military straight, head high.
She tensed, anticipating a blow from his cane.
But he wouldn’t—of course he wouldn’t. What in the world was wrong with her? Nevertheless, even though she knew—knew—he wasn’t a Scythe guard, she fled.
Safely out of reach, she glanced over her shoulder.
His gaze trapped hers. He wasn’t following, merely watching her intently, his eyes a clear, clear blue that filled her world, leaving no room for fear or anger.
Then his gaze released her, and he turned to rejoin the others.
He wouldn’t come after her, not here, because, unlike in the human world, here, the females chose. Whatever had attracted his interest in her was over.
Good. This is good.
So why did she feel the oddest sense of disappointment?
Frowning, Tynan returned to the sitting area where he’d been talking with Nia, a giggly little female he’d mated earlier, and Kevin, one of the Murphy brothers.
Kevin grinned. “The female didn’t like your scent? That’s a first.”
“Not a first, no.” But rare enough he’d been surprised, especially since her scent had initially indicated interest. “I have a feeling her head and her hormones weren’t in agreement.”
“Yeah, I get that sometimes.” Kevin slapped his hefty chest, then tugged on his shirt. “The females, they like the muscles, but they see my old clothes and decide richer is better.”
Nia frowned. “I don’t know her. She doesn’t live in Cold Creek.”
Watching the female cross the room toward the door, Tynan shook his head. “Her scent was familiar.” And appealing.
Where had he seen her before? Short and curvy, with breasts and an ass that would overflow his hands. She had a long pale oval face with a pointed chin that said stubborn, and a full lower lip he wanted to nibble on. He wouldn’t have forgotten if he had touched her in the past, held her close, and looked into those eyes as her wariness turned into passion.
A scar marred one side of her face.
His eyes narrowed. She was limping.
Ah, aye, that was it. He’d seen her the night they rescued the Scythe hostages. When he almost lost his brother. Poor Donal had almost no memory of that night—or perhaps his brother was lucky. Tynan still had nightmares, especially of the humans he’d killed. “She’s one of the Dogwood villagers.”
In fact, she was the one who’d stayed to tend the injured males.
She looked better now. No bruising on her face. No longer emaciated.
“I thought Darcy was the only Dogwood villager in Cold Creek,” Nia said.
“She is.” Tynan considered. “The captives had all winter to adjust to being free and living as shifters again.”
“Eh. Betcha a bunch will want to wander after being trapped for years,” Kevin said. The Murphy brothers were more known for brawn than brains, but they had tender hearts for the females.
“Sure they will. It couldn’t have been an easy winter for them.” Tynan dropped into a chair, feeling a tug of sympathy for the little female. “Merely living in the city for so long affected me. I can’t imagine being kept captive and raised by humans.”
Nia’s gaze was sad. “Darcy had a hard time. Still does sometimes.”
“Aye, I’ve talked with her about the differences between human and Daonain culture.”
In Tynan’s veins, the low mating hum faded away. It was morning. The full moon had set, and the Gathering was over. Time to go home.