War of Hearts(126)
“It isnae anything they have havenae seen before,” she mocked.
Conall’s expression promised delicious retribution for her cheekiness.
She was about to respond in kind when the pleasure-pain of the transformation began. At the same time as Conall, her claws grew. Feeling Conall’s power swell out of him, flooding the pack and her, her knees trembled.
He threw back his head and bellowed, “Ceannsaichidh an Fhìrinn!” and goosebumps covered Thea’s entire body. Jesus, he was magnificent.
“Ceannsaichidh an Fhìrinn!” she yelled in unison with the pack. Her mate turned to look at her with pride bright in his gray eyes seconds before they both fell to their knees and let the change take them.
Conall had been right. It was odd to not be in control of shifting, a little alarming at first, but once she let herself relax, it was easy. Natural. The transformation didn’t take long and soon Thea was closer to the ground, padding along the dewy grass to nuzzle against Conall in wolf greeting. He nipped playfully at her ear and she sidestepped him to make her way over to the members of the Blackwood Coven.
She stared up at them, communicating silently. “Well? Satisfied?”
The warlock appeared dismayed, but he nodded slowly. “Our business here is over.”
He ushered the two women away. Remembering the casualties they’d caused in their search for her, Thea pulled back her muzzle and let out a low, deep, menacing growl.
The witches jumped, throwing her startled, frightened looks over their shoulders before scurrying out of view around the Coach House.
Thea laughed, and it came out like a hoarse snarl. She turned to find Wolf Conall and Wolf Callie wearing their versions of wolfish grins, whilst Wolf James’s expression clearly said, “Was that necessary?”
Yes. But more than that, it had been fun.
Seeing most of the pack had already taken off for the run, Thea lunged past her mate, his sister, and beta, and hurried up the embankment toward the road that would lead them into the forest that covered the hills.
Everywhere she could hear the pack as Conall fell into stride beside her.
They were all around her, their hearts beating in tandem.
And Thea realized as they gloried in the call of the full moon that she had never, not once in her life, felt more herself than she did right then, running with Conall and his pack.
Strike that.
Their pack.
PARIS, FIVE MONTHS LATER
Belly sloshing, Vik winced and slowed his lunging strides up the stairwell toward his apartment. Perhaps he’d overindulged tonight, taking more blood from the Parisian burlesque dancers than he should have.
They’d been twins. Redheaded, curvy twins.
Vik was weak before redheads and twins.
He also felt a little light-headed, which meant he’d definitely taken too much. A vamp on too much blood was like a man who had overimbibed on alcohol.
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. The dancers had offered more than their blood and Vik needed the release. He’d been too stressed lately, but after months of no word, he was finally starting to relax.
When he’d returned to his home in Oslo to find fifteen piles of ash instead of a dead Conall MacLennan and Thea Quinn, Vik had known he’d chosen the wrong side. He thought by choosing Eirik he was choosing to side with the most powerful being, the one who mattered. Yet he’d underestimated Thea.
Horrified, knowing Conall well enough to realize the werewolf would want what he considered justice for the betrayal, Vik left his Oslo home with a heavy heart. He’d taken his research with him, all but the rare edition of Jerrik’s journal, which had been missing from his apartment. Guessing Thea had taken it, Vik had to just deal with the loss. If that woman could kill the oldest vampire in the world, then he certainly would not mess with her over a book. No matter how special that book was. Or how expensive it had been.
However, Vik’s contacts had told him Thea was no longer fae. Apparently, Conall had bitten her, and she’d turned into a werewolf. They were happily mated, living in Conall’s home in Loch Torridon. It had been six months since the incident in Vik’s apartment and no word that the MacLennans were coming for him.
If he wasn’t enjoying his time in Paris so much, Vik would head back to Oslo. Soon. But there were still plenty of burlesque dancers to meet.
Whistling to himself, the vampire slowly made his way to the penthouse at the top of the prewar building. What it lacked in Nordic simplicity, it made up for in style and views. Plus, he’d put impressive floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the high-ceilinged property. He required a ladder to reach the top shelves. It was wonderful.
Letting himself into his temporary home, Vik swayed against the wall and cursed under his breath. “Definitely too much blood,” he muttered. “Greedy, greedy.”
Stumbling down the hallway, he threw his keys in the bowl on the sideboard and wandered into the dark sitting room. The pressure in the air hit him as he fumbled for the light switch, but he was too drunk on blood to process its meaning.
The bulbs from the chandelier illuminated the room—and the two alphas sitting casually on his couch.
Fear ripped through him.
Oh fuck!
“Hello, Vik.”
He whirled around, diving toward the hallway when agonizing pain ripped through his right calf and he sprawled to the hardwood floor on a cry. Whipping his head around, he hissed at the sight of the wooden stake lodged through his lower leg. A feeling akin to flames licking his leg swam up his limb, and he fumbled to pull the damn thing out.