Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(88)

Her lids rose, and her eyes held blind panic. Fighting their hands and the sleeping bag, she struggled to sit up.

“Easy, easy.” Gawain sat down and pulled her, sleeping bag and all, into his lap. When Owen started to rise, Gawain growled at him, “Stay here, brawd.”

Owen sank down. “I don’t know what to do when…”

Tenderhearted cahir. “She’s scared, brawd. Sit beside me and let her feel guarded by the males she knows best.”

That was all it took. Owen edged closer and stroked her back. “We’re here, Darcy. No one can hurt you now.”

Gawain could feel the moment she truly woke. She pulled in a shuddering breath, and with a moan, sagged against him. Shivers wracked her still-too-thin body. “I-I’m sorry. Did I wake you two up?”

“We weren’t asleep.” Owen tucked her hair back from her tear-damp face. “Tell us…” He paused and rephrased. “Can you tell us what had you so frightened?”

She shook her head.

Owen growled slightly under his breath, and Gawain almost laughed. The cahir did far better with killing than comforting.

He’d learn.

Gawain folded her closer and kissed the top of her head. It pleased him when she pressed closer, letting him give her some of his strength. Was this what the Gods felt when they gifted their chosen? “Catling, sharing a nightmare will remove the claws embedded in your soul.”

Her head lifted. Her haunted dark eyes narrowed as she caught the bitter knowledge in his words. “You’ve had nightmares?”

“Aye. More than a few.” Edwyn’s car wreck. A feral he’d been forced to kill before the male could slaughter two young wolves. A Gathering fight where two males had torn each other apart over a female.

One of his lovers had been a healer. She’d coaxed him to tell her, and with the talking, the nightmares had eased. “Sharing helps, Darcy.”


Sharing? No. Darcy couldn’t talk about the blood, the screams, the guilt. She shook her head. “I c-can’t.”

Surprising her, Owen kissed her palm, and the scratchiness of his stubbled chin drew her back further into reality. “The night is not the time. You’ll tell us tomorrow.”

Bossy cat. Why did his order and his light kiss make her want to cry? “I will if… Would you just hold me for a while?”

Owen rose, and oh, the rejection hurt. She pulled in a shuddering breath and—he picked her up. “Strip down, brawd.” He nodded at the sleeping bags.

After Gawain shed his clothes and climbed into the bag, Owen set her next to him.

“Closer, catling.” Lying on his back, Gawain drew her against his side. He gave off heat like a bonfire and smelled of mountain meadows and sunshine.

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder before lifting her head to look for Owen.

Gawain chuckled. “He’ll douse the fire and join us.”

With a sigh of relief, she snuggled closer with her front against his side. She put a leg over the top of his hard thighs, and somehow, it didn’t even matter that they were both naked.

A minute later, also naked, Owen slid into the bag on her other side, spooning her with his chest against her back, and his legs behind hers.

Despite the frigid night air, warmth surrounded her. Gawain’s heart beat slowly beneath her cheek.

Against her back, Owen’s chest moved in and out with his even breathing, and his heavy arm lay over her and Gawain, securing them all together. His voice was deep. “You’re safe, Darcy. Go back to sleep now.”

“Bossy cat,” she muttered…and fell asleep to the sound of their laughter.





Chapter Twenty-Two





?


The next day, on the way to the car, Owen had told the little cat to find him. If he watched closely, maybe he could figure out why she was such an inept feline.

Lying on a comfortable branch, Owen licked a wayward patch of fur on his foreleg. Having the pretty panther searching for him gave him an odd sense of satisfaction.

There she was.

He had to suppress his purr. Although she was still tiny—not much bigger than a teenaged shifter—the time in Cold Creek had been good for her. Her fur had a sheen, and her flanks were no longer hollowed. Smooth padding covered her ribs, although she had a few more pounds to go. In all reality, she was far more than the “pretty panther” Gawain called her—she was beautiful.

She went past the place where he’d left the trail, halted, and retraced her steps. Finding his trail, she headed into the underbrush. Her paw almost landed on a shrew. Its angry squeak and skittering retreat made her freeze, consternation in every line of her body.

Owen had to smother his huff of amusement.

But—good girl—she hadn’t jumped a couple of feet into the air as she had the first few times. Instead, she sniffed and relaxed.

She continued on. Slowly. Really, far too slowly. When he and Gawain had played these games as cublings, they’d loped along, sniffing the air, ears swiveled to catch any sound. They hadn’t gone into stalk mode unless they found an active scent.

At this rate, she’d be searching for him for hours.

His tail impatiently flicked up and down as he realized her every step was planned out, as was each pause to sniff.

Planned? For fuck’s sake, she was in animal form. Animals didn’t plan. Admittedly, a shifter needed some control. The human side never disappeared—unless feral. Part of being an animal was letting instincts rule, allowing the magic to have its sway, and taking joy in the sheer physical nature of a beast.