Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night

Before she could react, he reached between her knees and then up against her chest to slice the tie at her neck with one claw. Her eyes went wide and she dropped her light to snatch fistfuls of cloth, but he jerked the cloak out of her grasp.

'Give it back!'

'It was slowing you—and therefore me—down.'

She gritted her teeth, struggling to control her temper. 'If you had gone first —'

'I dinna. If you want it, why no' use magick to take it from me?'

Did he suspect how volatile her power was? Was he sussing out her weaknesses? 'You really do not want me to do that.'

'You really must no' want your cloak back. Come then, witchling, just take it from me.'

Glamour or not, she had grown used to the physical security of the garment. And when she realized she wasn't getting it back from him, Mari just checked the urge to rub her bared arms. All at once, she became very much aware of how high her hiking shorts were on her thighs and how her tank top was riding up, about to reveal the mark on her lower back.

She steeled herself and made her tone nonchalant. 'Keep the cloak.' Though she knew he was ogling her, she forced herself to put one knee in front of the other. 'It'll be worth money one day.'

After a few moments, he said, 'Doona fret, witch. You're no' so unbecoming from my angle. Bit scrawny where it counts, but no' too bad.'

Yep, ogling. Many adjectives could be used to describe her ass, but scrawny was not among them. He's just making these comments and brushing up against you to unnerve you. Knowing that didn't make his efforts less effective! 'Scrawny where it counts, MacRieve? Funny, I'd heard the same about you.'

He gave a kind of humorless half chuckle and finally followed. 'No' likely. Maybe you're just too young to have heard the rumors about Lykae males. Tender wee ears and such.'

No, she'd heard. And over the last couple of days, she had wondered about that rumor and if it applied to him.

How long was this damned tunnel—

'Still, lass,' he grated. Her eyes widened again when she felt his hot palm lying flat against the back of her thigh. 'There's a scorpion tangled up in all that hair of yours.'

'Get your hand off me, MacRieve! You think I can't see what you're doing? I've been scanning every inch of this tunnel—I would have seen a scorpion.' When she started again, he squeezed her leg. His thumb claw pressed against her skin, high on her inner thigh, sending an unexpected shot of pleasure through her. She had to stifle a shiver.

It was only after she felt a whisper of touch over her hair that she got her wits again. 'Like I'm supposed to believe there's a scorpion and it just happens to be in the tunnel we're crawling in and then in my hair? Any other creature-feature props you'd like to reference? Is there a mummy's hand tangled up in there? I'm really surprised you didn't go with 'classic tarantula.''

His arm shot out between her legs—again—jostling against the front of her body as he tossed something in front of her. Something with mass. She held her lantern farther forward—

The sight of a scorpion as big as her hand had her scrambling back... wedging herself firmly against MacRieve—a very awkward position to be in with anyone, but especially with a werewolf.

He stiffened all around her. Every inch of him. She felt his arms bulging over her shoulders and his chiseled abs taut over her back.

His growing erection strained thick against her backside. So the rumors about werewolf males are true, she thought dazedly. Exhibit A is quite insistent.

'Move forward,' he said, grating the words. He was breathing heavily right over her ear.

'No way. Kind of between a scorpion and a hard place here.' She bit her lip, wishing one of her friends had heard her say that.

He eased back from her. 'I killed it,' he said between breaths. 'You can pass, just doona let it touch you.'

'Why do you care?' She frowned to find herself feeling chilled without him over her.

'Doona. A sting will slow you down. And I'm behind you, remember?'

'Like I'm going to forget that anytime soon.' Then his callous words sunk in. 'Hey, werewolf, aren't you supposed to gnaw on your prey or play with it with shuffling paws or something? Want me to save it for you?'

'I could put it back where I found it, witch.'

'I could turn you into a toad.' Maybe an exploded toad.

Without warning, he fingered the small, black tattoo on her lower back. 'What does this script mean?'

She did gasp then, as much from the shock of his touch there as from her visceral reaction to it. She wanted to arch up to his hand and couldn't understand why. She snapped, 'Are you done groping me? '

'Canna say. Tell me what the marking means.'

Mari had no idea. She'd had it ever since she could remember. All she knew was that her mother used to write out that mysterious lettering in all of her correspondence. Or, at least her mother had before she'd abandoned Mari in New Orleans to go on her two-hundred-year-long druid sabbatical—

He tapped her there, impatiently awaiting an answer.

'It means 'drunk and lost a bet.' Now keep your hands to yourself unless you want to be an amphibian.' When the opening emerged ahead, she crawled heedlessly for it and scrambled out with her lantern swinging wildly. She'd taken only three steps into the new chamber before he'd caught her wrist, spinning her around.

As his gaze raked over her, he reached forward and pulled a lock of her long hair over her shoulder. He seemed unaware that he was languidly rubbing his thumb over the curl. 'Why hide this face behind a cloak?' he murmured, cocking his head to the side as he studied her. 'No' a damn thing's wrong with you that I can tell. But you look fey. Explains the name.'

'How can I resist these suave compliments?' He was right about the name though. Many of the fey had names beginning in Mari or Kari.

She gave his light hold on her hair a pointed look, and he dropped it like it was hot, then scowled at her as if she were to blame.

'Right now you're working your spells, are you no'?' He actually leaned in to scent her.

'No, not at all. Believe me, you'd know.'

As if he hadn't heard her, he continued, 'Aye, you are.' His expression was growing more savage by the instant. 'Just as you were born to do.'

But for some reason she wasn't afraid. She was... excited. He must have seen something in her eyes that he didn't like, because he abruptly turned from her.

As he surveyed their surroundings, she scrutinized him, searching for a single thing about his appearance that she didn't find sexy—and failing.

All immortals were 'frozen' into their immortality when they reached the peak of their strength and were best able to survive. But MacRieve had turned later than other males she'd seen in the Lore. He appeared as though he'd aged to be at least thirty-five. And, damn, it was a good look for him.

His clothes were well made but raffish. A small, ancient-looking medallion hung from a short length of leather around his neck, and a large hunting knife was strapped to his belt. He made Indiana Jones look like a poser pretty boy.

MacRieve also wore a whip at his side, no doubt to be prepared for an encounter with the vampire who'd entered the Hie. Like many demons, vampires could teleport—or trace—making them impossible to vanquish. Mari knew that some younger vampires could be trapped with a whip, preventing them from tracing and making them easier to kill.

That night at the assembly, MacRieve had clashed against the vampire in a bloody, vicious brawl, yet never had Mari seen anything so beautiful as the way he'd moved. The fight had been broken up by a Valkyrie, but Mari