Bound by Dreams

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PART ONE

PROLOGUE

Sussex, England

Draycott Abbey

Summer

THE NIGHT IS ALIVE, restless with dreams.

Almost two decades have passed since he walked this soft grass. Touched these worn stones of Draycott Abbey.

The name flows off his tongue, rich with history. Near his hand a mound of lavender stirs, cool with dew and perfume. The scent he remembers well, along with his hours of peace in the abbey’s shadow.

Every detail of the great house is branded into his memory.

For twenty years he has not come back to these green hills. The danger is too great, carrying the threat of what he once was…and can become again.

The wind draws him to the moat’s edge. He smells the tall grass, feels the brush of young leaves on his skin. Somewhere in the darkness a hunting bird calls sharply.

The night flows around him. Then the past rushes in with a surge of bitterness. The pain slams down.

He remembers the betrayal and lost hope. From his innocence had come death.

His muscles flex. Tendons move, blood sings. Power slides down like swift moonlight spilled across endless seas. The life he’d left behind rushes in, carrying the slap of the wind, the harsh rhythm of an old Gaelic curse.

He remembers the hammer of callused hands at his neck and then the cold taste of blood.

His own blood. From wounds that had left him dead, or close enough to call dead.

He slips off his shoes.

Thyme and mint crush beneath his feet, just like the last time he was here to visit his oldest friend.

Sweat glistens on his bare skin. The night is cool, but to him it is warmth enough when the wind calls. Better to run, to hunt. It is safe here, because darkness is his home and haven.

Roses brush his arm, scenting the air with perfume. His skin burns. The time of power floods through him.

Muscles flex, changing to match a new shape and all its strength.

His hands clench. He touches the low iron fence. One hand grips the cool rail as the power snaps. He lets down the final wall, feels the explosion of dark strength that surges through him.

He remembers another night, too many years ago to count. His first taste of power—and the death it carried. He remembers a boy’s raw, bone-wrenching terror, understanding nothing. That night there had been no control, no confidence, no hope. Only death.

Old history.

Dead ashes.

He mutters an oath and snaps his bond to the past. In silent fury, his body rushes into life, driven by the energy of the hunt. Across the hill he can hear a leaf fall and feel the weight of moonlight on his bare hands.

Alive.

More than alive—with such power as no mortal man can know.

His jacket drops. His clothes fall to the soft earth.

The abbey is as much of a home as he has ever known, and Calan MacKay feels the power of its welcome as he stands in the night, face to the north. The wind from the woods brings the rich scent of prey and the taste of rain before dawn. He runs, a shadow in the trees. A shadow with keenest sight and unthinkable strength. His muscles gather and stretch. Senses burning.

Then he is gone, swallowed by the darkness.

A bird cries. Moon rising.

Strange footprints dot the mud above the abbey’s moat.

HE SMELLS HER across the hill.

A touch of softness. A hint of warmth.

Woman.

Her perfume holds soft ginger. Orange. A hint of cinnamon.

Without looking, he knows her location. Her scent marks every step. Hidden by a mound of lavender, he waits.

She thinks she is alone. Every step she makes is quick, wary. She is small. Fast. Careful. This is what he sees in the space of a breath. The other details come slowly. Yet they are mostly about what she is not.

Not beautiful.

Not frightened.