Chapter Six
It was day four in this frozen hellhole. Day four. And it was freaking freezing everywhere.
Nothing stayed warm. Since their arrival, she had tried a new bedroom every night and had stocked it beforehand with plenty of firewood. Each night she had built a blazing fire, but they all burned without warmth. She could run her fingers through the flames without getting her skin singed.
The only way she survived was by wrapping herself up in coat, cloak, and blankets and then tucking the Mylar emergency blanket around the entire bundle so that it captured ninety percent of the heat she managed to generate. She felt like a giant foil-wrapped burrito.
Water didn’t boil. Food never warmed. There was plenty of food in the cavernous palace kitchen and pantries, but it was all frozen hard as rocks. For every swallow of water, she needed to suck on a piece of ice until it melted.
In order to eat, she either had to do the same thing, or carry frozen bits of food around in her pocket so her body heat would eventually help it to thaw. She had a hardy constitution, but all the challenges were frankly wearing.
The hand and body warmers were lifesavers. She used one a day and got ten glorious hours of help with combating the cold in the form of a single miraculous little packet. But she had only two left. Soon she was going to have to rely solely on her own body’s resources.
And Robin was no help. First, there was no way in hell she would suggest sharing blankets and body heat when she barely trusted him enough to turn her back while they were together in the same room.
Second, she couldn’t suggest sharing body heat anyway, because after shadowing her obsessively for two days and listening to her constantly explain every little thing to him—which meant she frequently had to offer background medical lectures so he understood what she was saying, including drawing sketches in lieu of PowerPoint slideshows—he disappeared without warning or explanation.
She had no idea if he was off running some errand that he considered vitally important or if something had happened and he had gotten himself into real trouble. He had simply vanished.
Kathryn wrote “4” on a piece of parchment paper and propped it in one corner of Oberon’s room within easy sight.
Day four meant Annwyn and her troops would be arriving in about ten days. Then, according to Robin, Kathryn would need to shelter in place as they entered the city.
Unless Robin had changed his mind and had gone to fetch them? But that didn’t sound likely, so she had to plan for other contingencies. Probably the best place to shelter would be with Oberon in his bedroom, because presumably his Power wouldn’t have any self-destructive tendencies when it rampaged the city.
After she had finished her morning ritual of straightening her possessions that had gotten strewn all over Oberon’s furniture, she braced herself and turned to face the man lying on the bed. Every time she looked at him, she felt the same gut punch as the first time she had laid eyes on him. At least now she knew to prepare for it.
Yes, he was Wyr. According to his scent, he was some kind of feline. He was a big damn cat.
On the night of their arrival, when she discovered what Oberon was, she had exclaimed, “How come nobody told me he was Wyr? I thought the Daoine Sidhe was a community of mixed breeds from the Elder Races!”
She had always liked the idea. It sounded warm and inclusive, with none of the walls that people erect to keep out their perceived “other,” so she felt a little shock of betrayal to discover the truth.
Robin had given her a thoughtful look. “He was mixed Dark Fae and Wyr for a very long time. It was only after Morgan’s attack that he threw everything he had into trying to shapeshift. He thought it might help dislodge the magic. After he finally changed into his Wyr form, it did seem to work—for a while. He appeared to be healed for another two years, until the spell awoke again.”
Robin described the reality of what every half-Wyr faced. They couldn’t completely access many of the health and physical attributes of the full Wyr until they were able to successfully shapeshift into their animal forms. Most who were part-Wyr never managed to achieve that transition.
She couldn’t imagine how Oberon had managed to shapeshift on his own without the assistance of an older Wyr. It spoke of a towering will and determination to survive. When she had met with Morgan, the sorcerer had confessed he was astonished Oberon had survived so long. As scary as Oberon’s Power felt, she had tremendous respect for his will to live.
But this situation was maddening. Even though he appeared to be perfectly warm, the cold was so bitter she had draped blankets over his lax form before leaving that first time.
The next morning, when she had walked into the bedroom, everything she had done to him had been reversed. He lay back in his original position, and the blankets were tucked back in the closet.
The room lay in deep shadow, only flaring with light when she and Robin stepped back inside. Her possessions were the only things left alone… possibly because they were new to Oberon’s unconscious mind and he didn’t know what to do with them?
Who the hell knew? She could say only one thing for certain. In all her many years as a doctor, this was the most unique situation she had ever been in. And she hated to admit that it wasn’t going well.
Because she didn’t just have Morgan’s sophisticated assassination spell to fight. That would have been difficult enough on its own. She had to fight Oberon himself.
And she wasn’t winning.
She had run out of the jerky and trail mix. In an effort to keep her caloric intake high, she had taken to eating butter and other fats from the kitchen pantries because they melted easily after being in contact with her body heat.
Still, she had grown tired all the time, and while the Wyr didn’t suffer from colds like humans did, her lungs felt raw from constantly breathing in the dangerously frigid air.
Also, her throat was sore. She was suffering from voice strain from all the damn talking she’d done over the past several days. She could cast a pain-relieving spell on herself, but she didn’t want to do permanent damage to her vocal cords, and the only thing that would help them was to rest her voice.
She had started out with explaining every little thing to Robin, but then she found that if she didn’t keep talking to Oberon every damn moment while she scanned him or did anything else, his Power would gather in the room like a black, malevolent thundercloud. And black, malevolent thunderclouds never boded well for anybody.
The only way she made headway was when she talked nonstop while she tried the various spells and techniques she had worked out with Morgan. Oberon didn’t fight her when she was talking to him. When he lay acquiescent, she could sense the icy needle pressing against his heart. It was so close to taking him, so close.
But after long, careful work, she had only managed to wiggle that needle back a millimeter, then another… just as long as she kept talking. As soon as she paused to take a breath, or her voice faltered, his Power snapped around him like a clenched fist and she couldn’t get back inside his body without doing damage, either to him or to herself.
What she wouldn’t give for a warm, cooked meal and something hot to drink. Broth, coffee, tea. Anything. A whiskey toddy with lemon and honey sounded like heaven.
In the meantime, the bastard just lay there on his bed and looked like he could sit up at any minute. Even though he was shirtless in the wretched, unnatural cold, he was warm to the touch. Other than the few precious remaining packets of body warmers that remained, he was the only heat source in the entire city.
He was warm to the touch.
When the idea hit, it was filled with such simple brilliance her shoulders sagged—partly from relief at the thought and partly for how far and quickly she had fallen away from any semblance of keeping appropriate boundaries between her and her patient.
But he was warm to the touch, and her stiff muscles and tired mind needed some real rest before she expended more energy on trying to wrestle another round of healing spells into him. So she did the practical thing. She went down the hall to her latest bedroom and retrieved her Mylar blanket.
She was already wearing her fur-lined cloak over her coat. With two people under the Mylar blanket, she thought the cloak would be more than enough covering. And she had already gone to the kitchen for provisions. She’d hacked some ice chips into a tankard, and gathered frozen nuts, dried fruit, a small tub of butter, and a wheel of cheese, both as solid as blocks of ice.
Back in Oberon’s room, she set the tankard on the mattress next to his hip and carefully propped it up with the food. Then she lay down on his other side, shook her cloak over them both, food and all, and then over that she spread the Mylar blanket, talking hoarsely the whole time.
“Look, I don’t like this any more than you do—or any more than you would if you were really cognizant of what a monumental pain in the ass you’ve been. But until I break through to you or…” Or conclude I can’t do anything for you. Something in her chest tightened at the thought. “…or you stop creating such terrible winter conditions, we’ve got to do whatever it takes to make this work. Understood?”
He said nothing, did nothing. Most importantly, his Power did not coalesce menacingly, so she eased down beside his long, hard form and eased her head down on the pillow next to his.
Soon she was more than warm. She quickly grew too hot. Eureka. Unzipping her coat, she shrugged out of it and let it fall by the bed. Deep exhaustion followed the wonderful warmth as her tense muscles finally unknotted for the first time since crossing over.
As she lay back down beside him, she murmured drowsily, “That’s all that’s coming off, buddy, so relax, you’re safe.”
She was even halfway convinced she was safe, at least for the moment, but she wasn’t comfortable with the situation, not by a long shot, and she tried her damnedest to keep from coming into direct contact with his bare skin.
Yet she couldn’t help but notice he smelled pretty good for a guy who hadn’t bathed in fifteen and a half years. All clean and über-male, even if he was some kind of damn cat.
He was actually shockingly sexy, when she thought about it.
Stop thinking about it.
“We’re never going to speak of this again,” she informed him before she fell asleep.
Mmm. Sometime later, she inhaled the scent of sexy male as she rubbed her cheek against her pillow, which was made up of smooth, bare skin wrapped around solid, heavy muscles.
Sexual images played through her mind. Soon they would really wake up and entwine together, she and… and…
…and…
Just exactly who had she taken to bed?
What the hell. She couldn’t even think of his name, and here she was, wrapped around him like a creeping vine—and she never had sex with a total stranger.
Bolting to a sitting position, she stared around wildly.
Oh right. Gotcha. King. Bed. Witchlights burning in their globes, lighting every detail in the palatial room.
She couldn’t really say there was malevolence to the presence in the room, but it was definitely full of dark, heavy Wyr alpha male. It felt like melted dark chocolate against her skin, and she wanted to bathe in it.
The thought disgusted her. For fuck’s sake, Shaw. Pull yourself together.
Dragging her fingers through her hair, she said without looking at the unconscious man beside her, “I am so, so sorry. I did not mean to cling to you like some sort of limpet. That all happened in my sleep. I wasn’t aware of doing it.”
Her voice was no more than a croak as her abused throat strained to get the words out. Just bloody marvelous. Glancing over her shoulder, she finally assessed Oberon’s still features. He looked so peaceful, yet at the same time his Power had raged out of control and had sent his people running away from this beautiful city.
Sighing heavily, she lay back down and turned on her side to face him, this time not touching him. The frigid air bit at her cheeks, and she couldn’t lie, it was hard to think about leaving the warmth their bodies had created in this nest.
“I’m going to put my hand on you,” she whispered. “And I want to scan the interior of your chest. We’ve done this a dozen times already. There’s nothing to it except a little tingle of magic. I don’t need to keep talking to you ad nauseam to get this done, Oberon. Let’s give it a rest, okay?”
She laid her hand on the hard, broad plate of his chest. So far so good. Then she fell silent as she started to scan him—and his Power surged to knock her magic out of his body.
Damn it.
Four damn days. Now almost five damn days of trying every trick she knew and expending every ounce of magical energy she possessed, and she had only managed to move Morgan’s magic needle a few millimeters away from Oberon’s heart.
That was a long, long way from healing him entirely.
“I can’t help you if you keep fighting me at every turn,” she ground out.
And she couldn’t keep healing him if she contracted laryngitis. They were going to lose both those precious millimeters she had gained, because the magic in that needle would never stop, not as long as it remained in his body. It would simply lay dormant until it had generated enough energy to resume its task.
His strong, blunt profile remained oblivious. Even his short, dark beard was well trimmed. Not bad for a guy who hadn’t shaved for a decade and a half. And that strong, molded mouth… It was as shockingly sexy as the rest of him.
Later, she could never adequately explain why she did what she did. There was no excuse. It was inexcusable. If she had done it in New York and had been caught, she could have lost her license to practice medicine.
But she wasn’t in New York. She was alone in this frigid, gorgeous, terrible place, and her heart swelled and ached for a man who was actively destroying his best hope at returning to life. For the goddamn hero who had fallen so long ago and for whom his people had fought so hard, because Kathryn was beginning to believe she would probably never get to meet him when he was conscious and aware.
Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his. His mouth was so still, so warm and perfect. Her closed eyes filled with dampness as she lingered over the sensation of touching his lips with hers.
It felt like saying goodbye to a man she had never met and could barely acknowledge to herself that she had truly wanted to.
Then he moved.
He moved.
His still mouth became mobile, his lips hardening on hers. As she froze in shock, one large hand came up to cup the back of her neck while his long body shifted to align with hers.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her entire consciousness seized on the warmth of his mouth and the dexterous, hungry way he kissed her.
He growled quietly. The sound went down her spine, unzipping her. She had remained steady and strong through almost every difficult period in her life, but not this time. This time she trembled everywhere.
He couldn’t have shocked her more if he had grabbed two defibrillator paddles and zapped her. Meanwhile his mouth conquered the shape of hers—conquered and demanded more. He pressed between her lips, and they parted without her conscious volition, allowing him entrance. When he probed deep inside her mouth, her body pulsed with desire that culminated in a sharp, almost unendurable ache between her legs.
Consumed with the riot going on inside, she was only half aware of his heavy weight settling over her. He ravaged her mouth, laying waste to her senses, and it was only when she felt the growing length of hardness pressing against her hip that a sliver of sanity managed to wedge itself into her brain.
He had an erection. And from what she could sense through the layers of their clothing, it was a good-sized one too.
Not bad for a guy who’d been out of action for fifteen years.
What is wrong with you, Shaw!
She had to stop this. Mmm. Holy gods, he really knew what to do with his mouth… They could stop in just a moment, couldn’t they?
Penetrating her over and over again with his tongue, he cupped her breast in a large, powerful hand as he pushed his hips against hers in a slow, deliberate, sexy grind.
The sliver of sanity screamed at her. She couldn’t wait until later—she had to stop this crazy behavior right now!
* * *
Honestly, this woman. She was driving him mad. Blah blah blah blah blah. How could anybody talk so much?
There was only one good thing about it. The sound of her voice drove Isabeau from his mind, so he focused on her with equal parts irritation and relief.
Then a third thing insinuated itself into his awareness: something was wrong. The woman sounded ragged, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. You would have thought that would be enough to shut her up, but no, it did not.
Almost, he frowned.
Then her lips touched his.
And everything in his head lit up. Yes! This solved all of it… The woman stopped talking, and the sensation of her warm, soft mouth covering his drove any thoughts of Isabeau scuttling far into the darkness where they belonged.
Pleasure cascaded through him, but her touch was light and gentle to the point of being chaste, and he wanted more. So much more.
He came fully awake to the sensation of raw hunger. Fixing his mouth on hers, he feasted on her like a man who had been starving for centuries. Warm, wet, and sensual, she kissed him back, and when he demanded more, she gave it.
A wealth of details shouted for attention. She smelled so goddamn good, like everything he had never known to dream about but suddenly discovered he needed more than life itself. Her hair was fine and silken—that meant she would be silken between her legs as well. The thought made him growl, and she trembled all over in response.
He had to taste her, touch her all over, fuck her. Nothing else existed… Admittedly, her clothes were very strange, he found as he palmed one breast… but nothing else, and no one else, existed in this moment…
“Stop!” she gasped.
Well, dammit. Now she was back to talking again. It couldn’t detract from the delectably soft skin along her jaw and neck. He ran his lips along the delicate path where her carotid artery beat underneath the warm silken skin perfumed with the intoxicating scent of aroused female.
He couldn’t wait to eat her up.
Something struck his shoulder. Her fist. She had hit him.
She struck him again, not lightly, then she clouted him over the head. “Oberon, stop!”
She dared to strike him? He bared his teeth at her in a snarl, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her draw back her fist. Unbelievably, she was going to do it again.
He hissed, “You do not strike the King!”
“You’re not my king!” she shouted back.
He caught a glimpse of her fine-boned features surrounded by a cloud of the silken brown hair spread out on the pillow. Fire flashed in narrowed amber eyes. This time her fist came flying directly at his face, but his reflexes were faster than they had ever been, and he ducked sideways to avoid the blow that landed on his shoulder.
Outraged, he pulled back his own fist to strike back. That was when he discovered she was as fast as he was and quite strong. For one moment all his weight was poised on one elbow, and with a neat, whole-body heave, she shoved him over, hard.
As it transpired, they had been tussling close to the edge of the bed. Flipping over, he landed on his back. As the back of his head connected with the hard, frigid floor, full awareness slammed into him.
“Look,” the woman croaked. “I am so, so sorry for this. There’s been—I don’t even know what to call it—a massive misunderstanding. I’m sure you’ll understand everything once I explain everything…”
He barely heard her as memories cascaded through his mind. The attack at the masque. The poisonous spell that he could tell was even now still working through his body. Saying goodbye to his court and casting the stasis spell. The slow, raging collapse into darkness.
He surged upward with an outraged roar that shook the walls, and his anger propelled him into a shapeshift. Changing into a lion, he sprang at the woman. That stasis spell had been the only thing standing between him and certain death. He would disembowel the interloper for daring to disrupt it… for sex?
He got one glimpse of her mortified expression as he leaped, claws out and ready to strike. His front paws closed on thin air as her slender body melted away.
There was a rush of wings. He caught colors out of the corner of his eye—dark brown, black markings, and soft, mottled gray and white, as well as the slender, wicked length of a hooked beak and strong, hooked talons. The interloper was a full Wyr, a falcon.
Cupping his front paws, he twisted his massive body in midair to try to catch her as she flew past him, but she dipped her body so sharply the tips of her wings brushed against his whiskers.
Roaring again, he leaped and rebounded off the nearest wall, cracking plaster as he lunged for her again. He had speed and power in spades, but she was much smaller than he and could move like greased lightning.
She flapped around the room so chaotically it was maddening. Growling, he tried to follow, uncaring for how he knocked items over or how the strong, well-built furniture fractured under his weight. For one fraction of a moment he thought he had cornered her—but then she dodged successfully again.
This time he got the chance to look into the falcon’s eyes as she passed by. She looked as furious as he felt, and as she streaked between his outstretched paws, she reached down to rake the claws of one foot along the tip of his lion’s nose.
Sharp pain flared along the needlelike scratches. Bloody hell.
The cuts on his nose were insult upon injury. He couldn’t be in more of a frenzy. Whirling, he watched as the falcon arrowed through the open doors and angled right to disappear down the corridor.
Silence fell in the aftermath of her departure. Then, with a yawning crack, his large, damaged four-poster bed collapsed in on itself.
Oberon stared at the shambles of what had once been a masculine, elegant room. In the tussle, they had managed to break every single one of the witchlights stationed along the walls.
Taking in a deep breath, he inhaled the woman’s scent. It was everywhere in the ruined room. She had been in here more than once. The puck’s scent also saturated the room. Had Robin allowed this, or had she vanquished him in some kind of battle?
Other details sank in. Various implements lay scattered on the floor. He recognized a scalpel, vials, and other strange items he couldn’t identify, and also a metal box that looked like it would fit into the palm of his hand. There were also broken pencils, and a number of papers littered the broken furniture.
On one of the trampled pages, a sketch of an oddly shaped oval item was clearly visible. It was labeled in English, OBERON’S HEART. An arrow pointed to a spot on the edge of the oval. That part was labeled MORGAN’S MAGIC NEEDLE.
The interloper had studied him. She knew what was going on inside his body, probably better than he did. What had she hoped to gain when she had kissed him? As he’d awakened, he’d had only one thing in mind—sex.
Had she planned on using him to try to get pregnant? The King’s heir would have an unparalleled advantage in Lyonesse. He growled at the thought even as he realized that food had also been strewn everywhere.
Pieces of dried fruit lay sprinkled over the trampled crimson-and-gold bedspread like confetti, and there was the sharp, aromatic scent of cheese. Curious, he pawed at a small, overturned tub. As he flipped it over, one of his claws sank into soft butter.
He licked it off as he took in other details. Amid the rubble was a fur-lined cloak and a strange piece of clothing that looked like a formfitting blue coat, and another odd, lightweight sheet of something that looked like metal but was pliable and made of a foreign substance he had never seen before.
The interloper had planned a ravishment, and she had brought… snacks?
As he stared around in sharp incredulity, his first surge of bestial rage settled into something calmer, colder, and far more deadly.
Soundlessly, the lion padded into the wide, empty corridor, his focus coalescing into a single purpose. He had prey to hunt and many questions to ask before he decided how he was going to kill her.