Few things had the capacity to surprise Arawn. One didn’t live as long as he had, seeing everything this world had to offer, from the blunt reality of unnecessary, undeserved cruelty to the depths of grace in the face of darkness, without acquiring a sometimes-tiresome prescience regarding unfolding events, an acute understanding of the ways the minds and hearts of creatures big and small worked.

But he hadn’t seen this coming.

There she was, the witch he’d been watching for the past six months—the duration a mere blip compared to the lifetimes he’d experienced, the coming and going of seasons and eras that honed his appreciation of patience—now standing before him, upending all his plans and carefully laid-out tactics.

And most curious of all? She didn’t quail. Not a whiff of the acidic fear he’d smelled when he first went to claim her months ago, no sign of the terror that had frozen her that day. No, those delicate hands didn’t shake, her posture not quite defiant but far from cowering. And when he locked gazes with her after a slow survey of her soaked appearance—had she indeed come through the bloody lake?—her eyes didn’t shimmer with tears. They burned with an inner fire he hadn’t seen since…

His magic stirred, as if in response to a silent greeting. How very, very interesting.

Maeve’s eyes cut to the male seated on the chaise lounge opposite his, and she winced. A move so minuscule, he might have missed it, but the reaction following it was striking in its clarity. The sharp aroma of fear filled the air. If someone could tremble without actually moving, the witch in front of him managed it. Her already light skin lost even more color, the ginger freckles dotting her face now all the more apparent.

“Maeve MacKenna,” Arawn said.

Her attention flicked back to him.

He rose from his seat, and she watched him with the alertness of a doe facing a noise in the woods, but her scent…calmed.

A movement on the chaise lounge next to him, and Maeve flinched as if ready to take a step back.

Deimos, he said mentally, without looking at his second in command.

I’m not even doing anything, the male replied along the pathway Arawn had opened for their telepathic conversation. Deimos shifted again on the seat, leaning back into a more relaxed position.

Maeve inhaled sharply, her hands curling to fists.

I never thought I would be less intimidating than you, Arawn said mentally. Yet here we are.

Deimos’ chuckle echoed in his mind. I’ll…leave you to it, then.

Check on Anselm’s family and find out if there’s anything else they need. Putting his hands in his pants pockets, he strolled down the dais, glancing from the youngest MacKenna witch to Warrick, who rose from where he’d bent the knee in deference to his lord.

Yes, sir, Deimos said.

His second made his way down the steps as well, trailing shadows in his wake, and when he passed Maeve going to the door, she scooted to the side, glancing furtively at the impeccably dressed male who moved with silken grace, his human shape betraying nothing of the nightmare of his true form. Yet those with finer senses—and a healthy instinct of self-preservation—always seemed to catch on to the lethal threat underneath the semblance of a charming appearance. Did Maeve belong to that group, or was her caution courtesy of a general fear of males?

“To what,” he addressed the witch as the doors closed behind Deimos again, “do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

He knew, of course. Lucía told him as much when she bounced in here a few minutes ago. She’d barely toned down her excitement, and was now leaning against one the wooden pillars holding up the vaulted roof of the Grove, arms crossed and eyes sparkling.

Maeve cleared her throat and swallowed, and the ripple of her throat muscles drew his focus to the elegant slope of her neck, to the water droplets clinging to her creamy skin. One of them ran down to the high neckline of her thick navy sweater. “I’m surrendering myself.”

So hoarse. A result of her torture, obviously, and yet…the smoky quality of her voice seemed to echo the same aspect lighting her eyes just moments ago.

He sauntered toward her. “Did your sister send you here?”

Her answer didn’t surprise him. “No. She doesn’t know.”

Given that he’d just returned from Merle MacKenna’s home a little while ago, where he paused the deal with her after he found out the Elder witch was with child, it would have been highly unlikely that Merle would order her sister to fulfill the original bargain he made with her. And if Merle didn’t know, if she hadn’t sent Maeve to him…

“Why, then, are you here?” He prowled around her, still several feet away, though close enough that she tensed. He waited for the scent of her panic to drench the air.

It didn’t.

He smiled.

She followed his trek by half-pivoting with him, not giving him her back. “I’m…turning myself in so you’ll stop using Merle’s magic.”

“And why,” he purred, “now?”

She didn’t respond.

Again, he knew exactly why. But that was not the point, was it?

“Why now,” he continued, “after I have been using your sister’s powers for half a year?”

Those eyes the color of fire and smoke narrowed. “Does it matter? I’m here. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“I want,” he murmured, the mossy ground soft beneath his shoes, “many a thing. And knowing what others want is part of it.” Another round circling the witch. “What happened to make you walk into the lion’s den of your own accord?”

Her nostrils flared, and a muscle feathered along her jaw. That scar across her face stood out starkly when she ground her teeth. “It’s time. I should never have let Merle make that bargain with you in the first place. You’ve harassed her long enough. You’ll leave her alone now.”

A movement in the corner of his eye made him glance at Warrick, who lingered a few feet away and looked decidedly uncomfortable, face pale as he gaped at Maeve. He’d get to the sentinel in a minute.

Focusing on the tiny witch again, he said silkily, “Perhaps you feel your sister is somehow more…vulnerable than before?”

Maeve stilled. Like Merle, she telegraphed her emotions clearly in her body language. Her breath flattened out. Her eyes widened just a bit. At this point, given his questions, she had to suspect he knew. And yet, she refused to reveal what she thought was her sister’s secret, on the off-chance, maybe, that she suspected wrong and he wasn’t privy to Merle’s pregnancy. She refused, even in the face of a force like his, even knowing she’d have to bow to his demands.

Not that he would demand she betray her conscience.

“Your sacrifice is admirable.” He stopped right in front of her. “And I accept.”

Her lashes lowered over her amber-lit eyes, and for a second he stilled. Copper. Her eyelashes were copper-colored. He surveyed her from head to toe again, from her red hair dripping water on the ground to the soaked sweater that, though oversized, now clung to her body, revealing slender curves, to the loose jeans and the hopelessly wet sneakers that made annoying squeaky noises when she moved.

She angled her head, and when one of the strands of her hair slipped to the side, it revealed a tiny, fresh bruise on her temple. Something dark and furious shot through his veins, and he raised his hand to her face, wanting to brush away the rest of her hair to get a better look at the injury.

Maeve jerked back as if he’d slapped her. There it was, the acidic smell of her fear as it streamed from her pores. Her chest heaved with her quick breaths, and her right hand twitched as if to draw a weapon.

“Lucía,” he said without taking his eyes off Maeve. “Please get our guest some ice for the bruise on her face.” At the last part of the sentence he leveled his focus on Warrick.

The sentinel became impossibly paler.

While Lucía left the Grove, Arawn sauntered past Maeve toward the shifter, cold anger biting at his nerves. “And you…brought her here without notifying me first. You took her through the lake, when I would have come to pick her up myself, had you possessed the presence of mind to contact me first. And now she has an injury that looks like it is fresh from this morning, and I have to wonder just what exactly you did to her on the way here.”

Warrick choked as Arawn grabbed the sentinel with invisible claws around his throat, lifted him three feet in the air. The shifter struggled, coughing and pawing at his lord’s magical hold.

“My orders for you,” Arawn continued, his tone all the more gentle for the rage inside him, “were to keep her safe. And yet—”

“Stop it!”

The hoarse voice made him turn, and he blinked at the trembling witch next to him. Only Maeve didn’t seem to be shaking with fear this time. Her amber-gray eyes glinted again with an inner fire, her hands were clenched to fists, her ginger brows drawn together.

“Let him go,” she said, her voice almost steady. Almost. “He didn’t do anything. He was nice to me. I…didn’t buckle my seat belt, and when he had to brake, I hit the dashboard. That was my fault, not his.” Her eyes flicked to the still-struggling sentinel. “Let him go.”

Well, now. That was the second time today that she managed to surprise him. Not many creatures dared to interrupt him, let alone order him to do anything. Especially not if they found themselves in the position Maeve was in. But as scared as she undoubtedly had to be, faced with uncertainty about her future, she stepped up to defend someone she barely knew—against a powerful being who held her fate in his hands.

Reckless. That’s what it was. Imprudent. Brash.

And yet the corners of his mouth felt the foolish urge to twitch upward, and the magic keeping Warrick in an airborne chokehold lessened, receded. The sentinel slumped to the ground and coughed, clutching his throat.

“The next time,” Arawn said to him, “when a situation changes from the baseline of your original mission, you get in touch with me to receive new orders before you act on your own. If you fail to do so, I will not be as lenient as today.”

“Yes, my lord,” Warrick croaked.

Arawn nodded toward the exit. “You are dismissed. Take the day off. I will assign you a new task tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sire.” And with a last anxious look at Maeve, the shifter hurried out of the Grove.

Leaving Arawn alone with Maeve in the green-filtered light streaming in through the foliage above.

Maeve, too, must have realized there were only the two of them left, because her spine locked and her breath became shallow as she did her best to study him without actually looking at him directly.

“I am not,” he said quietly, “going to kill you, torture you, or touch you without your consent.”

Her throat muscles worked as she swallowed hard, still not facing him.

“Look at me.”

Copper lashes fluttering, she turned her eyes on him.

“While you are here,” he continued, “no one else will harm you either. Is that clear?”

She gave a shaky nod, still holding his gaze.

“I do, however, have a vested interest in your powers, and based on the bargain your sister made, I lay claim to your magic and intend to use it.” He inclined his head. “With your cooperation.”

She lowered her eyes. “My powers are locked inside me. There’s nothing I can do to access them. I can’t…cooperate.”

He allowed himself a small smile. It was the kind of smile that usually drained all color out of her sister’s face, but contrary to Merle, Maeve didn’t blanch at the sight. She blushed.

Interesting.

“We will work on unlocking your powers,” he said. “Together. Your cooperation will consist of allowing me to look into the spell that binds your magic. Every spell can be broken. I simply need to study the spellwork in order to unravel it.”

The door to the Grove opened again, and Lucía strode in, carrying an ice pack. She handed it to Maeve.

“Here. Press this on your temple.”

“Thank you.” Maeve applied the ice pack to her bruise.

“Maeve,” Arawn said, “meet Lucía. She will…keep you company.”

Maeve narrowed her eyes. “Like a prison guard?”

“Like a bodyguard,” Lucía corrected, crossing her arms and giving her a half smile.

Maeve glanced at him. “I thought you said your lands are safe for me.”

“I like to prepare for every contingency,” he replied, his voice silken.

She raised her brows.

“Now,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets again, “before we show you your new lodging, there is one more issue we need to deal with.”

Maeve, he found, was incredibly skilled at moving without moving. This time, she gave every impression of taking a wary step back without actually retreating. Fascinating.

“The original bargain I made with your sister was a carte blanche favor, and when I came to collect it, my demand was for her to transfer magical custody of you to me.”

“I remember,” Maeve murmured.

“Even though you have come to me voluntarily now, Merle still retains magical custody over you. That is a problem.”

She pressed her lips together.

“I would rather not,” Arawn continued, “ask your sister to transfer custody to me now. She is sure to refuse and has displayed an irritating irrationality when it comes to you. And it is not enough for you to simply stay here of your own free will.” He made a pause and added quietly, “To fulfill the bargain Merle made, you will have to sever the familial link to her and bind yourself to me.”

Maeve made a small sound, her eyes rounding. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“Funny,” he murmured. “Your sister said almost the exact same thing when I came to claim you.”

“But,” Maeve sputtered, “severing that link…it will mean I’m not…”

“…part of the MacKenna family anymore. Correct.”

“We’re sisters. I can’t give that up.”

“You will still be related to her genetically. Just not magically.”

She jerkily shook her head. “No. I can’t do that.”

“If you do not sever the link, Merle can exercise the privilege and power she has over you as head of your family and compel you back by magic. Think of the lengths Merle has gone to in the past to keep me from claiming you, and then tell me she would not resort to forcing you back, if that is what it takes.”

He wouldn’t put it past Merle to be so desperate and irrational as to go for the nuclear option of exerting this kind of power over her sister, even though she had to be aware that it would very well feel like a violation to Maeve.

“I can’t give up my sister.” Her voice was but a whimper.

He was quiet for a moment, studying the quivering witch before him. Shrugging, he clucked his tongue. “Then go home.” Signaling Lucía, he turned away. “Escort her back to the lake.”

“What?” Maeve croaked.

He spared a glance at her over his shoulder. “We do not have a deal unless you sever the link.”

“But—”

“That is the condition to fulfill the bargain. I will not accept the risk of your sister whisking you away at any given moment. As long as she retains magical custody of you, that scenario is a viable threat. And if you are not willing to sever the link, I will send you back and continue using Merle’s magic.”

He would do no such thing, of course. As long as Merle was pregnant, he’d leave her alone so as not to risk the unborn babe. But Maeve didn’t know that.

And he’d be damned if he’d enlighten her.

A beat of silence.

“Don’t,” Maeve whispered.

He turned back to her, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t use her magic anymore.” Her voice wavered. “I’ll…do it. I’ll sever the link.”

“Good.” He inclined his head, gathering his powers. “I will show you how. Your mental shields are practically nonexistent, so I will project the instructions for how to cut the connection right into your mind. Ready?”

A shaky nod, her chin quivering.

He sent the images and impressions, directing her how to reach deep inside her where that strong bond originated, its roots linked to her own magic. How to sharpen a mental talon, even without access to the simmering powers bound in her core, how to slice it across the thread linking her to all MacKennas, living and dead.

It was vital for her to do this herself. No one else could break that link. No one but her sister, as head of the family.

With his mind still reaching out to hers, he felt the exact moment she cut the bond. Like an earthquake in the microcosm that was Maeve, the severance rocked through her, shaking her down to her foundations. Crying out, she fell to her knees, her features twisted.

“Lucía,” he murmured.

But his ward was already at Maeve’s side, grabbing her shoulders and steadying her. Maeve didn’t wince at the female touch—as he’d expected. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen Lucía as her companion. The other being that Lucía might look unassuming, but was a force to be reckoned with, able to handle some of his most deadly assignments.

A shame neither of her parents had accepted her into their folds. Or rather, lucky for him, for if they hadn’t thrown her away back then, he’d have missed out on one of his best enforcers, not to mention some unexpected joy over the years, brought on by her shenanigans.

Maeve’s breathing was calmer now, and she let Lucía help her stand up.

“Are you okay?” Lucía asked softly.

Maeve shook her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It hurt.”

She looked up at him then, and the reproach on her face, echoed by her thoughts—still visible to him—settled with heaviness in his gut. He retreated from her mind and slammed his own shields up once more.

It was necessary, he told himself. Repeated it a couple of times, until the tightness in his chest eased.

“What now?” Maeve rasped.

“Now,” he said, “you need to bind yourself to me.”

Her swallow was loud enough for him to hear. “How?”

“You need my blood.”

“To drink?” Anxiety threaded through her voice.

With barely a thought, he formed a claw at his right index finger and slashed over his left wrist. Blood welled at the cut. “No. It needs to mix with yours.”

A small, nervous sound broke from her throat as she apparently put together what that meant. He studied the scar across her face. According to his intel, that wasn’t the only place she’d had a close encounter with a blade during her captivity. The sadistic demon who held her shackled for days enjoyed using a knife on her, and word was she still bore the proof of it on the rest of her body. Not to mention her mind.

To be faced with another situation in which she would have to endure a blade cutting into her skin…

Her eyes became glazed, her gaze turning inward, her breath too fast.

“Maeve,” he said, and laid every ounce of his power into that one syllable, until the word rang in the vaulted space of the Grove like the sound of a gong.

Even Lucía shrank away from the sheer dominance in his voice. He rarely used it on her.

Maeve jerked, blinked, her instincts yielding to the compulsion of the magic underscoring his tone. She hauled in air and glanced around as if reorienting herself.

“Use the knife strapped to your right leg to make the cut.” He cocked his head. “You choose where and how. But you better do it quickly, or else this here”—he raised his bleeding wrist—“will close, and I will have to cut myself again. You do not want to force me to do that.”

Maeve bent down to retrieve the dagger from its hidden sheath on her shin, straightening again with a rosy blush on her cheeks. She peered at the blade, hesitating.

“This is different,” he said gently. “It is you. Your hand wielding it.”

Those reddish lashes fluttered again as she parted her lips. Lips he found himself far more interested in than the situation demanded. His focus slipped for a moment, and he realized with a start he’d missed the instant she slashed at her own wrist.

Her arm shook slightly as she held it out. “Here.”

He raised his left arm, brought it close to hers as he called upon his powers. They rose, writhing and tangling, ever hungry and eager. Holding her gaze, he touched his wrist to hers, wound to wound, blood to blood. She jolted, and then a second time when he used his other hand to apply pressure on her wrist from the opposite side, pushing her arm against his. He breathed past the prickling of magic flowing through him at the touch, reined in his powers as they lunged for her.

“Do you bind yourself to me, Maeve Lonewitch?”

She gasped, and something broke in those eyes of smoke and flames at his mention of the new name that described her identity of a witch without family ties. “Yes,” she whispered.

“In magic and blood?”

“Yes.”

“Then I claim you as mine.”

His magic struck, still only a fraction of the real power churning in his core, but enough to make Maeve stagger back. He kept his hold on her hand so the connection of their wounds wouldn’t break yet, and wove his magic into hers. Roots to roots, vines along her branches, darkness to her fire. Mine, his powers whispered into every cell of her. Mine.

The bond snapped taut between them, a link that went beyond the fealty sworn to him by the creatures in his service, beyond the favors that bound people to his will. He felt her now. Sensed her like an extension of himself, sensed that simmering magic shackled inside her so much more clearly than before. So close, and yet so far from his grasp. For if he were to shatter those bonds and free what slumbered in her core…

He wouldn’t go there. Yet.

Letting go of Maeve’s hand, he signaled for Lucía to bandage her wrist.

Maeve’s eyes met his for a searing moment, and he gave her a smile that colored her cheeks a lovely rose.

“Welcome to the family, Maeve of Arawn.”