He heard her long before he walked through the pub doors. The sound of that voice sent a shockwave of awareness down the back of Mac’s neck and all along his spine. He’d known Sloane was on Manx the second her pretty little feet had stepped onto the tarmac of Douglas Airport, but the sound of her voice almost brought him to his knees.

Damn it all to hell.

He eased through the throng, slipping around to the back like a ghost despite his size. Not that there was any need for secrecy. If Manannán mac Lir didn’t intend to be seen, no eye in any realm could find him.

Over at the bar, that golden head came up, and for a moment Sloane’s gaze seemed to rest on his shadow. Mac tensed. Those fucking eyes. Silver-green, bewitching as any siren’s call. They’d haunted him for years.

Five years since he’d seen her last. A drop of time in the ocean of his years, but he’d felt every day, every hour, every heartbeat that she’d been away. He hadn’t been able to breathe properly with her gone, but he had no one to blame but himself . . .

Sloane entered the pub at a near run, shaking that honey-blond hair free of the red baklava and breathing in the scent of peat fire as if it were pure oxygen.

Mac gritted his teeth as she strode across the stone floor, her long, slim legs in those dark jeans scissoring gracefully and catching the eye of most of the men in the room. Sloane didn’t seem to notice. Finding out last night that she was back, and alone, had irritated him beyond reason, but he’d never been entirely reasonable where the woman he considered his charge was concerned.

For over a millennium he’d kept his promise to Aidan O’Neill, watching over the vampire’s daughter in her first life—then waiting patiently for her second when Mac had realized the extent of his sister’s fucked-up plans to entrap the man she thought she loved by reincarnating his daughter.

Mac snorted. Bav was mad. He’d intended to keep her far, far away from Sloane for as long as possible. But then the damn girl had to go and write a bestseller.

About Celtic gods.

He shook his head, still feeling betrayed by that whole mess. And now she was traveling alone. Traveling here. It would almost be amusing if her damn life weren’t at stake. Not that Sloane had a clue about her true lineage.

He frowned at that. Well, bits and pieces, maybe. The kinds of things dreams were made of. Ones she had no idea the real meaning of but that had come out in those cursed books of hers, drawing far too much attention her way, in this realm and others.

Hiding her from Bav was getting harder ever year. Soon it would be damn near impossible. What happened then was anyone’s guess, only that he wouldn’t allow Sloane to be used again, or hurt in any way.

Not even by himself.

He glanced up, his hands tightening into fists as he regarded her easy conversation with Keith, the flash of her smile, the toss of that honey-colored hair.

That hair was his personal Achilles’ heel. The thick, dark gold waves fell to her waist, coming to a stop just above the curve of her ass. He almost wished she’d cut it so he could stop fantasizing about the stuff.

Mac muttered a low curse into his tea. Sloane’s head swung round at the sound, her eyes sparkling when they found him. It did things to him when she lit up like that.

Very bad things.

Sloane grew lovelier every year. It just wasn’t sporting. Why couldn’t Aidan have had a daughter with a hunchback, bad breath and a nasty disposition?

“Morning, Mac,” she called out.

“Sloane.” He lifted his head as she waited long enough for Keith to pour her a coffee before heading his way.

“Just the man I wanted to see.” There was a glint in her eyes that he didn’t like as she took her seat, reaching out to touch his fisted hand, her fingers soft as rose petals as they slid over his knuckles. “Could you take me to Cashtal yn Ard today? Please?”

A stray sunbeam caught her hair, turning the edges into spun gold. He knew exactly how it would feel in his fist, silky and cool. The perfect length to wrap around his knuckles and pull . . .

His hand jerked under hers, making her raise her eyebrows before he pulled away. Ten thousand years of mastering magic, and one innocent caress from a mortal had him reeling.

“Mac?”

He blinked. “Eh?”

The damn chit was looking at him as if he were daft. “The tombs? I need a ride.”

“What do ye want out there?” he hedged. As if he didn’t know.

She fiddled with her cup. “Research.”

He knew exactly why the site drew her so, but he let his frown deepen. “Fer them stories, is it?”

“Yes, for my books.” Her suddenly flat tone, plus that direct stare, has his jaw tightening. They’d had this conversation during her last visit. Okay, argument. He knew he’d been rough on her, but dammit, it was like the lass was trying to make his job harder.

Turning her mug this way and that on the table in the heavy silence, Sloane finally raised her eyes to his. “Why do you hate them so much?”

That vulnerable look hit him square in the gut. “Don’t be daft,” he snapped. “As if I could hate anything tha’ came from ye.” Her eyes widened, then softened in a way that made his breath catch. Mac cleared his throat, irritated at his lapse. “They’re silly, fanciful tales is all. No’ the sort of thing we need bandied about, drawing crowds tha’ expect fairies and leprechauns behind every rock and bush.”

She drew back, folding her arms over her chest, her chin coming up in that stubborn way that reminded him sharply of her da. Her real one.

“What do you care what outsiders think as long as they bring you their money?” Her tone was cool, the warmth of minutes before entirely snuffed out.

He shrugged, unable to share the real reason her tales disturbed him and so saying nothing.

In truth, Mac was impressed by her gift for storytelling. She’d had a silver tongue even as a wee thing, enthralling Jenny and the other children for hours at a time. He knew her parents had been perplexed by their vivacious but dreamy daughter. They were decent enough folks, he supposed, just a bit shallow and vain, with no imagination whatsoever. Sloane was beyond them. Something apart. Not quite of this world, but not meant for his . . .

Or so he kept telling himself.

Mac frowned as her shadow fell over the table. She’d gotten to her feet without him noticing, that sweet tumble of hair hiding her face. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll get Jenny to take me after her shift.”

“The hell you will.” His temper, so quick around her these days, rose again. “It’ll be dark by then.”

“It’s really none of your concern, Mac.” She was already walking away, her spine stiff. He got to his feet and quickly moved around her, cutting off any retreat. She glared up at him, opening her mouth, but he put up a hand.

“It’ll be my concern if one of ye girls ends up falling to yer death in the sea! Nae, I’ll no’ have it.” His sigh was a long-suffering one. “Come along now.”

“What, this minute?”

He took the barely touched coffee from her with one hand and set it on the bar, sweeping his other at the door. “Aye, before I change me mind.”

Five minutes later they were bouncing along in his Rover, Sloane staring at the road ahead. Her expression was unreadable. The scent of wildflowers and rain filled the cab as she braided her hair absently. He watched her slim, quick fingers pluck at the heavy strands, his own hands tightening on the steering wheel. It was going to be the longest half hour of his life.

After another five minutes, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“How’s the university going?” He bit out. “Berkeley, wasn’t it?”

She blinked at him in surprise. She’d be far more surprised if she ever realized how carefully he catalogued every detail of her life. “I’ve dropped out.”

“Dropped out?” His voice rose despite himself. “Yer parents allowed tha’ nonsense?”

She gave him a sidelong look touched with amusement. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am an adult, Mac.” Noticed? If he did any more ‘noticing,’ he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. When he said nothing, Sloane glanced back at the roadway, her lips twisting with some fleeting emotion he couldn’t put his finger on. She wrapped a tie around the end of the thick plait she’d made before tossing it over one shoulder. “And it’s not as if I need them to support me. I’ve already made enough money to last three lifetimes.” There was a hollowness in her tone that made him frown.

“Don’t ye want to finish yer education? To get yer degree?”

“Not right now.” She shrugged, staring out at the flashing scenery. “Writing makes me happy. I’d write even if my books never made a dime, but thankfully they make me a lot of dimes. I don’t need a degree.” She smiled. “Berkeley was fun, but too busy, too . . . frantic.” She lifted her slim shoulders again, her tone turning reflective. “I like simple. I like quiet. I always have. I think that’s why the island means so much to me. One of the reasons anyway.” This last was spoken in a whisper, but Mac barely noticed.

“Manx is too isolated for a young girl, too lonely,” he said shortly. “You must have a lad or two that you miss.” His already aching hands tightened on the wheel again until he heard an ominous crack.

Sloane raised an eyebrow. “For heaven’s sake, I’m almost twenty-two. I’m not a girl anymore, Mac.” Her eyes sparkled in the overcast day as she caught his frown. “And there’s no one. There never has been.”

Mac kept his eyes on the road, ignoring the ignoble twist of relief in his gut. “There should be. Ye should be out in the world, not running off to this bit of it at every chance.” Never mind that each time she left Manx he felt the loss like a missing limb.

“Manx is good enough for you.”

“The island is my life,” he said simply, aware she had no idea how literally he meant that.

“And you don’t get lonely?”

He glanced at her as he pulled into the empty lot. There was something pointed in her tone, something that made his chest tighten, even as he forced a laugh. “I’ve company enough when I need it.”

She scowled, obviously not caring for his answer, though damned if he could see why.

She was out of the cab before he could open the door for her, which made him scowl. Mac caught up to her quickly, which was somewhat of a relief and a disappointment. Those snug, low-rise jeans she favored were a wicked invention, hugging her pert little ass and long legs in a way that made him think things he’d no business thinking.

She didn’t acknowledge his presence, her eyes intent on the hillside falling away before them.

Cashtal yn Ard was one of the loveliest and saddest monuments on Manx. Only a scattering of stone walls were left of what once had been a great cairn, but the ‘Castle of the Heights’ still commanded an impressive view. The sea was spread out like a skein of blue silk to the east while behind them the hills darkened with gathering clouds, the light dramatic in that thrilling juxtaposition Mac thought of as stormshine. He knew Sloane felt at peace in this spot, and he knew why, even if she did not.

He glanced to his left, knowing exactly where her grandmother Eunys was buried, even after all these years. To his surprise, Sloane didn’t slow as she usually did, passing rows of stones without a glance, heading to where the hillside dropped abruptly in its descent to the water far below.

“Hold up, lass!” he snapped, throwing out an arm to halt her reckless pace. They were still a good quarter mile from the water, but he hadn’t been joking earlier about the danger of wandering the heights alone or in the dark. Even now, in the distorting shadows of the approaching storm, it’d be far too easy to have a nasty fall.

“What is that?” Sloane frowned, pushing against his restraining arm, her eyes wide and intent on something behind him. “Mac, look.”

“What?” He followed her gaze and for an instant he didn’t understand. Then he looked again. No. She couldn’t mean . . .

“That rune stone there?” Her voice was dazed, wondering. “Bigger than the others. I’ve never seen it before.” His arm fell to his side as she walked forward to put her hand on the rock—the rock that no mortal should be able to see, let alone touch. It towered above the others on the hill, dark and foreboding. Mac’s jaw clenched as he focused on her hand on the stone. Damme, it wasn’t possible.

Her slender fingers started shaking. “Wait. I have seen this before. In a dream. I . . .” She pulled her hand away, staring up at the monolith with something between fascination and horror. “It was weeping blood,” she whispered.

Mac made a sound, low and deep in his throat, and beneath them the waves growled in response.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice was still unsteady, but she glanced at him while pulling her phone out, lifting it with the obvious intention of snapping a couple of pictures. With deliberate care, he stepped in front of her, blocking her view.

Her pictures would show no stone, nothing but the normal site she’d seen a hundred times before, and that would cause nothing but questions. Questions he was not prepared to answer. Not now.

Not ever.

“A storm is coming, a bad one,” he said. “Can ye no’ feel it? We need to get back.”

“Storm?” She raised an eyebrow. “It can wait, Mac. I just need one sec—” Sloane gasped as a sudden gust of wind knocked her off her feet, slamming her into him. Her phone fell to the grass, forgotten, as he steadied her. One hand at the small of her back, his fingers nearly spanning her slender waist. He gripped her arm with the other, keeping her from smashing face-first into his chest again. The wind whipped around them, but Mac couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

The air had turned electric, like the storm was centered between them. In a way, it was. He was losing control.

She’d seen the stone. His stone, the physical manifestation of the bond between himself and this land. What did it mean?

Sloane raised her head, looking at him from under the tendrils of dark gold that had been pulled from her braid by the wind, her eyes wide at the expression on his face. She pressed closer, soft and warm, her fingers tightening in his shirt. “What’s wrong, Mac? Are you okay?”

He stared silently, completely nonplussed. I doona know and that’s the fucking truth.

“Sloane . . .” he finally managed, his voice rough as her fingers trailed higher, brushing his nape. He shifted his weight. The featherlight touch had his chest tightening, his already half-hard cock thickening. Her lips parted, soft, pink and utterly tempting.

Sloane tilted her chin, the sweet scent of her breath teasing him before the wind snatched it away. “Do you want to kiss me, Mac?”

“Nae,” he said automatically, the knee-jerk reaction of years of denying himself. But he didn’t pull away and his gaze stayed locked on her mouth, which curved in triumph.

“I think you’re lying. I see you, Mac. I see you, seeing me. I thought I was nuts at first, imagining things because I’ve dreamed them so hard for so long, but I don’t think so anymore.” Her words were barely audible as the storm grew around them, but Mac heard every word. She’s dreamed of me.

He’d suspected such things, of course, he wasn’t blind, but hearing it from her own lips tore at the threads of his rapidly eroding control.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, the small pressure constricting his breath. “You feel it, too, Mac. Tell me you do.”

“Aye,” he whispered, but trying to equivocate, to escape this madness. “I’ve always cared for ye, true enough. And I always will. But . . .”

“No buts.” She went to her tiptoes, pulling his head down as she swayed closer. “It’s more than that. You want me, Mac. Just as much as I want you.” He was acutely aware of the brush of her thighs against his. “Don’t you?” Her lips touched his and Mac’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Lightning blazed on the hilltop behind them. The sound was deafening as the impact shook the ground beneath them, but in his arms, Sloane didn’t so much as flinch. In that flash, he understood. This whole ride to Cashtal yn Ard had been nothing but a thin ruse to seduce him. He’d been so busy fighting his own desires he hadn’t noticed the snare she was attempting to lay.

Danu.

It was up to him to end this.

Then her mouth opened under his, a soft sweetness that stole his will and ending it was the farthest thing from his mind. He was a god—commander of all the waters of earth and heaven, one of the most feared creatures that had ever lived—and he was helpless against his need for her.

His fingers plunged into her hair. Mac growled as he freed the heavy silky weight of it from her braid, his mouth never leaving hers. He’d dreamed of this hair, dreamed of fisting his hands in the glossy strands just like this, demanding more. When Sloane pressed up against him in response, he groaned, then he yanked her closer yet, because it wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough. He wanted to devour her, to draw every bit of what she was in and make it his.

Ruthlessly, he explored every hidden secret of her mouth with hot, possessive flicks of his tongue. Her sexy little whimpers only fueled his need.

Mac slid a hand over her ass, cursing at the warm, ripe weight of it as he lifted her up, bracing her back against the stone. She wrapped those long legs around him without being told, drawning him against her inner heat until Mac was half mad. He shoved her jacket aside roughly, tearing at the thin material of her sweater until his fingertips found skin, silken and hot. She was trembling as he reached for the button of those cursed jeans.

He’d take her, here and now. Up against the stone, like a sacrifice of old. Then Sloane would be his, his forever.

He deepened their kiss, swallowing her soft cries. She tasted so sweet and soft, like rain on the sea. Fresh and clean and new . . .

Innocent.

Mac went still, the hard edges of that metal button digging into his fingertips as he considered what he was being offered. Fierce triumph warred with something deeper, something he didn’t want to acknowledge, because acknowledging it meant he’d have to stop. For a long while he teetered on a precipice, jaw tight, cock throbbing, eyes closed.

With a bitter curse, he ripped himself away from the tantalizing promise wrapped around him. This was wrong. Wrong.

“Mac?” she whispered as he set her down abruptly, yanking her away from the stone.

“This canna happen. Ye and me. No’ ever.” He pushed her away with both hands, his touch hard, unyielding. Dismissive.

Sloane stumbled, the look on her face slicing him right down to the bone. Her lips were swollen, her hair whipping over cheeks bright and flushed. It was an effort to form words, but he forced them out over the rising wind.

“We need to go. Now,” he growled. He guided her none too gently toward the parking lot, his head pounding.

“Why did you stop? Mac, don’t worry. I want this. I want you.” Her pleading words slashed at him like little knives. Behind her, the clouds blackened and boiled. She caught his wrist and looked up at him, utterly confused. “I thought you wanted me, too.” Her fingers trembled against his skin.

He flicked them away. “Ye’re wrong. Seeing things that are no’ there.” Mac swallowed the bitterness of the lie, hating the taste of it on his tongue.

“But that kiss . . . you . . .” Her voice broke, along with something inside of him.

“Made a mistake.” He bit the words off, one by one. “I am a man after all—but nae one who will deceive ye so.” He knew the wetness on her cheeks was not rain, the rain was still seconds away from falling, but he pretended it was so he could do what needed to be done. “If it were just about fucking, tha’ would be one thing. But I know it’s no’. Nae for ye.”

She fell back at his callous words, one pale hand fluttering out to reach for him again. He glared at it before stepping back, his jaw set as he forced himself to ignore the devastation in Sloane’s eyes. Her hand fell away. Slowly he watched her force herself to straighten, that silvery-green gaze boring into his.

“You’re right, Mac,” she said clearly. “It is more. I love you.”

Her words slammed into his gut, harder than any blow he’d ever weathered. Danu, she was brave. Her honesty nearly brought him to his knees.

His face, though, could have been carved from bedrock. “Ye’ve no’ idea wha’ ye’re saying. Get back in the fucking truck.” Mac hesitated and then decided if he was doing this thing, he would damn well do it properly. “Go home, Sloane, back to America and fucking stay there. If ye were coming to Manx for me, ’tis best ye never come back at all.”

With one stricken look, she obeyed, running from the ruins without a backward glance, that blond hair flying as the sky unleashed at last. The deluge pelted Mac’s back with icy sleet as he plucked her phone from the ground and followed, welcoming the sting of it against his skin, the real storm raging inside him, threatening to tear him apart . . .

* * *

Mac leaned against the wall of the pub, hiding in the shadows as Sloane took a long pull from her pint. The sight of those sweet lips pressed against the glass made his own tighten. He could’ve taken her that day on the heights, consumed all that she’d so willingly offered. Her virginity, her love and more, binding her soul to him in body, mind and spirit for the rest of her life.

It would have been easy. She was only a mortal, far too young and thinking herself in love with a creature whose true nature she had no inkling of. He could have forced her worship of him for as long as she lived. Part of him had craved exactly that, wanted with every fiber of his being to use his power to ensure she’d never know another man’s touch, never experience anything except what he gave her.

But, unlike his sister, Mac knew what love was. And he knew what it was not.

So he’d pushed her away to prove which his was, and she’d gone.

Sloane had sat next to him in that truck, soaked to the bone on the ride back, shivering uncontrollably even though he’d turned the heat to damn near boiling to ease the chill between them, his hands aching with the need to hold her, to ease those tremors away. But he hadn’t reached out, and she hadn’t spoken. As soon as he’d stopped at Jenny’s, Sloane had opened the door and fled. She had been at the airport less than two hours later. Mac hadn’t needed to be told she was gone; he’d felt the exact minute the plane carrying her had left the runway.

And he’d prayed to the mother of all gods every morning and night since that she’d return.

Now his prayers had been answered.

Mac smiled a hard, satisfied smile as Sloane took another drink. She’d come back to the island . . . and by proxy, to him.

All bets were fucking off.

As the two women got up to leave the bar, he watched them go with the knowledge he’d never push her away again. Quite the opposite.

Sloane was truly a woman now. While they weren’t on level ground, and never would be, she was no longer an untried foal just learning to walk. She had an idea of her own power. She’d gained strength and experience enough to know her own mind. This was as fair as it was going to get, and by Danu, he was going to take it.

Mac had always known Sloane was tangled up in his destiny. He’d felt it in the reverberation of her soul all those years ago, when her name had been Isleen and her laughter and joy had been the only thing to calm his troubled mind.

It had taken him a long time to understand. Eons. Since that day on the heights, he’d had time to ponder why Sloane had seen the rune stone, coming to one conclusion. She was his. She’d always been his.

Proving it to her wasn’t going to be easy, especially after what he’d done, but he’d damn well accepted it now and Sloane would, too.

They wouldn’t, but Mac didn’t give a damn about them. Nothing and no one was going to keep him from taking what was his.

His lips pressed together as Sloane got to her feet, her eyes narrowing as she cast a suspicious glance at his corner again.

Danu help anyone who tried.

Even Sloane herself.