Page 3 of Shadow Spirit

Decker groaned in pain. She’d maimed him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever sire children. Whoever had taught her to kick a man’s nuts up around his teeth had done a good—no, a great—job. As his cock rose painfully up, defying not only gravity but comprehension, Decker rocked back onto his ass, sitting on the cold stone with his back against the parapet. The moon had fallen beyond the horizon and the gloaming was in full effect as the sun began to rise over the eastern horizon.

But it was more than pain that kept Decker in place; it was a kind of shocked realization. Surely that couldn’t be right. There was no way that after all the years he’d waited for his fated mate, destiny had decreed that it was a witch/wolf-shifter hybrid. And certainly not some descendant of the banshees and one who had become a member of the Shadow Sisters.

He tried to rise, but the ache in his groin advised against it. He looked down at his cock, throbbing behind his fly. Had it been throbbing because of the pain, he would have understood, but no, the damn thing was hard as a rock and agonizing to get inside her where it could do both of them a world of good. He might have thought putting a bit of sting in her tail could correct her viper’s tongue, but he thought a long, hard fuck ending with an alpha’s knot would be far more satisfying—for both of them.

The sudden vision of Adriana lying beneath him naked and tied to him in the way only an alpha could make her flashed before his eyes. She may have moved swiftly to end their kiss, but not so swiftly that he hadn’t been able to glimpse the soft, round globes of her breasts or feel the way her nipples had stiffened and rubbed against his chest. And he’d been pretty sure he had smelled the faintest hint of arousal amongst the scents carried on the morning’s blustery wind.

Decker managed to get to his feet, turn toward the horizon, and brace himself on the top of the parapet. He wanted to be angry, wanted to curse fate and deny what he knew with ever increasing certainty. He shook his head. It couldn’t be, shouldn’t be; and yet, it was. He searched his emotions; the typical signs were there—muted, but there.

Buzzing in his head like an angry swarm of bees were dizziness, as well as a sense of nausea and a kind of tether to the angry witch. Decker believed she had every right to be angry at those who had turned her against her will and tried to sell her to Abraham Strode, but her anger was misdirected to those who had risked their lives to take her in and rescue her from Strode when she’d been abducted.

Decker had wondered why the alpha’s mark on her throat had enraged him. Now he understood.

The existing bond to the mongrel who’d turned her must have buried his own connection to Adriana. He’d been able to ignore it, tell himself that it was just wishful thinking. After all, he wasn’t the only unattached male who found the fetching witch to his liking. She’d removed the contact lenses and dyed her hair back to its natural state. The raven black hair and startling blue eyes identified her as Irish to the core. Her coloring only enhanced her beauty: an hourglass figure, long legs, and sexy ass. More than once his palm had itched to apply it to her backside when she wasn’t following the rules and placed herself in what he considered to be a dangerous position.

Adriana might not know it yet or like it, but his thoughts on how she behaved were about to become a lot more important to her well-being. He’d never actually harm her, but the thought of seeing those perfectly round globes stained with the evidence of his hand being applied to them almost made up for the residual ache in his balls. God, the girl had an almost bionic knee.

He grinned. There was no denying that he’d felt the tether snap into place when his lips had met hers. It might only be a shadow of what it should have been without Eoghan O’Shea having claimed her first, but that could be dealt with. Decker could challenge his claim to the witch and when the little prick denied him, Decker could kill him. He rather imagined Adriana might like having O’Shea’s head on a spike outside the abbey.

Although he was sure of his feelings and what they meant, Decker needed to make sure he was on solid ground in terms of claiming the witch. He knew he could challenge O’Shea, but what if he couldn’t find the little bastard? Could he just claim her anyway? Did he need to register something with Colby? The Resistance? The Ruling Council? The Shadow Sisters? He snorted and shook his head. It must have been a whole lot easier to be an alpha wolf before the whole world—including that of the shifters—had gone politically correct.

With both the pain in his balls and his hard on dissipating, Decker checked his watch; he needed to complete his rounds and then turn over his duty responsibility to the next guard. Colby had left the scheduling of patrols to Decker, and only those within the guard knew the schedule. He’d made sure to schedule four-hour shifts to guard against fatigue and boredom. He’d also staggered the starts and patterns of the shifts so that anyone watching would find it difficult to predict when and where guards would be patrolling or to stage a successful assault on the abbey.

“Captain?” said his relief as he rounded the corner.

“Lionel. As usual, it’s been quiet. Nothing to report.”

“Good. I was a little concerned. That witch…”

“Adriana. Her name is Adriana, and she will be accorded the same respect as any other member of this clan or those who are under the protection of our alpha. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“What was Adriana doing that caused you concern?”

“She was running, sir. She came careening around the corner and slammed into me. She kind of bounced off and then ran past without saying a word. She seemed a little off-kilter. Should I have followed her?”

Decker repressed the smile that threatened to split his face. “No, I’m sure she’s fine. We had a bit of a dust up, and she was vexed with me.”

“She has no right to do anything but follow your orders. None of us do. Don’t think those of us who serve under you don’t recognize all that you do for us. Some of us think that Colby should have named you beta instead of naming you captain and giving the honor of beta to his mate.”

Decker shrugged. “Brie is an exceptional choice as beta. They work well together. Colby and I might have clashed as we are both alphas and my way of leadership is better geared to leading warriors and his is in leading a clan. I have my hands full, keeping this place safe and heading up any special ops Colby needs done. Being chosen to guard the abbey, our clan, the Shadow Sisters, and those they save is an honor. Most of the women they save have been put through hell, and it is up to us to help see them restored—given a life that others thought to deny them. Understood?”

Lionel all but snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”

“Keep your eyes open. Pay attention. Stay safe,” Decker said as he headed back inside.

So, Adriana had seemed off kilter? That sounded as if he’d had the same effect on her as she’d had on him. He smiled and felt his groin tighten. Down boy. He needed to do some investigating. Colby had been painstakingly building a library come archives, stocking it with well-researched documents, files and lore—both cutting edge and ancient. He had people assigned to comb through anything they could find that the Resistance could use in their fight against the Shadow League. That was where he needed to go.

“Wordsworth?” he called quietly entering the archive.

It wasn’t technically a library, but Wordsworth was a renowned librarian within the shifter world. He had fled Abraham Strode’s island with most of the books and ancient documents when the dragon-shifter had gathered a massive amount of information, only to deem it dangerous to his cause and decided to destroy it. It wasn’t that Wordsworth was pro-Resistance so much as he was anti-destruction of information, especially that which could never be replaced.

“Captain? Is there trouble? Should I begin packing our most valuable books and scrolls?”

“No, Wordsworth. There’s no sign of trouble. Should we ever have to abandon the abbey, you’ll have no shortage of help to move the archive.”

The look of relief on Wordsworth’s face would have been comical had it not been so poignant.

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