Page 3 of Craved By a Wolf

Hella grunted as two more nymphs grabbed her from behind, slamming her forwards into the larger male. She elbowed one in his stomach, hard enough that he loosed a very satisfying grunt and stumbled back a step. She was quick to seize the small amount of space she had gained, leaning away from the one who was trying to shackle her and cocking her fist. Another of the nymph’s stopped her before she could punch him, tightly gripping her arm and holding her back.

The male with the shackles pulled her arm free of his grip and yanked it towards him, hard enough that pain shot through her shoulder as she fell against him. He shoved her back a few inches and she could only glare at him as he fastened the other cuff around her free wrist, his satisfied smirk growing wider, and teleported with her.

But in the breath between the fae town and an unfamiliar room, a sound rang in her ears, one that sent a chill skittering down her spine and spread strange warmth through her veins.

A beast howled in rage.

Chapter 2

If Grant MacKinnon had been one to wax lyrical, he might have written a poem or two dedicated to the comely redheaded lass who towered over him, but her small, booted foot pressing hard against his throat to keep him pinned to the cobbles didn’t sit well with him so he growled at her instead, flashing his emerging fangs.

The witch merely smiled in response, her purple-painted lips curling in a way that was mocking.

Because it wasn’t only her boot keeping him down, making him look like a weak pup in front of half the subterranean fae town near Fort William in Scotland as they gathered to see what the commotion was. He slid a glare at several of the males and females, wanting to growl again as he saw the amusement in their eyes.

He wasn’t their entertainment.

Entertainment.

Shadows crowded the corners of his mind as it latched onto that word and echoes of faded feelings rose from the dead like wraiths to torment him as he battled both the witch and his past. The memories he had shoved into a deep, dark box within him threatened to break it open and he fought for air as panic swelled.

He pulled down a ragged breath and held it, focusing on it as he centred his mind, calming it enough that he could keep the lid on his past closed. Some days it was easier than others. Some days he couldn’t even leave his damned cottage, wound up a wreck in the corner, jumping at shadows, snarling and snapping at ghosts, an embarrassment to his pack.

Thankfully, today he had a nice distraction to help him through the attack.

The female sighed at his apparent lack of focus, or maybe the fact he wasn’t paying her as much attention as she desired, and pressed harder, reinforcing the weight of her foot with magic that swirled around him, lacing air that was already thick with the scent of herbs and spices, and other things, with a coppery tang.

MacKinnon struggled to suck down a vital breath as she crushed his throat, cutting off the growl he had intended to aim at her.

Fire surged through his veins, had him restless with a need to shift even when the pain kept his wolf form in check, holding it back. Probably a good thing. He wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve being trampled on by this witch, but shifting into a wolf and ripping out her trachea with his fangs wouldn’t go down well with the locals. One angry witch was dangerous enough—a whole horde of them would be a guaranteed death sentence.

But as air became an issue, and those shadows grew darker—stronger—he couldn’t stop himself from reacting. He seized her ankle, closing his fingers tightly around it just above the leather of her boot, and shoved upwards.

The little witch refused to budge.

MacKinnon strained, every muscle in his body tensing as adrenaline surged, as he began to feel caged and panic broke to the surface, lacing the rage burning up his blood. His fingers pressed into her flesh, digging deep as his claws emerged, adding the metallic scent of her blood to the air, and he shoved upwards again as he called upon all his strength, sure it would be enough to remove her.

He was an alpha after all.

A position he had attained through a series of battles to the death, as was the way with his clan.

He had cut down no fewer than four contenders, laying even the biggest of them low, so a delicate slip of a female shouldn’t be a match for him.

And yet he couldn’t move her.

Didn’t even make her sway as he exerted all his strength, gripping her ankle so fiercely that he had to be hurting her. Her eyes didn’t even water. Her lips didn’t even twitch. Not even when he dug his claws deeper and shredded the leather of her boots to slice through the flesh beneath. Her blood spilled over his fingers and their audience tensed.

MacKinnon tensed too, waiting to see how she would react.

She cast a black look at her leg and the blood that glistened on his fingers, huffed and pressed harder, shoving the heel of her boot into his throat with enough force that dark spots winked across his vision.

The redhead leaned over him, her hair swaying away from her ankle-length black dress, and planted her hands on her shapely hips.

She sneered.

“Hear me and hear me well, Grant MacKinnon of clan MacKinnon.”

And then she spewed something that might have been Latin, or Ancient Greek for all he knew, and the hairs on his nape rose to stand on end and his wolf cowered as a current ran down his spine and the air around him charged with electricity.

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