Page 20 of The Wild Hunt

The pulse of power between us grows heavier. The connection between us thrums beneath the surface. The muscles in my jaw twitch as I grind my teeth together, the hunger in me roiling, but I keep my expression composed.

I press my body against his, the proximity charged with a dark intensity as I feel my power rise. My lips brush against his, just a whisper away from a kiss, and electricity crackles between us. “If this distraction persists past The Hunt,” I murmur, lightning arcing between us and making his breath catch, “I will drag herto Faerie myself. I’ll see exactly how sweet her blood tastes and how pretty it makes my throne room floor.”

With a final, lingering look, I turn and make my way toward the door. My guards, stationed outside, fall in step behind me as I move through the hallway back toward the throne room. I hope that sniveling fae is still there, he is about to pay the price for Cianán’sdistraction.

Chapter 12

Mac

Groaning, I roll over in bed, my body still humming with a strange, lingering sensitivity. For the second day in a row, I wake with that same overwhelming feeling—as though I’ve just had the most intense orgasm of my life while fast asleep. At least yesterday, I had vivid memories of the dream that had left me breathless. This morning, though, I can’t recall a single thing, yet I’m even more sensitive.

I shift to sit up, twisting my body to throw my legs over the side of the bed, when a sharp sting in my thigh makes me freeze. I wince, my hand instinctively moving to where the pain is. Throwing back the covers, I glance down at my inner thigh and frown.

“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath, leaning closer for a better look. There’s a small cut on my skin, thin and slightly crescent shaped but noticeable, with a faint smear of blood near it. Near the wound, a scattering of bruises marks my skin, the faint purplish shapes resembling the impression of fingertips. Istare at them, confusion bubbling up in my chest. How did this happen?

I gingerly press my fingers over the bruises, my mind racing. Did I scratch myself in my sleep? Run into something? I try to recall any moment from last night that could explain it, but my memory is blank.

A sinking feeling settles in my gut. This entire trip has been filled with strange sensations, weird dreams, and now this? I groan in frustration, running a hand through my hair as I sit on the edge of the bed. “Am I losing my mind?” I murmur aloud in frustration.

I’d come to this quiet corner of Ireland for peace, to reset after everything that happened with Nathan. But instead, I feel like I’m spiraling, unraveling slowly with each passing day. A flicker of anxiety passes through me. It’s only my fourth day here, and I’m scheduled to leave in just a few more. Part of me wonders if this trip is doing more harm than good. If it keeps up like this, I might need a vacationfrommy vacation.

Shaking my head, I push to my feet, determined to snap out of it. “It’s just a cut. Just a bruise,” I tell myself, forcing logic to take over. “Probably tossed and turned in my sleep or hit it on something.” But even as I think it, doubt lingers in the back of my mind.

Padding toward the bathroom, I grab a towel and let the water run, filling the room with the soothing sound of the shower. I step under the stream of warm water, hoping it will wash away some of the confusion and discomfort clinging to me.

As the water cascades over my body, I reach down, my fingers brushing over the sensitive skin between my legs. Another groan escapes me, this one half pleasure, half frustration. My thighs are still slick, the telltale sign of whatever dream I had that left me feeling this way. But the dream is gone now, a complete mystery, leaving behind nothing but an empty ache.

Closing my eyes, I let the warm water soothe the tension in my muscles, trying to push the strangeness of it all out of my mind. As I soap up my skin, my thoughts drift back to Cianán and the vivid dream I had of him. No other man I have met since coming here has lingered in my thoughts like he has. I can still feel his presence, the way his touch had seared into me as though it were real. His intensity, the way he seemed to command every part of me, even in sleep. I shiver, but not from the cold.

My heart races slightly as I remember the vines wrapping around my wrists in the dream. How vivid it had all been, and now... real bruises. I shake my head, frustrated with myself. It’s just a coincidence. I’m overthinking everything.

Finishing my shower, I step out, drying myself off and catching a glimpse of my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My skin is flushed from the heat of the water, but my eyes linger on my bruise-marked thigh.

I trace the bruises with my fingertips, and a strange thought bubbles up from the depths of my mind—one I’m not proud of, but I can’t deny it either.Is it wrong that some part of me... craves this?That some buried, twisted part of me dreams about a man wanting me so passionately that hecan't helpbut leave marks behind? Not marks of pain, like Nathan used to leave. No, these would be different. These would be marks of possession. A kind of physical reminder that I belonged to someone, that someonewantedme enough to leave proof of it on my skin.

Another shiver courses through me, and I feel the conflicting emotions rise—the shame and the thrill, both at war inside me.Bruises of passion instead of control... obsession instead of abuse.I imagine it, just for a moment—someone so utterly consumed by me, by our shared desire, that they want to leave their imprint on me. Not to hurt me. Not to control me. But because they couldn't hold back.

A sign that I amwanted, intensely and without hesitation, by someone who sees me and claims me in a way that ignites every nerve in my body. For once, it would be a mark I’d wear proudly, a reminder of something consensual and deeply mutual, not forced or manipulated. Not like the scars Nathan left behind, the emotional and physical remnants of his abuse.

The thought unsettles me, stirring something deep and unacknowledged. I’ve spent so much time trying to rebuild myself after Nathan. He left bruises too, but those were the kind that made me feel small, powerless. Bruises that took something away from me. And yet here I am, imagining something similar, but twisted into a fantasy of desire and passion. Is this some twisted step in my healing process?

I shake my head and groan, frustrated with myself. This is just a reaction to the dreams, to the strange intensity of everything lately. It has to be. It doesn’t make sense to feel this way, to long for something so close to what I’ve been running from for years. But I can’t stop the heat that blooms low in my belly at the thought.

I wrap the towel around myself and step out of the bathroom, determined to push through this strange fog of emotions. I need to focus on enjoying my remaining days here and stop letting my imagination run wild. Whatever is happening, I’ll figure it out later.

The sun is bright today, and the air carries a warmth that seems to chase away the remnants of my restless thoughts. I can already feel the tension from the morning beginning to ease as I pull on a pair of jeans and a loose, long-sleeve blouse, eager to get started on my painting. This is what I came here for—to reconnect with something simple and creative, to ground myself in the peacefulness of nature and the soothing act of painting.

After a quick breakfast, I gather my supplies, setting up my easel just at the edge of the forest path. The light filteringthrough the trees is perfect—the way it dances over the leaves and dapples the ground with patches of gold makes the entire scene feel almost dreamlike. As I prepare my brushes and mix the colors on my palette, I can already see the picture forming in my mind.

As I begin to sketch, I find myself not just drawing the scene as it is but as I remember it from the other day. The memory of walking through the woods with my camera, the way the trees seemed to bend toward me as I passed, the earthy scent of moss and damp soil filling the air, the soft glow of fireflies flickering in the shadows.

My pencil moves almost on its own, adding details that don’t exist before me but live clearly in my mind. The forest here has a certain magic to it. There’s a stillness, a quiet that hums with life beneath the surface, and I’m determined to capture it on the paper.

I dip my brush into a shade of green, laying the first stroke on the paper and already feeling the familiar calm settle over me. The rhythm of the painting process—mixing the colors, brushing them across the blank space, watching the scene take shape—is soothing.

As I continue working, I start singing again as I get lost in the piece, letting the forest come alive on the paper. The brushstrokes flow effortlessly, capturing the play of light and shadow through the trees. Every shade of green and orange, every stroke of brown feels like it carries some deeper meaning, like I’m not just painting what I see, but something I canfeel—something I can’t quite name. It’s as though the forest itself is guiding my hand, whispering secrets through the sway of the leaves and the quiet murmur of the breeze.

At some point, I’m so engrossed in the painting that I don’t even notice I’m no longer alone. It isn’t until I hear the soft crunch of footsteps approaching that my heart skips a beat.Startled, I glance up, and for a moment, it’s as though I’ve conjured him from my thoughts. Cianán is walking slowly toward me from the path, his movements fluid and graceful, almost unreal. His presence feels both familiar and disorienting, like a dream bleeding into reality.

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