Page 4 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

His shadow thickened and darkened.Mate, Solis whispered.

“Can’t be,” Malcolm said under his breath, too shocked to fathom what was right before him. He’d been so sure his fate was sealed. All these years, pairs had formed around him. It was common for fae to come across a number of mates in their vast lifetimes, matches with varying potential for great companionship. Once a full bond was thoroughly nurtured, an irreversible true mate connection formed, a connection he had craved for the majority of his solitary life.

Malcolm was 556 years old, and he’d never met even one with the potential to call to his soul, and it hadn’t been for a lack of trying. He frequently kept his bed full of partners.

Now here she was.Mate.

Hrafn’s chest filled with a deep breath, pulling her jerkin tight, and he wondered if she felt it too. Gods, it was pulsing through him, incessant and unwavering. Solis thickened and solidified into a form that matched the marquess in shape but was wraith-like.

“Stop that,” he hissed at his soul.

Mate,Solis hissed back, his black tail flicking side to side eagerly.

Hrafn’s eyes widened on the dark form. Gritting his teeth, Malcolm fought to tether Solis to him, but his shadow had never felt so strong before. Solis rarely took solid form. It made him too vulnerable—made them both vulnerable.

“You’re scaring her,” Malcolm growled quietly, his hands forming fists.

I’m claiming her, he said,as you should.His dark steps were lumbering as he stubbornly solidified, slowed by Malcolm’s will, a will that was weakening fast because a growing part of him wanted to give in entirely to fae instinct, damn whatever the laws of propriety dictated. Longing pulsed through him and heat built in his chest, overwhelming the rest. Solis vibrated with need.

Hrafn gasped, worry stretching the sound and pitching it high.

“Whatever you do,” Malcolm said to her, voice cracking, his mental hold over his shadows slipping, “don’t run.”

Hrafn’s wings tightened around her. She worked her throat, velvety brown eyes taking in Solis and growing big and round. “But what is that?”

“Just don’t—”

Hrafn spun on her heels and sprinted for the trees. Pure instinct pumped through Malcolm’s veins, polluting his blood, and the last of his brittle control shattered.

Chapter 2

Malcolm

Malcolm ran to catch up, stomping through bramble until his boots were coated in muck, his feet heavy with filth and tired from the pursuit. Sweat dampened his hair. His voice was hoarse from shouting. His words had been useless as of yet, but he gave it another try anyway.

“He won’t hurt you,” he called, jerking at the knot in his cravat and untying it so that silk went limp over his shoulders. “If you’d stop running, I could calm him!”

Don’t stop running,Solis said gleefully.

Hrafn cleared the trees and took flight with one great leap, but Solis had wings of his own. They sprouted from his back, as inky black as the rest of him. Malcolm bounded after them into the clearing, but they were in the air before he could reach either of them.

Hrafn’s wings created a gale, the sound of each heavy flap like the clap of distant thunder. Solis’s wingbeats were silent. He glided toward her, closing the distance with ease like he’d been playing with her all along, and of course his soul had been. This was the game fae instinctively craved, an ancient tradition outlawed by the king for many good reasons.

Reasons he was trying as best he could to remember . . .

Hrafn squawked like an angry bird of prey as Solis’s shadowy arms wrapped around her, dragging her toward the earth.

“If you fucking hurt her . . .” Malcolm grunted.

Solis turned them in the air, taking the brunt of the rough landing in a patch of tall grass. Malcolm caught up to them there and found them in a tangled pile of limbs. Solis rose to his feet, hauling Hrafn over his shoulder while she grunted and kicked and wished him dead. Staring at Solis was like looking into a tinted mirror; they shared every attribute. Malcolm’s soul seemed pleased with himself, unconcerned by how their mate’s feet pedaled, how her angry balled-up fists flew straight through his wraith-like body.

She’s strong, Solis said admiringly, a stupid grin on his soot-colored face. Malcolm wanted to slap his smirk right off.

“Let. Her. Go,” Malcolm roared, the tether to his soul strengthened by the sight of Hrafn’s distress.

Solis pouted at him.She’s supposed to struggle. That’s part of the game.

“This isn’t a rutting game.” Malcolm’s hands balled into fists. “Put her down.”

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