Page 5

The sound of their breaths filled the room, mingling with the creak of the bed and the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Her hands roamed his back, her nails digging into his skin as her pleasure built.

As her release approached, he quickened his pace, a hard drag and thrust as his bullocks slapped against her ass.

His own control slipping as he lost himself in the feel of her tight wet channel squeezing around his shaft, the scent of her, the way her body fit so perfectly against him.

A knock pounded the door, shattering the moment. Davina gasped and clung to Broderick, gaping at the door with horror in her eyes.

“If ye value yer life, ye’ll no’ knock again!” Broderick pumped twice more before Davina pushed her palms against his chest.

She shook her head, her lips trembling, and she dislodged herself from their coupling. “I… I’m sorry.”

He withdrew reluctantly, watching as she scrambled from the bed, her movements frantic. She gathered her gown and cloak, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the fabric.

“Lass, wait,” he said, sitting up.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Before he could respond, she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Broderick’s eyes snapped open. The craggy stone ceiling loomed above him, still cloaked in shadows. He lay motionless, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he gripped his aching cock.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

His body pulsed with lingering need, the taste of the dream still thick on his tongue. In the black stillness of his lair, he blinked, trying to shake the haze of his daytime slumber.

Vamsyrians didn’t dream.

At least…they weren’t supposed to .

He stilled, frowning, thinking of the last time he’d had a dream. Had it truly been thirty years? They blurred like ink in rain. Thirty years without dreams—until now.

And of course, it had been about her .

Davina.

The memory of her clung to him like the sweat that beaded across his chest. One night hadn’t been enough. Not even close. She was the reason he was here. The reason he couldn’t let go.

This obsession had teeth.

And tonight, it had claws.

The dream had replayed their single night together, the one that still haunted him like a half-finished song. Every curve, every gasp, every trembling moan. Except in the dream, she’d vanished before the end.

In truth, they’d climaxed—more than once—and he’d left the bed only long enough to fetch wine and sweetcakes from the tavern kitchen.

When he returned, she was gone.

Both memories—real and dream—ended the same way:

With him wanting more.

Those refreshments had merely been an intermission. He’d planned hours more, memorizing every lush inch of her until the madness worked its way free from his bones. Until he could forget her.

Or at least pretend to.

He wanted to give her a night worth remembering.

And—if he were honest—some part of him had hoped she’d never forget him…even as she returned to the bastard who called himself her husband.

Broderick’s shaft grew limp in his hand upon recalling that blackguard.

When Broderick saw the pain she’d suffered as he read her memories during her palm reading, he had no qualms about seducing the fear right out of her.

He was determined to give her a different reason to tremble at a man’s touch.

But it wasn’t enough.

His chest tightened with an ache he didn’t understand, and he shoved it aside.

Broderick rolled over and grabbed his sporran, where he produced her hair comb.

His thumb swept over the Celtic designs crafted into the silver, a stark reminder of her sudden departure.

For months, he talked himself out of pursuing her.

She was married, after all. One night was understandable, especially considering a woman in her situation.

But to put her in a position to invite her husband’s wrath? That was selfish.

He rose and began dressing.

After the caravan had gone south to Edinburgh, she was far enough away for him to focus on other things—like tracking down Angus Campbell.

That never-ending quest was like searching for a needle in a meadow.

Broderick grumbled as he fastened his silver-plated sword to his hip.

At every turn, be it searching for his clan rival or finding peace from this goddess plaguing his cock, Broderick ran into one brick wall after another.

Since the caravan had settled once again in Aberdeen, the constant reminder of that night with her at the inn drove him to Stewart Glen to settle this.

Now she was just within reach, provided she was still here.

So many had died in the Battle of Flodden, so perhaps she was blessed with being relieved of her shackles to the thug, but mayhap she’d been married off to another.

Or had her husband returned from the battlefield?

If so, Broderick would see about taking care of the churl who scarred her milk-white skin.

He was exactly the kind of filth Broderick loved to dine on.

Speaking of which…he needed to feed. Broderick pulled a small leather tie from his sporran and tied back his hair to prepare for the hunt.