Dara prodded her dagger’s point into the left side of Rowan’s neck, just beneath the hard line of his lower jaw. He cursed wordlessly, recalling how he had shoved the weapon down his belt, carelessly disregarding it from then on. All she’d needed to do, and obviously had done, was reach out and draw it, reclaiming it for herself.
“I’m surprised,” she whispered with visible effort, “you still have a hard-on under the current circumstances.”
“Let go of your weapon, céadsearc.” He hadn’t moved an inch, complying with her whispered command.
In retort she dug the dagger’s point deeper into his flesh, drawing a tiny red bead. “I don’t think so,” she spoke hoarsely.
“Please, céadsearc--”
“Quit…quit calling me that. That ‘kay-djark’ thing.”
“Céadsearc. Means ‘sweetheart’ in Irish,” he said, softening the word’s true meaning. First love. “Dara, sweetheart, you’re already burning with fever. ‘Tis a Hound’s arrow. It carries silver. Let me heal you.”
He studied her face, his uncompromising hand still resting on the swell of her hip. Her eyes blazed brightly within the paleness of her skin, a feverish blush coloring her cheekbones.
“Heal?” She squeezed the word out through ragged breaths. “I’d call this…many things…other than that.”
The hand gripping the dagger trembled, the whetted edge dancing against Rowan’s throat. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he slowly swallowed.
“Heal,” he repeated softly. “You are my destined mate, Dara. Our joining beneath the moon will heal you.”
“My destined mate is dead.” Dara shivered, her face tight with pain and bottled-up fury.
“You know the ancient Law as well as I.” Rowan’s hand rested stone-still over her hip. “We are Kanjali. Bound-Ones. We mate for life. If one of us loses his lifemate, and has the gift of bearing young ones, then he or she is to be mated again, to a spouse chosen by the Cainteoirì--the Speakers.”
“I d-don’t know what you mean. I don’t give a shit about your Law.” Mackey’s words made no sense to Dara’s blurring mind. She bit her lower lip and squeezed her sweaty fist tighter on her dagger’s hilt. It grew heavy in her hand, forcing her to shift its position against Rowan’s neck.
He spoke again through clenched teeth. “By Danu, lass, do you want to die?”
“I’ll be sure to take you down with me when I do,” she breathed out.
A lapse of consciousness slackened her body, and for a fraction of a second Rowan felt Dara’s dagger falling away from his skin.
He moved fast.
The moon, now acting as a ghostly catalyst, made him even faster than usual. His hand shot up from Dara’s hip to her wrist as he smoothly arched back from her dagger’s point. She let out a groan, her arms straining in his hold, then sagging. She had no strength left to resist him. Her eyes locked with his.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t…” Her voice was barely audible.
He stared down at her, then his head jerked in a brief nod. “Aye, you win. Halfway, you win.” He cursed softly, his Irish brogue gathering roughness and color. “I will not take you fully, but I will make sure you’ll end up with the living, whether you prefer it or otherwise.”
Her head sagged back against the damp rug. He put her weapon safely out of her arm’s reach. He then dipped his head again, brushing his mouth over hers. Wearily she turned her face away, escaping his touch. Her lashes trembled as her eyes grew heavy-lidded.
“Aye, close your eyes, sweetheart. Imagine it is him.”
His lips trailed over the cheek she gave him, leaving soft kisses in their wake. Dara gasped as his gentle touch tingled with laden electricity, an echo of something she had known once before.
“Just get it over with.” Her voice came out strangled.
