“Oh, I see. That does seem to be in order. It’s just, well,” he hedged. “Miss Crescent, no one really goes in that room, except for a local gent, and he’s a right curmudgeon of a man,” Robbie informed her, rubbing the back of his neck like he was uncomfortable even mentioning the person.

  Delia nodded her understanding. She knew what it was like to have difficult customers whose expectations were often unreasonable. Self-entitlement was running rampant in all corners of the world, apparently.

  It was catching, she supposed, like measles.

  “Oh, I see. Well, thank you for the warning and I promise to stay out of his way, Robbie.”

  “Aye, I’d advice that, Miss.”

  “Fingers-crossed, I miss him, but even if I don’t, I’ll be perfectly quiet and well-behaved,” she replied with another teasing grin.

  Delia could see him wavering and silently applauded herself. That smile of hers had earned her more than one round of drinks from the local pub, courtesy of Mickey.

  The old bartender was cute as a button, with his long white beard and sparkling blue eyes. Like a sexy Scottish St. Nick. Delia had gone so far as to call him that, earning her a manly chuckle from the old gent.

  There was just something about Scottish men she found ridiculously sexy. Delia had always teased Clara about her penchant for crushing on anyone with an English accent—something gangs of American women had in common.

  Delia was never really about all that, but after ten minutes in Scotland, she was a downright slut for the sexier, rougher, and better all-around Scottish brogue.

  Maybe it was the Gerard Butler marathon she’d binged on the airplane over. Or her love of classic Bond films. No one beat Sir Sean Connery in her not so humble opinion. But whatever the reason, she was having a great time chatting up the folks hereabouts.

  “Just give me a second to log you in and grant you the proper permissions in the system,” Robbie said, taking her information and entering it as he said he would.

  Delia’s mind wandered while she answered things like name and address automatically. The trip was long and tiring, but she bounced back quickly.

  Her first stop had been the hotel, followed by an immediate hunt for food. Delia needed sustenance after her long flight, and likely, she should have napped, but being a Werewolf and all, she was ready to go.

  After a meal of perfectly fried fish and chips, and a few tap beers served slightly above room temperature—strange for sure, but Delia was into trying new things—she felt wonderful. It would have all been better with someone to share it with, but that was okay.

  Sad whine.

  Shushing her Wolf, Delia exhaled a calming breath. Unlucky at love was her unwanted yet earned motto. She’d tried dating men and women as they appealed to her, but no one stuck. She was tired of the whole game.

  Delia felt lonely, unseen, and a little envious of her sister’s newfound happiness. It was that ugly part of her, the one hovering way too close to the deep green waters of jealousy, that drove her to seek a healthier outlet.

  What better way to get through emotional upheaval than to bury herself in work? The bookstore needed new stock, and Delia needed a change of scenery.

  So, here she was, in bonnie old Scotland, talking to a nervous human who looked like he was going to crap his pants at the prospect of allowing her entry to the occult section of the shop.

  “Well, there we have it. All done. Now, it is early yet for a Saturday, and since the client I spoke of rarely works on the weekend, I suppose you should be fine. Go on then, Miss. Top of the stairs, and to the right,” Robbie explained.

  “Thanks Robbie. And call me Delia. I’ll bring down my selections to be shipped home. Appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure, Miss, um, Delia,” he said with a sheepish grin.

  Just like that, Delia was off to really start her adventure. Anticipation buzzed along her skin like electricity dancing in the air. Her Druid magic might be the reason too. It was as if it recognized Delia was on the very continent of its origins.

  “Easy does it,” she whispered, tilting her head back and allowing her senses a moment to catch up with her.

  Wulver & Dracos Booksellers had a wonderful old smell to it. Beneath the books, printer’s ink, and leather were wisdom, turmoil, joy, and every other emotion expressing the human condition as told by men and women for hundreds of years.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She had a profound love of literature, something she had indulged in since she could read at the tender age of three.

  It was not uncommon for the Crescent girls to be seen with their noses buried in one harrowing adventure or lusty romance, she supposed, but books had always been the destination for Delia.

  A fast reader, Delia simply devoured novels. She went through three to five a week regularly. Sometimes she read so quickly, became so engrossed in the story, Delia hardly knew who wrote the thing till way after she was finished. She never was one to follow the crowd or hype surrounding book releases. She chose her stories like she chose her partners, based on how they appealed to her as a person.

  At least I have better luck with books than mates…

  It was easy to forget writers were real people. Especially in this technological age where one story after another could be easily downloaded and read on a handy little e-reader or cell phone app. All good things, for sure, but people created the stories she loved, and Delia worked hard to remember that.

  Must be hard to see so much and imagine even more only to despair over what words to choose to say what you mean.

  Delia did not envy authors. Having been part of more than one book group gone sour due to over-zealous criticism of an author’s work, she’d put off her own plans to write. Following her dreams was turning out to be harder than she’d thought, but that was life.

  No pain, no gain, right?

  Except Delia wasn’t a huge fan of pain to begin with. Still, she admired those who pursued a writing career. Brave souls, that lot!

  Delia supported authors she adored whenever she could. Especially indies. Secretly, she hoped someday she would be strong enough to try her hand at penning something. Maybe poetry. Maybe romance. Who knew?

  Not a coward by nature, still, Delia chose her battles. In her humble opinion, writers had to be some of the bravest people on the planet. She would love to join them someday, but timing was everything, or so they said.

  That’s it. I am just waiting for the right time to take that leap.

  Meanwhile, she’d keep looking for inspiration everywhere she went, and in everyone she met. Goddess knew she could use some more of that in her life. Every day was the same old thing, until now.

  That was why she was here, right? She’d come to Scotland to have her very own adventure.

  “Okay,” she mumbled to herself as she reached the infamous occult room.

  “Pict and Druid histories, according to Roman scribes, of course,” she muttered, reading the sections aloud.

  She was intent on finding more information concerning that half of her genetics she knew so little about. Being a Druid Shifter hybrid was tricky most of the time but following the fairly recent end of the Curse of St. Natalis, well, Delia and Clara had both discovered a surge in their magic and Wolfish traits.

  It would be good to find more histories of such pairings if she could. But that was why she was here. To lose herself in this wonderland cultivated by generation after generation of the Wulver & Dracos family.

  How truly marvelous to be as much a part of the histories inside these writings, cared for in this place as the first people who wrote them.

  Lost in her musings, Delia’s gaze raked the shelves, stopping on a tome with an interesting looking rune carved in the leather spine. She stopped, bent over, and tried to remove the book.

  “Stubborn, aren’t ya?” she muttered, giving it another good tug.

  So lost was she in her battle, trying to get the book out of the shelf, which seemed determined to keep the thing from her, she hadn’t any clue someone was coming. Not until she heard, er, make that felt, the enormous male slam right into her.

  “Hey!” she yelled, as a man’s body plowed right into her.

  “Och! Watch out!” was the growly reply as strong hands gripped her waist, turning them in their downward spiral so that she landed on top of him.

  Gasping for breath and stunned by the impact, Delia had nary a moment to spare before her Wolf was panting for the stranger. Dazzling eyes, a body to die for, hair that was just the right length for tugging—hells to the yes, this man was smokin’ hot.

  Holy cow!

  She wasn’t usually so shallow as to judge a book, er, mate by their cover, but it was like she just got hit by lightning. Her Wolf snarled inside her. Delia’s magic started buzzing along her skin. Her gaze zeroed in on his sparkling eyes.

  “They’re like sapphires,” she murmured.

  “What?” he asked, his gruff voice loud in the otherwise quiet bookstore.

  But Delia did not answer him. She couldn’t. Her inner beastie was stuck on one word, and she could hardly think of anything else. Delia tightened her grip on him, like she was trying to survive the tidal wave of emotions crashing over her.

  Mine. Mine. MINE.

  Chapter 4

  What was that, then?

  Arran had run smack into the bent-over woman with the wiggly tush. He wasn’t usually so daft, but who could blame him for being distracted? She’d literally waved her red flag, er, panties in front of his Bull.

  There was a reason certain sayings became known. A truth that existed somewhere between the lines. His Bull saw her red flag and now, the idiotic creature was having all sorts of naughty, wonderful ideas about the female.

  No. This would not do.

  “Would you mind gettin’ off me?”

  Arran grunted the question. It was all he could do to remove his hands from her luscious posterior.

  His request was the opposite of what he wanted, but being a reserved sort of Bull, Arran dinnae think it was a good idea to molest the female in the middle of the stacks.

  It’s a great idea, actually, his Bull insisted.

  Feck off, he grumbled at the beast.

  “Yes,” she interrupted his inner battle. “Actually, I think I would mind.”

  The gorgeous, but obviously daft, female surprised him with that answer before plastering her luscious mouth to his. Arran moaned, opening his mouth to tangle his tongue with hers. The wee lass tasted like sunshine and sin, a more potent combination he’d never experienced.

  What the actual feck was going on?

  Mine, the Bull growled.

  What? No!

  His human side tried to reason, but the Bull was having none of that. Wouldn’t be the first time a Highland coo had gone crazy. Still, the timing was impeccable. After all, hadn’t Gerard just given him a lecture about doing his duty to the Herd?

  Might not be exactly what the Alpha wanted, but Arran did not give a single fuck about that. Not when every cell in his body was singing with joy at having found his mate among the stacks at Wulver & Dracos.

  Mine. Mine. MINE.

  The sexy female was all curves and power as she wriggled against his hard body. He’d never felt such raw animal attraction before, and that was really saying something considering he shared his body and soul with a Highland Bull.

  Och, but so does she. This one won’t hold it against you any for being a right beast.

  Arran saw stars the second her lips met his. Sure, at his age, he’d been kissed a time or twenty, but never like this. She tasted of honey and sweet grass. Sin and sunshine, the smell of her Wolf’s fur tickled the periphery of his senses.

  His Bull did not even stutter at the predator in his arms. In fact, the beast was calm, practically purring from her attentions. Lost in her kisses, Arran ground himself by wrapping his arms around her shapely form.

  “Christ, woman, you kiss like a goddess,” he moaned as she nipped his lip between her teeth.

  His cock strained beneath his pants as the female growled softly in her throat. Beneath the wondrous assault on his senses were the scents of books, paper, leather, and ink. Of all the places to meet his mate, this was definitely top on Arran’s list.

  Heart racing like mad, he rocked his hips, hissing at the heat coming from her core. It was like all his favorite things combined to make an aphrodisiac the likes of which his Bull could not resist.

  A deep, rumbling growl emanated from his chest in turn, and Arran took over their kiss. He was not demonstrative by nature, but the wee she-Wolf brought out the beast in him.

  She was perfect. Aggressive enough to initiate this passionate interlude, yet submissive too, as she allowed him leave to take command. He’d never felt quite so turned on as he switched positions, rolling her beneath him.

  “Yes,” she whimpered, and the scent of her arousal grew stronger.

  It took every last bit of strength he had not to tear her clothes off and ram straight into her like a rutting beast—and he wanted to. Christ, did he want to! Never had he ever been so instantly attracted to the point of almost coming in his jeans.

  “More,” she demanded.

  Arran growled and plundered her mouth with his seeking tongue. His hands roamed her body, cupping her sweet breasts and tugging on the hardened nubs of her nipples while he rolled his hips against the hot apex of her thighs.

  He should slow this down, he thought as her hands roamed his chest, shoulders, back, and arse. But Arran just couldn’t help himself. The woman was growling and rubbing herself on him, and fuck, he’d never wanted anyone more than he wanted her.

  She’s a stranger.

  No. She is my mate.

  On and on, the warring inside his head went until he could not even hear it anymore. The way Arran saw it, some things went beyond the realm of his meager understanding.

  Kissing a stranger and falling in lust in a matter of seconds, for instance. These were things that happened in the normal world, but for Shifters, they meant something else. Something more.

  This felt like more. This felt huge. Their kiss was no gentle meeting of the lips. No practiced seduction or hasty curiosity.

  Feck, no.

  This was an all-out tempest. A hurricane-like crashing of mouths and bodies, souls, and fate, fueled by instinct, need, and raw desire.

  His Bull roared inside him. The animal was letting his human side know in no uncertain terms he wanted the she-Wolf. Fated mates were rare in their world, but legends persisted.

  Arran never believed in all that before, but she was quickly changing his mind. Nothing had ever felt so singularly perfect as having this woman’s mouth glued to his.

  It was like the stars and planets had aligned until this very moment had come into existence. It had to be destiny. The universe, the gods, heck, the Fates themselves. All or one, something larger than he could comprehend, had to have had a hand in this.

  Arran had waited his entire life to feel connected, and here it was. With this stranger, he felt more than he ever had with anyone else. Even Bonnie. He’d never experienced such heady bliss, such a keen sense of rightness, and lightning fast.

  The sounds of footsteps reached his sensitive ears, and he tensed, holding onto the writhing she-Wolf.

  “Mr. Balloch? Phone call, sir. I trust everything is okay up there?” the familiar voice of Robbie called from the hall.

  Arran could hardly think as the sounds of footsteps were getting closer. He barely had a moment to gather his wits before he stood up, taking the wee female with him. Arran tucked her behind him, using his body to shield her.

  Blocking her from the nosy clerk’s view, he growled softly as the sounds of the female’s racing heart reached his ears. Her breathing hitched in her chest, and it bolstered his own confidence, knowing she was as shaken as he.

  “Mr. Balloch? Can you hear me, sir? You have a phone call,” the clerk said, turning down the aisle to face him only seconds later.

  “Take a message, man. I am working,” he growled, and the man paled.

  “Um, yes sir, but he said it was urgent—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s arse. Take a message and tell whoever it is I am not to be disturbed while I am here. Shut the door on your way out and keep the wing closed,” Arran said in a tone that brokered no argument.

  “Um, yes, sir. Are you sure everything is okay up here?” Robbie inquired again, trying to peek behind Arran.

  “Did you not hear me, then? Does it look like I need your help?” he barked.

  “Sorry, sir,” Robbie muttered.

  That earned him a wee giggle from the she-Wolf, and he felt her shake with laughter behind him. Naughty little minx. It was hard to keep a straight face, but he managed.

  Barely.

  Did Arran look as ridiculous as he sounded? He could only hope not. But what was he supposed to do? He was hard as bloody stone, and two kisses away from shagging a stranger on the damn floor.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  Nothing. Mate. Claim. Bite.

  There it was again. His Bull whispered into his brain, and his thoughts had more power than the threat of an atomic bomb.

  The clerk left with an audible squeak and Arran was left alone with the female who was trying, and failing, to not laugh hysterically. Slowly, he turned round.

  “Think that’s funny, do you?”

  “A little,” she replied smartly, melting his heart with her Wolfish grin.

  Damn, but she was sexy. The woman was even more fetching than he’d thought. Short, dark, thick hair framed her elfin face, and a pair of naughty jade green eyes glittered with mirth.

  “Are you some kind of fae then? A delicious little sprite, come to tempt me to Faerie?”

  He was only half-kidding. If not for the scent of fur, he’d have thought her a bonafide fairy.

  “Nope. Not a drop of Fae blood, I’m afraid,” she replied and giggled again, and Arran found he really liked the sound of it.

  “A Witch then,” he teased, dipping his head to steal another kiss.

  “Maybe,” she said, lust painting her voice as she leaned into his touch.

 

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