Delivered in a Danish accent, Cyprus let the insults roll right off him. No sense reacting to the idiot. The comments, though, caught his attention. One reference to his age, which meant the rogue considered younger better. A misconception, but…whatever. Let the bastard believe whatever the fuck he wanted. What interested him was the pretender accusation. What the hell did that mean? As the question banged around inside his head, the past came roaring back. Cyprus tensed as unease pulsed through him. What did the rogue know? Had he unearthed the secret he’d kept for over fifty years—from his blood brothers, from his pack-mates, from the Dragonkind world at large?
The idea tightened his chest.
Cyprus breathed through the physical lockdown, refusing to flinch. Or lower his guard. No way would he hand the rogue an advantage. Not here. Not now. Never, in point of fact.
Stalking forward, he herded the rogue toward the side aisle. “Want to tell me why you’re killing humans?”
The rogue shrugged. “Why not? It’s good sport. Humans make the most interesting noises when cornered.”
Good sport. Disgust rolled through him. The arsehole needed his head ripped off. Cyprus bared his teeth. “What the fuck are you doing in my territory?”
“Is it really, pretender?” Red irises rimmed by gold met his. An odd sense of familiarity chimed through him as the Dane raised a brow. Cyprus frowned. Something about the male tweaked his antenna. Seemed familiar somehow and—an image flashed through his mind. Bloody hell, after all these years and…shite. The resemblance couldn’t be denied. In the right light, the bastard looked too much like a warrior he’d once known. “Or did you steal this land from your sire? And mine too?”
“Who are you?”
“Grizgunn…son of Randor, first in command to your sire.”
“I know who your bastard Da was,” Cyprus said, voice so low it registered as a snarl. Goddamn it. Just as he feared, his past sins front and center, on display before God in the middle of a human church. Aggression churned through him. Now he ached to do what he’d done all those years ago—put Grizgunn down the same way he eliminated own his sire. “I hope he’s dead. Nothing but a pile of ash in a shite-hole of a place.”
“Asshole.” Temper showing, Grizgunn flexed his hands and stepped around the last chair, challenging him from ten feet away. “You are not the rightful commander of the Scottish pack. You stole the title the night you murdered your sire. My father was next in line…to be crowned pack leader before you maimed and chased him from the island.”
“Bullshite.”
Well, mostly. Grizgunn wasn’t wrong about his culpability.
Cyprus was responsible for his father’s death. He’d ended his life, executing his sire for a crime so heinous he knew his Da had gone insane. No other explanation existed. Not then. Not now. As much as it killed him to admit, his sire had lost touch with reality and fallen in with the Archguard, orchestrating the ambush and murder of his uncle—commander of the Scottish pack at the time—and cousins, Droztan, Conn and Forge…young males in their prime and his best friends.
The knowledge still pained him. Left an open wound on his heart and a mark on his soul. Time hadn’t help. Knowing he’d done the right thing didn’t either. He still longed for his uncle’s leadership and missed his cousins, carrying the guilt of not realizing what his sire planned until too late.
If only he’d listened to his instincts.
Cyprus had suspected something was wrong with his sire. He’d watched the slow unraveling of his mind for months, but hadn’t understood what it meant. Or how dangerous the secret meetings with Rodin—leader of the Archguard—had become. A strong male, his uncle had chosen a direction for the Scottish pack and stood in Rodin’s way, rallying other pack commanders, opposing the male’s bid to become High Chancellor of Dragonkind.
Hindsight. Cyprus clenched his teeth. What they said was true: it was twenty-twenty. Now more than ever.
If he’d known then what he knew now, he would have done things differently. Brought his sire to stand trial. Exposed the conspiracy concocted by Randor and allowed the pack to decide both warrior’s fates…along with the method of execution. But he hadn’t done that. In his outrage and grief, Cyprus had taken it upon himself to right the wrong. Instead of involving his blood brothers and pack-mates, he chased his sire down. Randor had been in his sights as well. The male had gotten away, slipping through his claws before he delivered the final death blow.
Now, the past reared its ugly head.
Grizgunn appeared to be the face of it.
One he wanted to punch a hole through. Hitting the bastard would feel fantastic. Killing him would be even better.
He could have ignored the challenge to his leadership—forgotten about the past and welcomed home a lost member of his pack—if not for the dead bodies outside. The murders, however, sealed Grizgunn’s fate. A warrior who preyed on humans would never be welcome in his territory.
With a snarl, Cyprus fired up mind-speak. “Wallaig—get airborne.”
“St. Giles?”
“Aye. I’m nose-tae-nose with the bastard.” Gaze locked on his target, Cyprus pivoted, each stride a calculation, forcing Grizgunn to react. He stepped around the dead priest. The Dane walked backward, keeping equal distance between them. Smart. Good for Grizgunn, ’cause aye, the second he got his hands on the male, he’d snap his neck. Quick and clean. Brutal with the benefit of a high crunch factor. Merciful too, more than Grizgunn had offered the human priest. “Surround the church. As soon as I make a move, he’s going tae run and—”
“On our way.” Scales rattling, Levin took flight. “Distract him. Keep him talking long enough for us to lock down the area…close all avenues of escape.”
“Will do,” he murmured, keeping the link with his warriors open. The flap of multiple wings echoed inside his head. He closed the gap, forcing the Dane to keep pace. “Any last words, Grizgunn? Make it quick. I’ve run out of patience.”
Pipe organ looming at his back, Grizgunn sneered. “Bastard Scot. You think you’re so smart.”
“Is that right?” he asked, just to be contrary. Well that, and to anger the arsehole glaring at him. Chit-chatting with the Dane might not be pleasant, but it served a purpose. The angrier Grizgunn became, the less attention he would pay to the pack flying in to surround him. “Tell me, whelp…what else do you know about me?”
Grizgunn’s nostrils flared. His red-gold gaze started to glow. “My sire—”
“Was a traitor. His scheming lead tae the death of my kin.”
Grizgunn sneered at him.
Raising his fists in blatant challenge, Cyprus growled back, daring the bastard to—
The door to the side entrance flew open. Light from the street poured into the cathedral, cutting a swathe across the tile floor. “Father Matthew?”
Female voice. The clatter of shoe heels echoing on stone. “Sorry I’m late, but…”
Stunned by the sound of her, Cyprus listened to her lovely voice fade. Horror struck as the mystery woman came into view. Head bowed, arms pumping, she rushed up the stairs. White hot energy blurred the air around her, making her aura glow in the dark. Heat hit him like a battering ram. Hunger merged with desire. Cyprus jolted as magic cracked like a whip, lashing his skin, addling his mind, gluing his feet to the floor.
Grizgunn fared no better.
Shocked by the rare sight of a high-energy female, the Dane gaped at her.
Propelled by primal instinct, Cyprus stepped forward, her bio-energy a lure he couldn’t resist. Jesus help him. An HE…here, in Edinburgh, standing less than twenty feet away. One with no idea who stood inside the church. Not the priest she called for, but two hungry Dragonkind males feuding over territory and—
Her foot connected with the last step. Her wee chin rose, presenting him with the prettiest face and bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
“High-energy.” Awe in his expression, Grizgunn rounded on her.
“Go back, lass!” Shite. He was too far away. No way would he reach her in time. Grizgunn stood closer, a handful of strides to his twenty feet. Cyprus waved his arms to warn her. “Get out!”
Blue eyes wide with confusion, she stopped. Her gaze tracked to him, then landed on the priest. “Oh my God—Father Matthew!” She dropped the briefcase she carried. As hard plastic hit the floor, she ignored his warning and ran forward. “Call an ambulance!”
Desperate to reach her first, Cyprus lunged to intercept.
Grizgunn moved faster. Shifting behind her, the Dane grabbed a fistful of her hair. He yanked. With a yelp, the female jerked to a stop. Her feet left the floor. Cyprus tried to intervene, shifting right then left, desperate to close the gap, but—no chance of intercepting now. Grizgunn already had her by the throat. She was locked down. Caught in cruel hands. Trapped by a warrior who enjoyed inflicting pain and making humans suffer.
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