“Hmmhmm.”
A wicked grin appears on his mouth. “I’m not one to deny my queen.”
Queen. It’s weird. So, so weird.
He tightens his grip and tosses me onto the thick, padded, training mat. I yelp as I fly through the air, but it’s out of excitement, not fear. Leaning back on my elbows, watching the hulking man stalk toward me, I inhale.
Okay, there’s maybe a little fear.
The kind where I’m terrified I’ll break my own rules. Cross the barriers I’ve firmly established between me and my potential mates.
Clinton crawls over me and I wrap my hands around his massive biceps, reveling in his size. He’s the strongest of my guardians—the ancient shape-shifters that followed my spirit through the millennia. When his lips finally meet mine I feel a surge of mystical power—our connection—and I move my hand to the back of his neck, tugging on his hair. His hand travels down my body, grazing my bare stomach, and ghosting over the heat of my core. I steal his breath, absorb his strength, and whine when we part.
The stopwatch, lying a few feet away, beeps.
“My time is up, sweetheart,” he says, grimacing as though he’s in pain. One look between his legs and I understand his struggle.
I grab him by the shirt and tug him back down. His eyebrow lifts. “Just one more minute. Bunny won’t mind.”
He laughs, shaking his head, because we both know that even if Bunny cared he wouldn’t say a word. He’s the sweetest of the group. Despite this, Clinton kisses me long and slow, dragging it out until I feel it in the soles of my feet. When we separate I lean back on the mat and rake his hair over his ear. “I guess there’s a reason for the time limit,” I say. “Another five minutes and the choice would have been made for me.”
Clinton helps me off the ground, plucking me with ease, like a flower from the grass. “Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that, Morgan.”
“I know, I know.”
No, I don’t get the luxury of letting the boys fight it out over me and letting the best man win. No. It has to be the right one. The one. And I have to make the decision.
I’m on a quest for my mate and the clock is ticking.
Chapter 2
Morgan
I wash the sweat and exhaustion off in the shower. The small tryst with Clinton recharged my weary muscles, and like each physical encounter with my guardians, I come away more balanced.
With a towel around my body I walk out of the bathroom and into the spacious bedroom. It’s all part of the suite given to me when I came here a month ago. I thought I’d won a prestigious writing scholarship. In truth, although I did win a coveted spot in the writing program at New York University, the housing grant was something different.
This house--or rather, this mansion--was called The Nead. Gaelic for The Nest. I’d come to live here with five skilled artisans. They each had
an interest in their craft as well as a deep bond with me—something I didn’t know until I arrived and the secrets of the past were spilled.
I walk past the bed, where two open books lie. Homework from Dylan. He’s insistent that I read up on every reference to the Morrigan that exists. Why? I stare down at the illustration of a beautiful, dark-haired woman. Her eyes are dark with power, her lips full and red. There’s a crow perched on her shoulder and dead bodies at her feet. The Morrigan is a terrifying force that if betrayed will rain ruin down on the living.
I am the most recent incarnation of the Morrigan.
My guardians are doing everything they can to ensure I keep my power in check and find the chosen one out of the five. My mate will be the anchor to my soul. The tie that binds me to earth and keeps the Darkness lurking just outside our realm at bay. But, until I choose, my power has to be kept in check and the best way to do that is to let the guardians absorb my dark energy. The best way to do that? One sexy encounter at a time.
I’ve spent the last few weeks processing the strange situation. Some, like my friends back home, surely would think I’ve accepted it too easily. Who am I to just blindly accept that I’m an ancient goddess holding the fate of society in my hands? Maybe I should have laughed it off when Dylan told me the truth. Maybe I should have run like hell, considering that these men want me as nothing more than a sexual plaything.
But I knew instantly in my heart that the stories I’d been writing were true. That Maverick, the little girl in my book, isn’t a character I imagined. She’s a reinterpretation of myself.
Of my ravens.
When Dylan revealed my destiny he explained everything I’d been feeling since I was a child. The joy the birds brought me, the vision-like imagery for my book, the moments of anger and uncontrollable emotion. And the fact I knew, deep down, I was saving myself for someone special.
My phone chimes, letting me know I’m already late for my session with Bunny.
I grab my shoes and head out the door for another date with destiny.