Under a Blood Moon (Beaux Rêve Coven 2)

But Renner…his draugr intensity appealed to her sensual side. He would challenge her every step of the way. But how could she ever know that her choices were her own when he could slip into her dreams to influence her? Already, her sleep was restless torture. How could she ever know that the heat he’d awakened in her was real and not something he’d fanned purposely?

Miren gripped the bread basket against her middle and squared her shoulders. Well, he’d forced her to narrow the pool of contenders. Even if her heart led her to his bed, she wouldn’t concede without a fight.

As a sea-draugr, able to shift into mist or animal, and with the ability to slip into her dreams, he would discover she was no easy conquest. She was witch. A prize he would learn to treasure and respect.

Confidence restored, a smile stretched her mouth as she pushed through the door. Magic wasn’t just her avocation. It was her most formidable weapon. As her gaze sought his tall figure, she grew still inside. Whatever it took, she would have the mate she deserved.

The idea that she could test the waters, so to speak, with all three of the waterkin…it offered all sorts of naughty possibilities. Why not have some fun along the way while she tweaked Renner’s nose and got closer to the mermen? Maybe she’d been so consumed with thoughts of the draugr, she hadn’t given the other two a fair chance…

“Choose me,” he’d said. Huh.

She shook back her hair. Watch me.

Chapter Three

Miren kept her smile fixed throughout the meal. She’d let Renner think she was reflecting on their kiss. That she was pleased he’d managed to muscle out the mermen for the privilege of sitting beside her at the table.

She’d barely touched her plate, although the savory jambalaya Bryn had prepared was a favorite dish. The scent of oregano, bay leaves and thyme tempted, but her appetite wasn’t there. She’d been landlocked too long, and lack of exercise was taking a toll. What she really wanted was fresh shrimp—shrimp she’d dragged from the ocean bottom herself. She missed the smell of the sea, the feel of a swaying deck beneath her feet. She missed her boat the same way Darcy must be missing her cats and kiln, Aoife her flower garden and Radha her loom.

Her boat was like a living thing to her that responded to her handling and her moods in a way nothing else could. Most of all, she missed the feeling of freedom when she stared at a horizon free of cloying vegetation and confining walls.

“We haven’t made plans for the blood moon,” Bryn said, her gaze circling the table to touch on each of her sisters.

Miren caught a note in Bryn’s voice, so slight the men who weren’t as attuned to her inflections missed. “With the men accompanying us to the oak?” she asked.

From across the table, Aoife coughed. She held up sprigs of purple heliotrope blossoms, a signal they should table their discussion until they were alone.

But Miren gave her a sly wink and then a pointed stare at the flowers.

Aoife’s eyes widened and she shook her head, blonde hair shivering around her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Renner murmured near Miren’s ear.

Miren didn’t bother to answer him. She glared at Aoife. They were witches, dammit. If they wanted to conduct a conversation in private, why wait?

Bryn cleared her throat, drawing all the women’s attention. Then her gaze went to the flower.

Aoife didn’t need another prompt, her pupils dilated as she stared at the blossom.

“Goddess, give us grace.

Give us quiet to commune,

Free of prying eye or pricked ear.

A small gift from one we hold dear.”

“Witch, do you think to ignore me?” Renner asked, this time his whisper gusting softly against her ear.

Miren shivered but kept her gaze on the heliotrope.

“As I will it,” Aoife said, her gaze widening on Renner’s fierce frown, “so mote it be.”

Renner’s fingers squeezed on her thigh and held. The moment stretched.

And then Aoife looked up, a smile tipping up the corners of her mouth. “Quickly, I don’t know how long I can hold this.”

The men were frozen, their expressions locked in a moment of darkening suspicion. They’d heard Aoife’s chant but hadn’t guessed the significance of the bloom. Aoife’s brand of flower magic was rare.