“You chose the best course with what you were given, and I’ll hear no more about it.” Her breath stirred the hair upon his chest, and his nipple hardened. Her finger crept closer to the little nub. “Who is Lena?”

Beneath her palm, his heart pounded. “An ally at one time.” His voice was careful, quiet. “Now it seems I have none.”

You have me. She almost said it when she felt him move and could have sworn he was smiling. His voice drifted down, and there was a definite lilt of amusement in it. “Did I detect a note of jealousy in your voice just then, Daisy-Meg?”

Yes. “You detected curiosity, you arrogant sot.”

He grunted. “Of course. A thousand pardons, madam.” He did not sound conciliatory in the least.

She relaxed her hand, and her fingers moved a fraction, the very tip of her nail touching the flat edge of his areola. Northrup stilled, and her muscles tensed, her skin heating. She wanted to pet him, to feel the strength of his musculature and the silk of his skin. She forced herself to speak instead.

“What did Lena have to say to Conall?”

Northrup’s free hand fell to her waist. He had a big hand, and it was warm as it smoothed slowly up her side, stopping short of her breast before easing back down to her hip. She closed her eyes and almost purred in pleasure.

“Nothing to Conall,” he answered somewhat roughly. Again came that slow, easing caress that held nearly all her attention. His hand stopped. “She wants me to take him from the throne.”

“To challenge him and become the king?”

Northrup’s grip tightened at her waist. “She thinks I’ll be a better leader. But I’ve no interest in the role.”

“Why not? Is it not your birthright?” She touched one curling auburn hair upon his chest. A light touch that perhaps he wouldn’t notice. But his breath caught, before he let it out slowly.

“I don’t want to be a lycan.” He said it so softly she almost didn’t catch it. “I want to live as a normal man.” His fingertips traced the seam at the side of her bodice. “Live a normal life.”

Normal. After what she had seen and done this night, she could see the vast appeal of normalcy. And yet when she thought of Northrup living and acting as every other man, she found herself frowning.

“I should think I would find you rather dull, Northrup, were you a normal man.”

The heartbeat beneath her ear grew to a rapid tattoo as he tensed. His fingers threaded through her hair to cup the back of her head. Gently, he held her against him. “Thank you.”

The whisper stroked along her skin. He said no more as he continued to play with her hair. They sat as such for a long moment, until her side hurt from the pinch of her corset and she made to rise.

He stopped her with a touch to her cheek. Ensnared, she blinked down at him, aware that her mouth parted with her quickening breath, and that her skin suddenly felt too hot. The thumb at her cheek moved in a halting stroke that had her trembling.

“I didn’t let you go,” she blurted out inanely.

He stilled. “No,” he said. “No, you didn’t.”

A smile wavered at the corners of his mouth as his gaze grew unguarded. The heat and yearning there took her breath. Suddenly, he wasn’t smiling anymore. His voice cracked between them. “Daisy, let me…”

He pulled her down as he rose up.

They met in a melding of lips and tongues, slow and decadent, and it sent a sigh of sweet relief through her.

On a breath, he lifted her up and beside him to lay her down upon her back. His lips never left hers as he slid against her, holding her close before cupping her neck with a strong hand. Her legs were in a hopeless tangle with her skirts, her arm trapped against the wall of his chest, but her lips were in perfect accord with his. She licked inside his mouth, a warm wet glide that uncoiled something hot and thick within her. Ian made a sound of contentment within his throat as he kissed her and then pulled away to look at her beneath sleepy lids.

“This,” he whispered thickly, “this is what I thought of when they had me. Touching you.” He kissed her again, again. “Tasting you.” He touched her cheek, his mouth brushing over hers. “You were my safe harbor.”

She traced the silken path of his brow with a shaking finger, then pulled him close. He was so very strong, warm, present. Holding him close, she could acknowledge how afraid she had been for him. How much she wanted him.

They explored each other slowly, deeply, nipping and sucking, their hands bumping as they reached for each other and held each other steady. The languid sensation made her head spin, and her body grow heavy. His hand glided up her ribs to cup her breast. She arched into the touch, her belly pressing against the hard length of his c**k bunting up between them. They both whimpered at the contact, their kiss shifting its intensity.

“I love this gown,” he murmured, licking a path across the low line of the bodice. The touch was fire along her skin.

“A strumpet’s gown,” she answered breathlessly.

“Precisely.” He kissed the swell of her left breast. “You should have one in every color.”

Suckling the tender skin at the base of her throat, Ian rolled onto her, his hands at her waist, hips, rubbing, urging her on. The hard press of his body, the smooth shift of his muscles against her palm felt so good that she shook with the need for more, to rub skin to skin, to lick a path down his chest and take him in her mouth.

His shoulders were granite under silk. She could write a sonnet on the beauty of his shoulders, a symphony about the bulge of his biceps. She sank her teeth into one, testing its hardness, and he groaned.

“Ian.” She took his lips in a greedy kiss that explored his taste.

He broke off with a smile. “Ian,” he repeated, nipping her lower lip. “Finally, you call me Ian.” Their eyes met, and a bolt of tenderness hit her with unexpected intensity. “Took you long enough,” he whispered, his hand smoothing back a curl at her cheek.

He was alive, and whole, and looking down at her with heat and affection in his eyes. When had he become so necessary? She could not afford necessary. Suddenly she couldn’t draw a proper breath. A spike of pain shot down the side of her skull with enough force to make her gasp.

Ian’s brows knitted. “Daisy?” He touched the curve of her temple with a finger.

She blinked, trying to ease the feeling away, but a film settled over her eyes, all at once too bright yet wavering. She closed her eyes against it. “I…” A sharp breath left her as another bolt of pain attacked her head. “My eyes.”

He eased off of her. “Your eyes?” Another gentle touch. “What, love? Where does it hurt?”

Daisy let out a frustrated breath and flung her legs over the side of the bed, an altogether undignified move as she was too far away and had to slide along the mattress. “I’m sorry. I can’t… I cannot do this.”

Ian held her shoulder as she made to leave the bed. “Daisy, calm yourself.” His hand lay warm and heavy, a comfort. She tried to ease it off but he wouldn’t be budged. “Tell me what is the matter.”

Fighting tears, she pressed a shaking hand hard against her eyes. “I can’t see properly. There is this blur and”—she waved a helpless hand

“lights…”

“A migraine?” he said softly. At times she forgot that he was a physician. He was very near, his arm steadying her shoulder, and she let herself rest her head on his bare shoulder. The action made her brain slosh within its bed of pain, and she hissed.

“Yes,” she said on a breath. “They come when I’m…” She didn’t want to talk. The pain behind her skull made her feel brittle, capable of shattering with one wrong move.

Ian’s arms came around her, and he pulled her close, holding her as if she were a hollow eggshell. “When you are under great stress.” He cupped the back of her head with his palm. “Christ, you should not have seen what occurred this night. It is my fault.”

Tension rode over her shoulders, building with force until she found herself pushing at his chest with clenched fists. “It is!” she cried in a low voice. “Of course it is, you…” Her fists rubbed over his chest, half a caress, half grinding into his flesh as if to imprint herself there. “Don’t you ever—” She broke off when he gathered her nearer, his lips grazing her temple.

She gave his shoulder a light punch. “No. Don’t kiss me! Don’t you ever do that again.”

“Kiss you?” he teased softly, and doing just that.

She turned away, tears leaking out of her eyes like little traitors to her will. “Let them hurt you like that.” She glared up at him but could see only a sparkling blur of his face as if viewing him through thick bottle glass. “You fight, damn you! Damn me too, if it comes to that.” And then she was sobbing, burrowing her head in the shelter of his chest. “They tore you apart.”

“Och now.” His callused palm cupped her cheek. “Did ye fear I’d lose me pretty face?” he said, drawing out his brogue as though he knew she liked to hear it.

“Of course.” She nudged his ribs with her fist. “What else is there to admire about you?” When he bent his head down to peer at her, she rested her forehead against his. “Certainly n-not your inane conversations.” Her fingers curled about his shoulders as he peppered her face with soft kisses. “Or your r-ridiculous jests.”

He gathered her tightly once more and soothed her with gentle strokes as she cried. His chest was a fortress, his arms battlements. Her cheek pressed against the warmth of his pectoral muscle and she heard the steady drum of his heart.

“Come.” A tug on her bodice made her stiffen, and he uttered a short laugh. “If you think I intend to offer you anything more than comfort at this moment, I fear ye’ve greatly underestimated my sense of honor, lass.”

The sound of his Scottish coming out unfettered had her crying all over again, and he tsked as he turned down the light and quietly undressed her in the dark as efficient as any maid.

The sheets were smooth and cool as she slid between them in nothing but her chemise and drawers. Ian followed her in and then spooned her against him. The feel of his hard body so warm and solid against her back steadied her.

“Be at ease now,” he said on a breath as his strong fingers tunneled into her hair and dug into the tender spots along her scalp, scattering blessed relief in their wake. His dark voice drew her into dreams on a promise. “I will not let you go either.”

In the thin hours of the night, Ian left a sleeping Daisy under Talent’s guard and headed for The Clock Tower at Westminster. Big Ben, some called it. He remembered it being built. He sprinted toward the looming tower and nearly threw himself at its limestone walls. Up he climbed, hand over foot, scaling the intricately carved edifice with ease.

The wind howled in his ears as he neared the top, moving past the gilt letters along the base of the large clock face: DOMINE SALVAM FAC REGINAM NOSTRAM VICTORIAM P RIMAM—O Lord, keep safe our Queen Victoria the First. He was in no mood to think of the queen. The thought of gaining her attention caused a fine shudder to work through him. He had turned his back on her when he’d turned his back on the clan and he had no wish to return to that life.

Only when he’d passed the bellhouse and reached the iron-clad spire did he slow down. He vaulted over the gilt- and-cast-iron railing on the topmost steeple and sucked in a deep breath of London air, a witch’s brew of scents and tastes. Nothing of the werewolf. It was if it had been plucked from this earth. But Ian damn well knew it hadn’t been.

Below, the black surface of the Thames rippled like snakeskin in the moonlight. Tiny pinpricks of light marked the windows and lamps of London, a glittering web of stars in the dark. Though he was not afraid of heights, his stomach turned, for the temptation was there, to jump. From this great height, it must be nearly like flying. His fingers curled into his palms until he felt the bite of his nails. A breeze lifted his hair as he gazed down at the river, undulating and black. To fly free. He could do it. Only he’d land, his head smashed open but still alive, unable even then to die. A choked laugh escaped him as he pictured himself lying upon the pavers like a broken marionette, forced to wait while his body slowly healed.

Had it felt like flying to Maccon?

Maccon. Blackness danced at the edge of Ian’s sight before he brutally shoved the name and the feelings that came with it back into the deep, dark hole in his heart. He would not think about that. Not ever again.

Ian had much practice ignoring that particular pain so the darkness quickly passed. Ironic because it was that adaptability that had dragged him down into a half-life of apathy. On a sigh, he moved to the edge of the tower and took a calming breath.

But calm was hard to keep tonight. Restlessness had pulled Ian from Daisy’s bed and out here where he could think.

Inside his pocket, the moonstone stickpin lay like a ballast, weighing him down. He didn’t want to look at it, or touch it, unnerved as he was by the very sight of it. The last time he’d seen his own pin, he’d been burying it with Maccon. Conall had one. But he wouldn’t willingly part with the piece. Why then was it pinned to a woman’s corpse? Had Conall meant for it to be found? Was it a taunt? And if so, why?

It didn’t matter. Whatever Conall was playing at, he was involved in this madness. And it was a kick to Ian’s solar plexus.

Resignation settled in his bones. He knew what must be done. And if it cost him his soul, so be it, for he could not live this half-life any longer. But he needed a plan. He needed allies, and not the bloody SOS, who would want to control him. Only one thing was certain: Daisy was his to protect until it was done. With a sharp inhale, Ian sat up straight. For the first time in years, someone needed him. The sense of purpose stirred him. He felt alive, not merely moving through each day but alive in a way that made his blood sing.