He moved his sword. Somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind, he realized that his warriors were following him now. When he moved his sword, slicing through a guard’s neck, his warriors did the same, a grandly choreographed dance of death.
Something warm and rich smelling coated his hand. Blood. Sweet blood. His fangs were out, practically crying for a taste. Another part of himself buried. Lach felt something hit his back. An ache began but he ignored it. He reached around and tossed the man aside, his big body hitting the dirt. He was vulnerable, helpless, his throat wide open because his helm was gone. It would be so sweet to drain the guard dry, to drink him down until his legs stopped twitching, his blood strengthening Lachlan.
But he wouldn’t. This piece of him would remain buried no matter how insane he went. There would be no first blood for Lach. There would be no first woman. There would be no sex.
His soul’s mate was gone and with her all that would have been sweet. Now there would be only death and wasted blood and revenge.
Lach’s sword thrust again and again. Two guards and then three attacked, ignoring the corpses. Pain bloomed in his side, but he pushed it away. The savage joy of battle was all that mattered. They all fell to his sword and one to his bare hands. Oh, he enjoyed that one. He loved the cracking of bones and the splitting of skin.
He’d hidden it all because he’d feared his mate would think him a monster, but his mate was gone and the worlds could quake for all he cared now.
He felt drunk—on the death, on the blood, on the power. He was Lachlan McIver, King of the Dead.
“Well done, Your Highness.” The phooka sat on the thatched roof of a house directly in front of Lach. He could see eyes staring at him. Terrified villagers who hid behind their shutters and likely prayed he took no notice of them. “You killed them all. No more guards left to eviscerate. Are you planning to start on the farmers? When you kill them all, you can move on to the children.”
His sword trembled as his hands shook. The need to kill was an actual presence in his system. It flowed through him, warring with all other instincts. Lach could feel his corpse warriors standing behind him, waiting for his next command. Waiting for him to tell them who to kill next.
The phooka wrinkled his nose, his tail twitching. Claws dragged along the roof making a nasty scratching sound. “There are four right in here, Your Highness. Four souls for you to take. A man. A woman. Two children. Think of the blood. Think of the screams.”
Something about the little devil’s voice made Lach shiver. Or the fact that he could suddenly see himself slaughtering children. This was why he’d shoved his warrior half so far down. He was a monster.
“Lachlan!”
He let his sword drop, turning. His heart was pounding. Bron was dead. None of it mattered. If he continued, he would kill the families in their houses. He would plunder and pillage and then call their dead bodies to serve him.
And it wouldn’t bring her back.
He looked at his brother. He’d failed Shim as well. Without their mate, Shim would fade. Lach would go mad. He would have to be put down.
He’d failed everyone.
Shim stood in the middle of the square. The fire that had previously burned there was gone, only ashes surrounding the pole where they had bound her. He’d always envisioned her in bondage, his hands tying her lovingly to prepare her for play. This was a perverted vision of what should be loving.
Bronwyn’s delicate body lay in Shim’s arms, her limbs utterly limp, her head falling back. The sword fell from his hand. If another attacked, he would let death come. He would join his mate.
Shim hoisted her up, cradling her to his chest. “Lach, we have to go. Where are we going to go? We need a healer. Something’s wrong with me, Lach.”
Everything was wrong. Bron was gone. Everything was done.
“Lachlan? Shim?” A feminine voice cut through Lach’s misery.
Lach turned and, for a moment, his heart softened. She wore different clothes, peasant clothes, but she was his sister. His Gilly, the girl who had laughed with them, brought them their first horses.
Saved their bondmate.
He’d failed Gillian, too.
She stood there, staring between them, dark eyes confused as though she couldn’t believe they were here. “Where is the army? Father sent a force. He had to send a force, right? Where are they? We need to leave.”
“I’m not leaving, Gillian.” Lach’s heart felt like it would burst with the agony of what he felt. “You have to put me down. I can’t handle breaking with Bronwyn. Please, Gillian, if you ever loved me, kill me now. Save these people.”
Gillian’s mouth dropped open. “Goddess, Lach, you’re being ridiculous. Now tell me where the army is and how we get off this plane. We can have our family reunion later, brother.”
Shim had fallen to his knees, taking Bron with him. “She smells so damn good. I can’t resist. Lach. I need her.”
Lach watched as his brother’s eyes bled to pure black, and the whites pushed out. Shim’s fangs lengthened until they filled his mouth, tipping over his lips.
Mating fever.
How could Shim have mating fever for their dead mate?
Bron’s hands shook lightly, and then he heard it, a soft, sweet moan.
And he smelled it. Her scent. A breeze blew it, the delicate scent of her life wafting over his senses, filling him, and he was overcome.
His fangs pulled. His cock hardened. His focus dimmed to one thing and one thing alone.
Her.
The mating fever took over.
* * * *
Shim shook, his every sense open and overflowing with her. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew what this was.
His goblin blood was calling. He was proudly Unseelie. It meant his blood was mixed with all the Fae of the planes. His mother had been a vampire. His father a mix of sidhe and goblin and brownie. It was the goblin he felt now. The goblin need to mate with the perfect female rode him.
Bron shook in his arms. Why had Lach thought for a second she could be dead? Fire could not kill Shim’s mate. Death could not take Lach’s. Had he gotten every bit of optimism between them? It was brutally obvious that Lachlan had gotten all the fighting skill. There were dead bodies everywhere, some fresh and some seemingly ancient. They lay around the courtyard, though despite their placement, it still seemed to Shim that they lay at Lach’s feet just waiting for the moment when their master called to them again.
Bron moaned a little, her eyes fluttering open only to close again.
His cock stood up straight in his pants. Just being near her, smelling her, touching her was driving him crazy. He had to try to focus on anything but her. She filled his senses, his world. Someone was saying something, but all he could do was stare at the woman in his arms. His mate. His bridge.
He wiped away a smudge on her face. She was so much more slender than she’d been in her dreams, her hands callused and her face slightly red from time in the sun. Thirteen years of running and being forced to work like a peasant had taken their toll, but she was still so beautiful to him. He would coddle her and cosset her and feed her. She wouldn’t have to worry again. He would take her off this plane, and she would never fear for her life or work a plow or go hungry again. She would be his sweet wife, protected from all the bad things of the world.
Of course, one of the bad things of the world appeared to be his other half. Lach stood staring down at them, his body covered in blood, his eyes huge and foreign in his face. The goblin blood was working in Lach’s veins, too.
“She smells so good.” Lach got to one knee, seemingly dazed by the sight of her.