Munro had only one hope of saving her—by turning her. Yet he would have to unleash his beast, becoming Jels’s obedient pet.
Bile rose, but Munro choked it down. He drew her closer to warm her, to prepare her—and himself. Never had he tried to turn a human. He rubbed his chin over her slim shoulder, breathing deep of his female. Her scent helped to temper his panic.
All his life, he’d imagined biting his mate’s soft neck to give her his wolven claiming mark. But this turning bite would be a world away from that.
One bite was dreamed of; one was unnatural.
She spoke in a hushed voice. “I know what you are, wolf. Do not do this to me.”
Her words carried an accent he couldn’t place. Eastern European?
She craned her head toward him. “Defy the warlocks. Defy their evil.”
“I will do anything to save you. You’re my mate.”
“Mate?” She sounded aghast. “Then how can you think of abusing me like this? Don’t infect me with that thing inside you.”
“I will take care of you, teach you to control it.” If she resurrected, she would awaken maddened from the ferocity that rose up uncontrollably in newlings. Harnessing one’s beast took decades and was often unsuccessful. This would be his last conversation with Kereny for an age.
Unless she perished for good.
“My kind worship freedom.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. She was so sweetly innocent. So gentle. “Ormlo told me what my fate will be if I resurrect. You would turn your mate . . . into a warlock’s slave?”
“You will no’ be a slave! I will free you from this place.” Somehow. He used his mangled face to nudge her hair off her shoulder as he began to relinquish control to his beast. Save her, beast. Bite her fiercely.
She resisted him but had no strength left. “Leave me to an honorable death.”
“I canna, Kereny. You will resurrect. Do you understand me? You must return to me!” My beast is strong; it will light a firestorm inside her.
“If you do this, I will despise you,” she vowed. “You’ll still have no mate.”
His Instinct screamed —RUNNING OUT OF TIME!— “Then I’ll spend eternity earning your forgiveness.”
Between ragged breaths, she said, “You would transform me into an animal . . . enslaving me to those I long to see dead? There is no forgiveness.”
Munro’s claws and fangs lengthened, his body morphing. “Close your eyes for me.”
Instead, she trained her gaze on his face. Hardened vampires cowered at the sight of a Lykae’s beast. She gasped but didn’t look away. “I-I’m begging . . . no.”
Voice gone guttural, Munro choked out, “And I’m begging you to return to me, little one.”
With a primal roar, his beast took over completely. Existing in the background, Munro perceived his head whipping forward, his fangs sinking into the tender skin of her neck.
A sob escaped her lips as she writhed in agony. Her heartbeat slowed. Beat-beat . . . beat-beat . . .
The beast snarled against her cooling flesh, injecting its essence. Ignite the fire inside her, beast!
As Kereny shuddered with death throes, it pawed her closer to his body, rocking her, spilling blood over her wedding gown.
The beast drew back, but only to sink its fangs into her again. And again. Howling between frenzied bites.
Munro was dimly aware of Jels’s laughter outside the cell. Then the warlock started his incantation. Dirty power coiled around Munro as Jels began leashing his beast.
Kereny’s body fell limp. Beat . . . beat . . . silence.
When her heart went still in her chest, the beast released its bite. It threw back its head and roared until the dungeon quaked, quieting only when her lips parted.
Just before Munro succumbed to the vassal spell, her final breath escaped her, carrying her last words: “I . . . hate . . . you. . . .”
TWO
five days later
—She’s gone.— Munro stood at the edge of an acid pit deep beneath Quondam. Ormlo, his warlock jailer, had ordered him to carry Kereny’s corpse into the bowels of the dungeon to dispose of her.
“More than three days have passed,” Ormlo said from behind him. “In all of our history, no mortal has ever resurrected as a Lykae after three.”
Munro didn’t need his Instinct or the warlock to tell him that Kereny wasn’t coming back. He felt it; he knew. The Lykae fire hadn’t taken hold.
She lay lifeless in Munro’s arms. His bite marks covered her neck. Her limbs had stiffened in death and from Ormlo’s spell, her body like a statue.
My female is dead. His gaze roamed over her, taking in the dried flowers intertwined with her raven locks . . . the fringe of lashes resting forever against her cheekbones . . . her pale lips. . . . .
Between the times when Ormlo had commanded him to bite other mortals, the warlocks had left Munro in his cell with her. He’d memorized the contours of her fine-boned face and stroked her hair. He’d explored her wee hands.