Chapter 1

1

G lencoe Mountains, Scottish Highlands

Present Day

Sofia stared at the exterior of Malcolm's enormous castle, unable to believe she was here. For over four hundred years, she'd stuck by her vow to never see him again.

Yet she was now standing on top of a mountain in front of his home, a sweeping vista of snow-sprinkled peaks and valleys stretching into the distance before her. Moonlight gleamed off every white surface.

Rage banished any chill she felt from the cold. It burned away the painful memories of their parting, memories that had torn at her insides for years.

"That bastard had better still have the Demon Blade," she said to Kitty. She'd used all her magic and the strongest spells she could find and he'd still broken in and stolen it. He'd been cocky enough to leave her a message in the chest where the blade had been locked. In her own home. Come to me .

Kitty hissed.

Harsh wind whipped across her cheeks as she stomped toward the huge front doors. Kitty led the way, her round little body stalking across the snow as if she too meant to make Malcolm pay for stealing the dagger. Sofia would see to it he did.

His home loomed before her, enormous. She scowled. Not only was he an immensely powerful warlock, he was now insanely wealthy, if the size of his home was any indication. But if he had the obscene amount of money it would take to own this place, why the hell was he stealing from her? Why was he back in her life at all? He was the one who'd destroyed what they had.

She shook the painful thought away and glared at his house. It was not a typical castle, made of great, ugly blocks with only a few narrow windows. No, this one was both stark and beautiful. Gray stone towers rose from the mountain and glass glowed with warm light. There was no exterior defense wall. There'd be no need, of course. Not with his power. Despite its beauty, it was somehow desolate. As if the person who lived within were as cold and dark as the night surrounding it.

But then, Malcolm was dark and cold and she knew it better than anyone.

She climbed the wide steps and raised her hand to pound on the door.

"Screw it." She lowered her fist and pushed against the door, sending a jolt of power blasting through his protection charm and forcing the door open. It smashed against the inside wall. He might be ridiculously powerful and wealthy, but she was no slouch herself .

And she was just pissed enough that she wanted to bust into his house and break a few things. Like his head.

She stepped through the now wide open door and took in the rich wood paneling and priceless art covering the high walls of the entry. A huge staircase swept up to the right and a large archway on the left led to a wide hallway. The sheer beauty of the interior was so great that it quashed her previous desire to break things.

Her skin prickled when she looked toward the hallway to the left, so she set off that way. She could almost feel herself being drawn to him. How was it possible after so many years?

Kitty stayed close by her side as she stomped down the hall, her footsteps thudding on the gleaming wooden floor as she made her way past closed doors. A glow emitted from the one at the end of the hall, the light within so bright it shined out from between the cracks at the edges. It beckoned her in the best and worst way.

Her heart pounded in her ears as anticipation fought with her anger.

Bastard.

She shouldn't want to see him after all these years, but she did. Her hurt over the past had faded some. What was left had turned to anger, which she stoked. She couldn't bear to relive that crushing pain. So she'd focus on anger.

But she couldn't help the anticipation.

She sucked in a deep breath and stepped through the doorway. The room within was dark, the only light coming from the large fireplace that was blocked by a man sitting at a desk. She could only make out his silhouette.

She ignored her pounding heart and took in her surroundings, searching for additional trouble. The room was round, the ceiling soaring high above. She must be in one of the towers. Books lined the walls, stretching up five stories to the domed ceiling. A wide walkway spiraled up the sides of the round room, making it easy to access all the books. Kitty pressed up against her legs, trembling slightly.

Satisfied no other lurked in the shadows, she looked at the man at the desk. Shadows concealed his face, but not the outline of his form. Despite the dark, she could make out the breadth of his shoulders and the fall of his dark hair.

Her heart threatened to break her ribs and a chill broke out on her skin.

Malcolm. Desire that she'd thought long dead rushed through her. Her breath came short. She hadn't even really seen him yet and she still wanted him. They'd only ever kissed, but memories of his skilled lips bombarded her.

He remained sitting, his feet propped on the gleaming wooden desk. A crystal tumbler of whisky sat in front of him. Firelight set the amber liquid aglow. Her insides tightened as her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she could take him in better.

The man—it really was Malcolm—lazily spun her Demon Blade in one big hand.

"This what you came here for?" His voice was as deep and rich as the darkest chocolate. No sweetness. Just a hint of the bitterness that followed a bite of the rich substance.

Fear suddenly shivered down her spine. She was a powerful Bruxa—powerful enough that she had no need for modesty—but she was also a smart one. And she was right to be afraid.

This wasn't the Malcolm she remembered. Of course it wasn't. He was now one of the most powerful beings in all of the Mythean world. A warlock. Destruction and power personified. All bought by becoming an Oath Breaker and throwing her away.

The reminder sent anger through her again. A reminder of what she was fighting for. What she'd always been fighting for. Her village. And for the first time since her line had taken up the role of Protector, they were at risk.

Because of this man.

"Yeah, that's what I came here for." Her voice could have cut stone. "Now give it back."

He surged fluidly to his feet, his shoulders blocking out the light of the fire. For such a large man, he was incredibly graceful. He approached her, his gait smooth and long, and she stifled a gasp at his size.

Had she forgotten? Or had he grown? He was at least six and a half feet tall, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow. His sweater and pants were dark and expensive looking. He stopped just inches from her, looming over her.

His scent, rich with spice and darkness, wrapped enticingly around her. He bent his head, seeming to enclose her in an invisible embrace. His dark hair fell around his face. This close, she could make out the masculine beauty of his features. Dark brows and golden eyes, full lips that twisted with a bit of cruelty.

Otherworldly. She trembled as desire surged to the fore again. She might be mad at him. Afraid of him.

But she still wanted him.

"You don't care at all why I took it?"

Again, the rich timbre of his voice sent a shiver across her skin. Only this time, it wasn't entirely due to fear. It was there, of course, making her skin prickle coldly. But a surge of heat came with it. Desire fueled by fear. He was dangerous.

He raised a hand as if he would touch her. Anticipation streaked through her. Do it.

Hot anger welled within her. At him and herself. He thought he could touch her? And she would let him?

She pressed her hand against his hard chest, sending a bolt of heat meant to burn and punish.

The corner of his mouth kicked up in a dark smile and he pressed his palm over hers, absorbing what she gave him without reacting at all.

Her jaw slackened. It should have hurt like hell. Made him jump back at the very least, if not fall to the ground.

But his golden eyes flared with desire and his full lips kicked up at the corners.

He liked it.

What the hell?

Malcolm absorbed the heat of her touch, relishing the burn. It wasn't that he liked it, necessarily. But he liked that it made him feel something. And that it came from her.

Sofia's skin was smooth and soft, her hand so tiny beneath his. She made him feel like a great, hulking beast. Which he was. As part wulver, the wolf was inside him. And the things that beast wanted to do to her…

Suitable for one such as him. But another voice in his head suggested that those things ought not be done to one as beautiful and delicate as she. That part of his mind was quiet enough to ignore .

He wanted her too bloody much. He'd wanted her for centuries—a gnawing, aching need that only got worse as the years passed.

Finally, after centuries without her, he'd caved. Power could keep him warm for only so long. He'd taken the dagger to help his brother, the one person that Malcolm had managed to maintain a semblance of a relationship with after becoming a warlock. Felix had needed the demon blade to save his mate. Afterward Malcolm had decided to keep it for himself.

So that he could have her.

And she'd come to him as he'd expected. As he'd forced her to.

She jerked her palm free. He almost reached out to snatch it back, but he clenched his fist. She still had him by the balls after all this time, but there was no way in hell he'd let her know it.

"I don't care why you took it. I don't have time to care," she said. Her sultry voice, laced with the hint of Brazilian accent, wrapped around him. Her dark eyes flashed with rage and her normally full lips pressed into a thin line.

She was so lovely. Golden skin and the elegant features of her Brazilian and Portuguese ancestors. Still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he hadn't been able to forget her.

"That dagger is this year's tribute to the High Witches," she said. "I need it back. Now ."

He knew. He'd known when he'd taken it that she needed it to protect her village. In exchange for not destroying her village, the High Witches demanded that she find and bring them a treasure of their choosing .

"Are you late in offering it?" he asked, though he also knew that answer. He'd been keeping an eye on her for centuries. Every year, on October the twenty-eighth, she made the offering. Today was that day.

He'd been waiting for her.

"I am." Fear flashed in her dark eyes. He didn't like it. He especially didn't like that it dampened the desire he could sense in her. "And you're going to come with me to make the offering. To explain why it's late. And to take the hit if necessary."

"Am I?"

"You are." Her voice was hard, its normally husky tone replaced with steel. "Your theft made me break the terms. That's punishable by death. And if one of us has to die for this, it'll be you."

A growl rose in his throat at the idea of the High Witches daring to threaten either of them. "Why would I do that?"

Her hand flashed up and lightning streaked from her palm, hitting him square in the chest. He grunted in pain, smelled singed flesh, and then grabbed her wrist tight enough to make her stop. The little witch had put more into this second strike.

"You can't threaten me. You're quick, but not nearly as powerful as I." He rubbed his thumb over the smooth skin at the base of her slender wrist.

Her features hardened. "I know that all too well."

He didn't want to talk about their past, so he made his offer. "I'll help you, in exchange for a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"Any sort of my choosing."

Wariness lit her eyes .

"Your alternative is death and the destruction of your village." It'd been so long since he'd negotiated with a woman, since he'd had more contact with one than a quick fuck, that he knew he was rusty. He should feel like a bastard for putting her in this position—for manipulating her like this—but his conscience was long dead.

"Is this why you took the dagger? For this favor?"

"No. But it's a nice side effect."

She scowled. Desire surged through him. He wanted to yank her to him and kiss her, to feel her soft lips. His hands trembled with the need.

"What's your answer?" he asked, his voice gruff. "Death or a favor?"

Once, he'd have vowed that the favor would be better than death. And it would be—that was certain. But as an Oath Breaker, he could vow nothing or fate and magic would conspire to see it broken. He could tell her how delicious the favor he begged of her would be for both of them, but he could not promise.

He'd learned to be noncommittal. To nod to indicate agreement and to suggest that it would all go as planned—but never to promise.

Indecision flashed in her gaze as she bit her full lip. At the sight, his shaft pulsed. Desire coiled low, a deep, familiar want that was specific to her. There was something stronger about this need. Surreal. Anytime he'd seen her over the last four hundred years, he'd felt it. Only this time, he was touching the soft skin of her wrist. He was only inches from her full lips.

He could have her. If …

"You're running out of time. You're already late." He added fuel to her fear with no remorse. He'd make her agree. "I'm stronger than the High Witches, but only as individuals. Together, they are too strong, even for me. If we're too late, any leniency will be gone."

And they'd need that leniency. This was a risk, even for him. His magic—and brute strength—could defeat a few of the High Witches when they combined their strength. But not all. Not when they were together, as they would be when the tribute was presented. They were the most powerful coven in the world, fueled by a dark magic that took its power not only from the aether, as all Mytheans did, but from destruction as well.

"Fine. A favor. Any favor."

"Excellent." He rubbed his thumb against the tender skin of her wrist. "We'll go now. We'll aetherwalk, I presume?" Teleporting via the ephemeral substance that connected earth and the afterworlds was a skill that they both possessed, but as he didn't know where the High Witches lived, she'd have to take them both.

She nodded.

"Then lead the way."

She closed her eyes and the aether pulled at them.