Mists of Velvet

to his immense strength. Her chin came up, and her hand clamped down over his, but she did not struggle, and he fought the urge to shake her, to kill her right then and there.
    “They are dead, Camael. Covetina by Uriel’s deceit, and his own hand.”
    “And my daughter?”
    “I—I do not know her fate.” He felt her hesitation, and he knew she lied.
    “You lie! I would know it if she no longer lived. I would have felt her leave me. I know you lie,” he sneered, shaking her.
    “The pain you feel so deep inside? That is the loss. They are gone.”
    He refused to believe that his lover was gone. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that his daughter was dead also. When Covetina had been taken from his bed, he’d made provisions for his child. She’d been hidden from Cailleach’s wrath.
    In her physical form she was easy to hold. Taking advantage of that, he pressed her back against a tree, pinning her with his chest and heavy thighs. “I want my daughter back. I gave her to Suriel so he could watch over her.”
    Beneath him, she stilled. “He spoke the truth,” she whispered in surprise. He felt her warm skin beneath his palm. She locked her gaze on his, her eyes a mirror to her soul. She drew him in, and he felt his mouth lowering—lowering until he swore he could feel her breath caress his lips. For a second, he forgot where he was, who she was, and remembered another time when a woman’s mouth had beckoned him with temptation, with forbidden pleasure.
    But that had been another time; another woman; a woman he had loved. And this creature was the object of his hate; the cause of his despair.
    Her palm came up to rest against his cheek. “The child you seek is called Rowan. My oidhche will lead you to her. I ask only that you join our fight against the mage.”
    She started to evaporate, and so, too, did his vision, but he clutched on to what he could, and she reappeared, her form solid and womanly against him.
    “Why have the bird lead me, Cailleach, when you’ll do so much more nicely?”

    Resting on the bed, Rhys turned Bronwnn over and gathered her to his chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
    “What?” she whispered as she raised her head from his chest. “Claim your mate?”
    “Come to you when I was feeling so out of control.”
    “I understand the rage that ruled you.”
    “I was rough.”
    “Primal.”
    “Angry.”
    She smiled. “Yes. And it’s all right. I have never felt more womanly and . . . fought over in my existence.”
    “All the same, I’m sorry if I hurt you. I just wanted to . . .”
    “Claim me. I understand. The claiming of a mate is a powerful thing. To find a mate, then be denied him is even more powerful.”
    “You are my mate.”
    “I know, but Cailleach—”
    “Let’s not talk about Cailleach.”
    Her fingers stroked his chest, and he closed his eyes, luxuriating in the feel of Bronwnn nestled beside him. They hadn’t spoken of the future, but he knew damned well he wasn’t letting the wraith touch her. Despite his love and caring for the wraith, Bronwnn was all his.
    “My leg,” she murmured as she moved his fingers away from her thigh.
    He looked down between their bodies and saw the blue ink on her thigh. It was glowing. “Why does it do that?” he asked, pointing to the script that seemed to be getting brighter.
    “He’s close by.”
    Rhys sat up and looked down into her face. “What is it? How does this connect you to the mage?”
    She swallowed hard and held his gaze. “He’s my father.”
    Rhys sat up and pulled her against him. “What the hell do you mean?”
    “I was conceived in a union between a goddess and an angel named Uriel. This is my link to him. When I touch it, it brings me to him.”
    “Jesus Christ!”
    She rolled away from him and reached for her gray gown. “I should have told you earlier. At least I should have told you by the pool, when we were talking, and you believed I was worthy to be fought for. I will leave.”
    “The hell you will!” he shot back, tearing the gown from her hands. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he forced her back down. “Who else knows this?”
    “No one. I’m ashamed of it. He is evil, and his black blood flows in my veins.”
    “There is nothing of him in you. Do you understand? No evil. No darkness.”
    “He is my father.”
    “I don’t give a damn.” The way she looked at him melted his insides. “We have to tell Bran, at least.”
    “Does it disgust