Primal Heat 04 - Forever in Darkness

the
woman he was born to protect? First his sheva , the woman destined to be
his soul mate for all eternity. Her name had been Catherine Taylor, according
to her driver's license. Ian stumbled across her, had a split second with her
in his arms, and then she'd been cleaved from him, cut down by one of his
teammates because she was his mate.
    Elijah Ross, the warrior who'd
killed her, had simply been doing what all the Order members were all trained
to do: destroy the sheva before she could bond with the male and turn
him rogue. It was the Calydon destiny to find his sheva, bond with her,
and then go rogue and destroy everything that either of them cared about, and
it was the Order's mission to protect innocents from those rogue Calydons.
    For Calydons who weren't Order
members, it was the male who was destroyed before he could go rogue, and the
woman was always preserved and protected. But Order members were too valuable,
so it was their women who had to be killed…with great honor and respect, of
course, but dead was dead. Killing an Order sheva was the sacrifice of
one innocent to save many, which was the choice they had all learned to accept
as a necessary element of their mission to protect. For Ian, that truth hadn't
lessened the devastating shock of having his sheva die in his arms.
    It was a hellaciously different experience
to be on this side of it, and Ian knew he'd never kill another sheva again. Ever.
    Pain knifed through Ian's chest, and
he was suddenly back in that moment when Catherine had died in his arms. He and
Elijah had been sprinting along the edge of a cliff, in pursuit of the very
bastard who had cursed Augustus, when Catherine had appeared out of nowhere,
careening down the side of the mountain, tumbling brutally to her death.
    Ian had caught her, and for that
split second when she'd looked at him, he'd been utterly lost in the green
depths of her eyes…so lost that he'd failed to notice the threat that came from
his own damn camp.
    He'd known instantly that she was
his soul mate…and so had Elijah. Shit, he could still hear her gasp of shock
and pain, the confusion in her eyes as Elijah's blade plunged into her heart. Ian's
anguish, his roar of fury as her body had gone limp in his arms. The fragile
life had been wiped out because she, as his sheva, was destined for him,
and the sheva bond, once completed, would turn him rogue and destroy them
both.
    An innocent woman dead, because she
had the misfortune of being destined for him.
    An innocent woman dead, because her
own mate had not protected her.
    An innocent woman dead, because he
blew it.
    Ian's body began to shake again,
and the rage screamed through his mind, the agony of the magnitude of his
failure. And loss. That monumental loss , emptiness and despair. His
chance at life, at connection, at bonding with the woman he was born to be
with. All gone. Gone.
    And then again? A second time? This
second woman had had no identification on her, but she'd looked, smelled and
felt exactly like his sheva . It made no sense, because his sheva had been killed eight months ago, but he knew this second woman had been
Catherine again. He was certain of it all the way to the depths of his soul.
He'd known it from the moment he'd walked into that room and saw her chained to
the wall, her auburn hair tangled around her shoulders. His entire being had
responded, so intensely, so powerfully, that he'd recognized it immediately as
the male responding to the presence of his mate.
    He had no damn idea how she'd come
back to him after she’d died, but she had. And he'd failed her twice.
    Ian bellowed his rage as he
accepted the responsibility for her death. For his inability to do right by
her. His one job as a male was to protect the woman chosen for him as his mate,
and he'd let her die.
    The agony hit him hard, dropping
him to his knees. He dug his fingers into the fresh dirt marking her grave and
howled his anguish, like a beast consumed by instincts too powerful to rationalize.
    His forearms burning, Ian looked down
at the brands on his arms. One on each forearm, black brands in the shape of
the flanged mace that was his weapon. What good were they? Useless pieces of
shit.
    His self-loathing surged, and he
called out his weapons. There was a flash of black light above his forearms, a
loud crack split the night, and then his weapons appeared in his hands. Ian
clenched them, and lurched to his feet.
    "I am not worthy," he shouted
as he raised the