Velvet Haven

and that familiar hum she always got when he touched her. “I should have killed him for this,” he whispered. “I will kill this bastard,” he vowed fiercely.
    “That’s very kind of you,” she said with a smile, “but I don’t think you need to commit a mortal sin on my behalf.”
    “Nothing is too much for you, Mairi.”
    Warm fuzzies unfurled in her belly. “You would kill for me?” she asked, not knowing whether she should be scared shitless or extremely flattered.
    “I would do anything you asked, except . . .” He looked away, then swung his gaze to hers. “Anything but leave you,” he murmured. “I could not do that.”
    His expression was serious. She eyed him cautiously. What had happened? How had he come to be here—with her? And why was he so possessive? The last time they were together, he’d left her without even a memory of what had happened to him.
    Not that she should be complaining, but still, everything was a confusing puzzle.
    “Do not trouble yourself trying to fit all the pieces together. We’ll talk in a while, when you’re healed.”
    Mairi fought through the fog, trying to make sense of what had happened. “I . . . I think it was you all along in my dreams. I’ve dreamed of you—for weeks now.”
    She felt the tension in him coil. “They are not dreams,” he said, “but premonitions.”
    “If you say so.” She licked her dry lips, and a cool glass was pressed up against her mouth.
    “Drink.”
    She took a little sip, wincing as she swallowed.
    “Rhys says that your throat may hurt because of the tube they shoved down your airway to make you breathe. I hope I did not hurt you when I removed it.”
    Tube? Airway? Suddenly she remembered what had happened. Aaron, that sick bastard, had somehow hidden himself inside Sanchez. He’d beaten her, demanded to know where the Oracle was. And then Bran had come crashing through her door. He’d picked up ordinary objects and turned them into weapons—swords, arrows. Even electricity.
    She moaned, her head hurting as she tried to make sense out of something that defied all possibilities. Magic, and madmen . . . and her death. She specifically recalled dying. Yet here she was, alive and—her stomach rumbled loudly—apparently hungry.
    “You’re thinking too hard, muirnin. Just rest and the events of the past days will come when you are ready.”
    “I died,” she rasped, her voice hoarse. “I felt a shroud cover my face and body, and then I felt my soul lift as it left me.”
    “You did not pass through the veil. You are alive,” he said against her mouth; then he kissed her, making her body heat, showing her that indeed, she was very much alive, with all senses intact, too.
    “Rhys has brought you something to eat. Start slow, and if you’re hungry you can eat something else.”
    “Aaron,” she whispered. “I have to warn Rowan.”
    “I am sorry that Aaron escaped when I turned my attention to you. But do not worry. Your friend is protected.” She struggled against his hold, but he held her tight. “She’s here,” he whispered, gently shoving her back. “Just down the hall. When you are well you can see her.”
    A whimper from the end of the bed was followed by a rhythmic thump that stopped Mairi cold. Clancy? The dog’s head popped up, its muzzle resting on the black coverlet.
    “You saved him!”
    Clancy came bounding onto the bed, despite Bran’s cursing and commands for Clancy to get down. But the great big lummox came forward, licking every inch of her face.
    “Disgusting. You would not allow him to do that if you knew what he had just been licking.”
    Mairi laughed and rubbed Clancy behind his ears. “How can I ever repay you?”
    His eyes darkened. “It was I who owed you. We are even now.”
    Mairi looked at him. His expression had changed, had grown blacker—angry.
    “Thank you,” she whispered. As she said it, she allowed her fingertips to graze his tattooed arm. He closed his eyes in response.
    “Eat now, Mairi.”
    Bran left the bed and went to the window seat, where a large tray of several covered dishes waited. With a flourish, Bran lifted the lids.
    “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at a golden-brown triangle next to the bacon and eggs.
    He smiled. “It’s Scottish, a potato scone. It’s fried in bacon fat and you put jam on it. It’s delicious.”
    “And artery clogging, no doubt.”
    Bran shrugged and placed the tray on her lap. As he did so, he shoved Clancy