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  But there was nothing of the kind here; only a large chamber which arched overhead, the sunlight pouring in from its entrance. Lily sat down on the sand, turning her face to the waves which crashed against the shore playfully, and allowed herself to inhale deeply.

  That smell of Cornwall was one that she’d missed while in London, fresh salt air tinged with something ancient, a cleanness that didn’t exist anymore in the twenty-first century.

  And the sound of the ocean lapping against the shore, which had always been a comfort, was no less comforting now.

  Her mind turned to Conor and she found herself wishing that she could bring him here and show him this place as he’d shown her his special hidden corner of London. The comfort of this place could come to signify something deeper were it to become the location where their feelings for one another were allowed to deepen and to grow. But, it seemed, that would never occur. He was lost to her now.

  She told herself to snap out of it and to stop being such a bloody teenager. She’d matured too quickly to allow herself that sort of behaviour, and she was well aware of the codes of shifters. Conor’s existence had thrown her for a loop but she would overcome her feelings and move on, as so many people before her had done when faced with similar situations.

  Temporarily resolute, she began to push herself up, preparing to stand and to head back towards Dundurn. Her family might be wondering by now where she’d gone, though they knew never to worry—she always found her way back to those she cared about.

  It was then that a shrill sound from outside and a sharp gust of wind roused her. As she rose and moved towards the cave’s entrance she saw the source of the disturbance: two almost identical dragons gliding over the beach, playing with one another as a couple of puppies might do were they able to fly.

  “Rohan,” she thought, smiling as she stood to watch the matching déors soar by overhead. She knew his scent and his eyes, which never changed regardless of what form he’d taken on.

  Her brother had shown signs early on that he had a rare ability: he was able to take on the shape of any creature that he pleased. During his first shift on the day when their grandfather had nearly killed her, her brother had changed into a winged wolf, as though images in his mind had jumbled into a cross between his parents and created a hybrid creature from his own DNA. For a time, the family had assumed that it was his true déor and his only non-human form.

  But over the years he’d been delighted to discover his uncanny ability to transform into any animal imaginable. This was what in their world was termed a metamorph, and his gift was extremely rare. The last one known to exist had lived centuries before the twins’ birth.

  And now, it seemed that he had temporarily taken on the shape of another dragon whose identity remained a mystery. Lord Ramsey, perhaps? Probably not; when Lily had left Dundurn, Ramsey was in a meeting with her fathers. Besides, she couldn’t imagine him frolicking like this with Rohan. Somehow it seemed beneath him.

  The stranger’s dragon was sleek, fast and a dark shade of red which Lily had to admit to herself was very beautiful. Even from a distance she could see his light turquoise eyes flash against the intensity of deep crimson scales. She found herself enraptured by his lines, his sleekness, and beyond curious to know what the man himself looked like. She felt the dragon within her react to him, attracted, drawn to his appearance and movements.

  Rohan, unable to exactly emulate his colouring, had settled on a shade of dark orange, his own blue eyes striking against his scales. And the two of them were having a field day dancing in the sky above the waves. It seemed to Lily that Rohan had missed his shifting in the months away, too.

  She wondered if they were aware of her presence. If they were, there was no real indication other than the fact that they seemed to be circling the area repeatedly, as if to show off. Or perhaps Rohan was simply attempting to display one of her potential suitors.

  She found herself pleased to have found a temporary hideout from which she could observe the stranger’s flight.

  She thought of Conor, the human male who was so undeniably attractive to her, and compared him to the creature who was still circling overhead, one to whom her inner beast felt drawn. Everything about the flying déor was physical perfection—at least, for a dragon—and her own déor was pleased, and led her to hope that he would be partaking in the tournament. She would be curious to watch such a creature in action; he was so fluid and sure in his motions.

  Inside her, the human woman fought the instinct to think only of one man while her dragon reminded her of its own wants: two of them, equals in strength, rank and reputation, or as close as two mates could come. Her dragon sought strong, worthy breeders.

  The creature inside her, of course, was not concerned with matters of love; only of raw sexual attraction. Her déor wanted her filled with physical desire, knowing that the Ritual would never succeed if her mates were repugnant to her. No, it would be best for them to drive her wild with animal lust, a thought that turned her a shade of crimson close to that of the soaring dragon.

  This instinct to seek out mind-blowing sex warred with some human sense of nurturing, feminine loyalty. It would be such an astonishing luxury to take two men into herself, into her life; she would feel spoiled by their attentions. Perhaps she didn’t deserve such a fate.

  But she was a princess in the world of shifters, after all, and it was her calling. It would be an honour for any man to be one of her lovers, and she tried to remind herself of that fact. Not to mention the fact that her life would become every woman’s fantasy. Two mouths on her—four hands—two cocks, hard for her at once.

  The thought made her ache.

  Her mother Gwynne had once found herself here: overwhelmed at the notion of two mates. But Lachlan had proven his goodness early on and comforted her; made her feel that it all somehow made sense.

  Lachlan, who was universally loved. No man could ever live up to his goodness, after all; he was like a sheep in wolf’s clothing: kind, fair, honest, yet able to change into a creature capable of tearing a bear apart. Lily had waited her entire life for such a man and yet found herself drawn to two who puzzled her beyond her own comprehension by their differences.

  She’d been ruled by instinct her entire life, and yet now here she was, her body taking over the control and dictating to her what she wanted. It seemed unfair that her brain should be so overpowered by her hormones, but then again, men dealt with that about nine thousand times a day. Their brains seemed to have long since taken up residence in their trousers.

  When the two dragons came to a hard landing nearby she remained in place, wondering if Rohan would see her and introduce her to his guest. But instead they moved to a different part of the beach, and Lily felt once again that Rohan was deliberately displaying the other creature for her to observe.

  She knew that if they shifted, she would see the man. And he would be nude. She was accustomed to naked men, after all; the dire wolves often wandered without clothes and over the years she’d looked at many a naked male form, muscular, powerful and intriguing.

  But never in a sexual way, if that was possible. She’d thought of sex over the years, of course, wondering how it felt. But the wolf clan had felt from her end more like a vast pool of brothers than viable sexual candidates, and so Lily had never eyed them as potential mates. It wasn’t until she’d met Conor that she’d understood the very notion of sexual desire.

  When Rohan and his companion had moved towards the lapping water, they did indeed shift.

  Lily felt her eyes grow wide and acted quickly to settle them down, reminding herself that it wasn’t entirely dignified or polite to stare. But the man who now stood next to her brother was…what was the word? Exquisite. Perfection was one thing; he was like a creature from another universe.

  His eyes, so light, were ringed with dark lashes which gave them a different sort of intensity from Conor’s, though they were reminiscent of that other set of penetrating features. His skin
was a bronze shade which seemed to enhance the shape of each thoroughly developed muscle. This was a strong man, built very much like the greatest of the shifters.

  She only permitted herself a very brief glance between his legs before averting her gaze, but what she saw there was every bit as wondrous as the rest of him.

  This had to be Lord Ramsey’s son. The resemblance was uncanny, and Lily found herself pleased that he looked so like his father.

  Rohan, she knew now, could see her concealed within the dark shadows of the cavern. But aside from her initial glance at his face, Graeme Ramsey didn’t turn towards her; instead he walked towards the cresting waves and proceeded until he was submerged, swimming like a natural despite the ocean’s violence. This afforded Lily a longer chance to admire his shape; his bronzed flesh, perfect, strong buttocks—she’d never spent a lot of time thinking of a man’s behind—and sculpted arms. Rohan joined him a moment later, but only after turning her way and winking. Confirmation, she thought, that he was showing her what she may be in for.

  Her dragon felt as though it were panting inside her, salivating for the flesh that moved between those waves. Her déor, she knew, was aware of what it was observing: another dragon, and a powerful one at that. And he could be hers.

  When the men had finished their brief swim, they climbed out of the water. Lily was still looking, still considering Graeme’s form; still hoping that his insides equaled the outer shell. Yes, he was splendid and seriously gorgeous, and yes, a sexual encounter with such a creature would be heaven. But her entire life was ahead of her, and she wanted to know that he would be a good mate in every way.

  She watched as the two men changed again: Graeme into his red dragon, Rohan into his winged wolf form, which had come to be his favourite. He’d even had it embroidered as a sort of sigil on his formal clothing. It was the combination of his parents, after all, and he wore the déor with pride.

  “Dear God,” muttered Lily as she watched Graeme fly away. “So there might just be two perfect men in this world.”

  * * *

  13

  Torn, Chapter Thirteen

  The tournament was to take place on the grounds of Dundurn where a temporary arena had been set up, complete with colourful tents and structures which resembled primitive wooden bleachers. It all seemed so hilariously antiquated to Lily; though it fit in with the times, surely shifters didn’t require a cordoned-off area in which to fight like a couple of modern professional wrestlers?

  But there were rules, she discovered: No killing. No maiming. Only overpowering, outwitting and/or a clear show of physical superiority were proper criteria for a win. In the case of a close call, a winner would be selected via committee. But, Lily was told, it probably wouldn’t come to that.

  “It seems a little barbaric, doesn’t it?” she asked her mother as they watched men toil to prepare the area. “Whatever happened to going to the movies or a stroll on the beach?”

  “Well, there are no movies to be seen here,” said Gwynne. “And a walk on the beach won’t tell you who’s the best mate for you.”

  “No, but surely watching them tear each other to shreds will,” scoffed Lily. “Like cavemen with big teeth.”

  “Before I met your fathers, Lily, they went through this for their pack, you know. It’s how the alpha is chosen.”

  “Well, the whole notion of an alpha is ridiculous. We all know that you wear the pants in this castle.”

  Gwynne laughed. “Hardly ever,” she said. “Pants don’t fit me properly. Anyhow, it’s a matter of assessment, Lily. It’s not just about physical abilities; watch the men for their character, their honesty, their sense of fairness. For what you think would make them a good mate and a good leader. Not to mention a good father.”

  “I think that maybe what makes a man a good father is that he doesn’t attack other men with the intention of appearing macho.”

  “Oh, stop being so damned modern-minded,” laughed her mother. “Embrace your inner girl for a moment and appreciate the fact that a whole herd of men is going to be fighting for your affections and admiration.”

  “I don’t want a herd,” said Lily quietly. What she meant, of course, was “There is only one that I truly want, though I’ll admit that there is a second who shows some promise.”

  * * *

  On the night before the tournament, men had begun to show up near Dundurn’s grounds, setting up camp and exploring the area. But Lily had avoided all of them, including the handsome man that she’d confirmed was Graeme Ramsey.

  Somehow, not seeing them meant that she was able to convince herself that they didn’t exist. No doubt they would all be handsome—shifters tended to be—and strong. Probably noble, even, but none of that trumped the simplicity of attraction. And one man still occupied the space in Lily’s mind that seemed reserved only for him.

  Conor had remained in her thoughts, as had the way they’d parted. She’d literally disappeared, not saying good-bye. No explanation. It ate at her, as though a door had remained open that she couldn’t reach to shut, to seal out the memory.

  At nine p.m. Lily found herself standing on a woven rug in the middle of her chamber, picturing the room in which she’d left Conor: its model of the Scottish castle, standing on a table in its midst, art on the walls, windows opening out onto a quiet London street.

  And all of a sudden she felt herself falling, cascading through time.

  She’d landed back in the very room which she’d been picturing. Sun shone in through the window; it was afternoon.

  No one was with her; no Conor. The house seemed empty.

  Lily had always had her mother’s gift of leaping, or jumping through time and space. She was in fact more naturally gifted than her mother had been. But this leap had been somewhat accidental; her mind had desired it, and so it had happened. So Lily found herself cursing softly. Had it happened at the wrong time, she could have put herself in a very difficult position, having to explain how she’d appeared out of thin air.

  But now that she was back, she wandered through the house. It was a quiet day; no visitors, and the strange building was all hers.

  She took advantage of the situation and wandered, examining relics of Conor’s family’s past. She wanted to learn about him, though every ounce of information was fuel which fed her fascination with him. Here a garment, hung on display which looked like military regalia. There a teapot which may have belonged to a great-great-grandmother.

  Lily found her fingers caressing various items, feather-like, gentle and caring. Each was somehow attached to the man himself and each began to chip away at the mystery of him.

  But it was on the third floor that she began to learn a good deal more.

  On the wall was a giant piece of parchment, framed and covered in a protective layer of glass. Its subject was a giant oak tree, each branch representing an element of Conor’s ancestry. It stretched as far back as the ninth century, which meant that his family history was even more complete than Lily’s own.

  Lily traced the lines with her finger floating an inch from the glass, leading from present day towards the past. Conor’s parents, his uncles and aunts. Cousins.

  At first it all seemed straightforward; a very typical genealogical progression. But as Lily moved backwards she suffered a shock.

  * * *

  In the fifteenth century a name stood out: Mary. A woman, clearly. But listed as her parents were not two, but three, people: a woman and two men.

  “A Ritual?” Lily found herself utter.

  But maybe it was something else. Maybe a husband had died and the woman had remarried. Conor was no shifter; surely she would have known if he were?

  And since that point on the tree, there had been no sets of three parents. No. It was a simple coincidence.

  Lily wandered a little more until she came upon a photograph of a young boy with a shock of dark hair and large eyes. He stood in the woods, leaning against a large tree. Conor.

  Her heart leap
t when she recognized the face. She’d missed it, somehow. And yet she would probably never see it again.

  “So you did come.”

  At first she thought she’d imagined the voice behind her. But she heard it again:

  “I suppose I should ask how you got here, and how it is that you vanished into thin air the last time I saw you.”

  Should she leap again? No. That would be a cruelty, both to herself and to him. So instead she turned to face Conor, in spite of the strangely anachronistic clothing which must make her look like a mad person.

  “It’s a bit of a long story,” she said.

  “Well, I have nothing but time.”

  He stood before her, arms crossed over his chest. His face was stiff, cold, perhaps even angry.

  “Conor…” Lily began. “There are things you could never understand about me.”

  “Try me. You might be surprised.”

  She turned away. So many times she’d turned her back on him, always to conceal her feelings, her fears. But she felt now that it was no help; he knew. He saw into her soul.

  “No,” he was saying. Again his hand was on her, grabbing her clothing as though to hold her in place. “Don’t run away. Don’t disappear again. You have a habit of vanishing or turning me away and I won’t have it this time. I won’t lose you like a leaf blowing away in the wind.”

  She stiffened. He was right—it wasn’t fair to do this to him. But worse still would be the truth.

  Her eyes closed and a moment later she shot through time and space, away from Conor forever. She would not disturb him again.

  * * *

  14

  Torn, Chapter Fourteen