She pulled away from him, releasing a rush of breath as a fierce blush stained her cheeks. God, she felt like a voyeur, watching something she shouldn’t.
“I’m guessing that was the mating ceremony,” she said, trying to make light of her nervousness.
“Yes.”
He didn’t elaborate, but Vivienne could feel the weight of his gaze on her face. Were they expected to do that at some time in the future? Because she couldn’t—wouldn’t. One, she couldn’t very well change into a wolf, and two, she wasn’t going commando before God-knew-how-many people, and then performing for them. She stole a look at Conall’s handsome face. She didn’t care how hot her partner was, she wasn’t putting on a show.
The hand at her waist began to lazily draw circles around her navel. Closing her eyes, she moaned. So, here she was, a druid who was partially mated to a werewolf, with a witch for a mother, and a best friend who was some sort of warlock hybrid.
She lowered her hand to Conall’s and kept it still on her belly as she turned to face him.
“What about Max? Did you hear anything about him at the meeting?”
“No. If Cronin has him, there’s nothing that we can do. As Cronin’s son, Max belongs to his covenant.”
Vivienne nodded and pressed her lips together. She’d almost forgotten Max had been captured. He would be okay, though. His father wouldn’t hurt him. He was his father, for crying-out-loud.
***
Conall listened as Vivienne tried to convince herself of the safety of her friend. He said nothing to parry her hopes, but couldn’t share them. Max had betrayed his father, who happened to be a Grand Wizard. Cronin wouldn’t take that lightly.
Seconds, then minutes, streamed by with him listening to the steady sound of her breathing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so calm. His wolf seemed at ease; the man was as sated as he could be lying next to her. After he took her to Cedar Creek, he would give her time to adjust to his way of living. He’d heard her thoughts about the mating ceremony, and while they hadn’t pleased him, he understood.
“Did it hurt?” Vivienne traced her fingers along the crafted lines of black ink on his shoulder.
“It tickled,” he replied, and smiled when her eyes narrowed and she chuckled lightly. His mate had no idea of exactly how beautiful she was. Were females were mostly vain with their beauty. Their race worshipped perfection and a female of perfect face and form was the first to admire herself.
She shifted closer to him, and her breast rubbed against his tattooed arm. “How long did it take?”
Conall thought of his uncle painstakingly applying ink to his body over the course of weeks. It hadn’t been the most pleasant experience, but he’d just completed his training, and he’d wanted the symbolic tattoos. Had been adamant about it. Every male member of his father’s pack had been tattooed. Some of the females, too. The ink made them individual from the pack, and at the same time, united them. A tattoo could identify a beheaded body, and enable the pack to make sure that wolf received an honorable burial.
“A few weeks.”
She lifted a brow and continued to run her fingers along his shoulder. “What does it mean?”
“The Celts are an expressive people. We dabble in the arts and music. Any form of creativity is welcomed.” He paused and pushed the covers down. “It means many things. Life.” He paused and took her hand, pressing it to one of the symbols wrapped in the curves and loops on his chest. “Death. Peace. War. Brotherhood. Family.” Each time, he touched her hand to another spot, and each time, Vivienne traced the symbol.
***
“You’re a Celt?” Vivienne was no scholar on Celtic lore but she remembered a couple of things. Conall nodded.
“Do you speak Gaelic?”
He said some foreign words that sounded lyrical and wonderful. Her brows furrowed in confusion. “What—?”
You are more beautiful than any woman I’ve seen.
Vivienne blinked, and then an almost embarrassed smile touched her lips. He only chuckled.
“Thank you. Was that Gaelic?”
He nodded. “Yes, alainn.”
She felt herself tremble as the word rolled off his tongue with ease. “What does that mean?”
“It means ‘beautiful one’.”
A slight blush touched her cheeks as the weight of what he’d said settled in. “If you’re a Celt, how old are you?”
“I’m old by your standards, Vivienne,” he said slowly.
She lifted a brow. “What is ‘old by my standards,’ Conall?”