unclaimed female phoenix dreaded the initial symptoms of her impending epithicas, the triennial fertility cycle that ruled her body for one full week. Every third May, she endured seven days of sheer physical misery. Seven days of hellish sexual cravings. Seven days during which she had to take a lover and hide herself so well no clan member could find her. By their race’s laws, any clansman who discovered her could take her without repercussion. She’d be hunted. Actively. And if found, she’d be willing enough during that seven days because the only relief she would find was in sexual contact. But once that week passed? She’d regret every action when her mind cleared and her body became her own again. Humiliation would threaten to drag her into the depths of despair while fear of pregnancy would have her terrified to look in the mirror every morning. Phoenix law held that whichever male had impregnated her could legally claim her as his chattel, tattoo the skin on her arms with his lineage and call her wife...no matter how many other wives he possessed.
After fleeing clan lands at only thirty-seven years old, she’d had three close calls—twice by poor luck, once by poor choice. The first two times had both scared and scarred her. The third time had cost her every dime of emotional currency she possessed and had left her not broken, exactly—unless she considered her heart. It had been shattered. Never, ever did she want a man to hold that much dominion over her again, be it by law or professed affection. Reason was irrelevant and emotions even more so. She would never willingly go there, or be that woman, in this or any other lifetime she claimed as her own.
So now she took precautions, kept a particular incubus-friend-with-benefits on call. He was a nonphoenix with no more interest in a relationship than she. Even the idea of a long-term affair was enough to make them both cringe. The problem? He wasn’t due to arrive for almost four more weeks. If her epithicas truly did arrive early? She was, in more ways than one, screwed.
Scowling, Ashley tucked the tray under one arm, spun on her heel and started toward the bar. She had to figure this out, had to determine whether she stayed through the end of her shift and then quietly disappeared or threw caution aside, grabbed her backpack and walked out now. She didn’t think there was a male phoenix in the room—she should have been aware of him. If he’d somehow evaded her and she discovered him? The decision was made. She wouldn’t walk out of the room. She’d leave at a dead run.
Of course, she could also hunker down here, lost in the little Irish village in County Clare, and find a bed partner to see her through the worst of things. If she could, she might just be able to keep the worst of the pheromones in check. The man would have to be willing to stay with her for the full week, able-bodied in defense should a male phoenix threaten and...well...there was that willing thing.
Lost in thought as she calculated her options, she nearly missed the man who’d swept in on the ocean breeze. Then he moved, crossing her path as he wound his way toward the same table of men she’d just left.
Standing several inches above her own six feet, his hair was the color of her favorite clover honey. Lighter and darker strands wove through the cut to make his hair appear multidimensional, even in the pub’s low light. Though he had the body of a warrior, it was his face that demanded her attention. He had a strong jaw, full lips and chiseled features, all of which gave him a near impossible appeal the fashion runways of Milan and Paris would worship. But his eyes were what commanded her complete attention. They were a light, bright blue. Faint creases at the corners said he smiled a lot and, sure enough, he did just that as several men hailed him in greeting.
Something about the man pleased her phoenix, making that part of her heat up until she was sweltering. Now wasn’t the time, though. She couldn’t afford the distraction—though a man like that would be ideal to see her through this. The problem? She could seduce the stranger for a night, maybe two, but convincing him to give up a week of his life for her as an unknown wasn’t realistic.
She slipped behind the bar and toed her backpack for reassurance before grabbing a glass, pulling a lager and then slamming it back. She dropped her chin with the last swallow and found the stranger’s gaze boring into hers. Undiluted desire slammed into her without warning, burning her from the inside out and incinerating every ounce of air in her lungs. The taste of ash on her tongue made her pull a second drink and slam it down even faster. Still, grit coated her mouth. She fought the urge to go straight up to the man and demand who, and what, he was, because he wasn’t a run-of-the-mill human. Oh, no. Too much power rolled off him for that. He also wasn’t a phoenix. If he had been, he would have arrowed straight toward her when her hair began the preliminary mating dance that was, as always, out of her control.
Thank the gods he’s not one of us. Otherwise he’d have me flat on my back in the middle of the bar, fighting for my life. She shuddered. At least until the madness claimed me.
When she shuddered a second time, her empty pint glass slipped from her fingers.
The sound of shattering glass against the stone floor had a wave of attention shifting toward her. Several men laughed and whistled, calling her out—her—out over the broken glass. She, who tossed bottles and slid drinks and juggled empties—and had never broke a one. Yet experiencing a polite, if solitary, glance from a stranger had her falling apart.
Damn hormones.
She refused to blush, instead offering the crowd a wicked grin and one-fingered salute.
Grabbing the broom and pan, she cleaned up without comment, never acknowledging the jests. She’d work, simply work, and if the man became a problem, she’d deal with him. Until that point, she wouldn’t allow herself to worry. More importantly, she’d keep her temper in check. Good rule of thumb, not killing while on the clock. So far she’d held to that little rule.
So far.
“Fifteen minutes, as promised,” Gareth announced to the men gathered around the large corner table. “I trust you didn’t drink the house dry.”
His teasing was met with laughter and jests. Several men rearranged their chairs or scooted deeper along the lone bench to make room for Gareth. Instead of slipping in among the men, though, he tossed his jacket down before retrieving a vacant chair from a neighboring table. Flipping the battered and aged oak seat around, he straddled it loosely, rested his forearms along the square back and leaned forward. “Who’s buying the first round?”
“Age before beauty,” Jacob announced.
Gareth grinned. “Like that is it? Need I remind you to respect your elders lest you find yourself on indefinite kitchen duty?”
“You’ve resorted to pulling rank. That means I managed to back you into a corner in moments,” Jacob said, grinning. “That’s worth peeling potatoes for a week...hell, a month, and without a word of complaint—mostly because I’d no idea it would be so easy.”
The men laughed, Gareth included, though he was obliged to reach over and cuff the young man on the back of the head. “Mind your manners. I’m older than you, but I’m far from old. I’ll kick yer arse to the Aran Islands and see you come summertime when it’s warm enough for you to swim home.” A flash of color and the tinny sound of a cheering crowd drew Gareth’s attention to the wall-mounted television where Ireland’s national soccer team played Scotland. “So, what’s the score?”
“Two minutes into the second half. Ireland’s up by one.”
The woman’s voice was as smoky as a two-finger shot of single barrel whiskey and as smooth as the waters of Loch Mor.
A jolt of pure, sensual pleasure arrowed through Gareth and settled a solid eight inches below his navel. He closed his eyes and took a bracing breath. “Care to repeat that?” Please.
Instead of answering, she chuckled. “Sure and if anything changes, I’ll gladly shout it out for you. In the meantime, what may I get you from the bar? Guinness? Whiskey? Murphy’s?” She must have shifted because the air moved and carried with it her scent—campfire smoke, warm flannel and the faintest hint of something