Bound by Dreams. Christina Skye

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      CONTENTS

      PART ONE

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

      EPILOGUE

      AUTHOR’S NOTE

      PROLOGUE

      Sussex, England

       Draycott Abbey Summer

      THE NIGHT IS ALIVE, restless with dreams.

      Almost two decades have passed since he walked this soft grass. Touched these worn stones of Draycott Abbey.

      The name flows off his tongue, rich with history. Near his hand a mound of lavender stirs, cool with dew and perfume. The scent he remembers well, along with his hours of peace in the abbey’s shadow.

      Every detail of the great house is branded into his memory.

      For twenty years he has not come back to these green hills. The danger is too great, carrying the threat of what he once was…and can become again.

      The wind draws him to the moat’s edge. He smells the tall grass, feels the brush of young leaves on his skin. Somewhere in the darkness a hunting bird calls sharply.

      The night flows around him. Then the past rushes in with a surge of bitterness. The pain slams down.

      He remembers the betrayal and lost hope. From his innocence had come death.

      His muscles flex. Tendons move, blood sings. Power slides down like swift moonlight spilled across endless seas. The life he’d left behind rushes in, carrying the slap of the wind, the harsh rhythm of an old Gaelic curse.

      He remembers the hammer of callused hands at his neck and then the cold taste of blood.

      His own blood. From wounds that had left him dead, or close enough to call dead.

      He slips off his shoes.

      Thyme and mint crush beneath his feet, just like the last time he was here to visit his oldest friend.

      Sweat glistens on his bare skin. The night is cool, but to him it is warmth enough when the wind calls. Better to run, to hunt. It is safe here, because darkness is his home and haven.

      Roses brush his arm, scenting the air with perfume. His skin burns. The time of power floods through him.

      Muscles flex, changing to match a new shape and all its strength.

      His hands clench. He touches the low iron fence. One hand grips the cool rail as the power snaps. He lets down the final wall, feels the explosion of dark strength that surges through him.

      He remembers another night, too many years ago to count. His first taste of power—and the death it carried. He remembers a boy’s raw, bone-wrenching terror, understanding nothing. That night there had been no control, no confidence, no hope. Only death.

      Old history.

      Dead СКАЧАТЬ