Redemption

Averill slowly exited the Underground and took in the clear view of the moon. A few more days and it would be full. She was crawling with anxiety. Desperate to have the wolves return with Alasdair . . . Bryce. That’s what he was going by now, Bryce. He’d always be Alasdair to her. The man who was drained within an inch of his life and left for dead. Averill could have let him die. She gave him immortality. She saved him. That’s what he chose to forget.

He should have worshipped her. Instead, he resented her.

And for what? It’s not as if he was happy in his mortal life. Hadn’t he been driven out of his home by the wolves? Did he really think a life loading ships by the docks would be what satisfied him? Eadgar and Eadric’s blood thirsty soldiers had gone after him. That was five hundred years ago, and old wounds are difficult to heal. They claimed they weren’t a fan of his accent. Averill doubted it was his accent at all, but rather how intimidating he was. Even as a human.

When she had first seen him—broken, beaten, and drained—she wanted him. Something about his spilled blood called to her. She had crouched down and listened to his chest. His heartbeat was faint but still determined to go on. That was the first thing that intrigued her. When his emerald eyes locked on hers, that was the second. But the final thing that sealed his immortal fate were his words, “Kill me. I’m nae afraid.”

No, Averill didn’t kill him. She gave Alasdair so much more than that. He could have ruled beside her, become the final member of the Council. But he denied her. How he broke the sire bond, Averill never knew. He should have wanted nothing more than to be by her side. But he didn’t care for Averill. He didn’t seem to care for any of the things that were offered to him. Money, power, sex . . . it all meant nothing to him.

Alasdair just continued on, following orders, keeping his head down for centuries. Averill half expected Alasdair wasn’t a real man at all. Perhaps he was a eunuch. Having never known the pleasure of seeing him without his trousers, she couldn’t be sure. She did see him in his kilt once at a formal ceremony. Malaric had another tribe of vampires come from the North to negotiate new laws. There was much blathering and threats tossed across Malaric’s table. Needless to say, those Northern vampires never returned home, and Averill never got close enough to look up Alasdair’s kilt. So no one really won that day.

Had he continued in this fashion, Averill might have lost interest… or at least enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. But he didn’t just carry on. He did the unspeakable. Alasdair saved a whore from a vampire feeding frenzy and turned her into an immortal. He gave a woman that slept beside rats the dark gift, as if it were not sacred at all. Then, the couple claimed each other as mates.

There was nothing Averill could do. She was forced to watch for years as a simpleton had the life she was destined for. A life with Alasdair. She begged Malaric to execute them, but he refused, stating Alasdair was not in the wrong. He had registered his newborn and trained her to be obedient of the Council. Averill knew Malaric favored Alasdair. She often wondered if it came down to it, would Malaric choose her or him?