Highland Shadows (Beautiful Darkness Series Book 1) by Lily Baldwin Page B

Serge turned his back on the moors and studied the forest. Standing near the tangled brink, he savored the grotesque splendor of the trees. Wickedness had infected their roots with greed. Over the years, he had watched gentle leaves give way to cruel, twisted limbs, which blocked out moonlight and wove impenetrable webs. His gaze wandered over the thick, black expanse. There was an unexpected beauty in its harshness that pleased him to no end.
    He glanced down at Emmanuel who had grown silent. Slowly, his dented face filled out as crushed bone mended.
    “Do not try my patience again,” Serge warned. “Lest you find yourself broken beyond repair. Anyway, I cannot understand your desire to return to the city. I grow weary of stone. It feels too much like a coffin.” He stretched his arms wide. “Here one can breathe.” He closed his eyes and made the motions of inhaling, imagining his useless lungs filled with wintry, Highland air. “Besides, Highlanders make the best slaves. Strong and courageous, they’re a delight to break.”
    Cracking tree limbs drew Serge’s attention. “Here is Hamish now.” He offered Emmanuel a hand up, but angry, blue eyes locked with his. Serge brushed the back of his fingertips down Emmanuel’s newly healed jaw, ignoring his companion’s fierce scowl. “Forgive my temper. I admit I was cruel.”
    Emmanuel stood, a sneer twisting his fine features. “You ensured my forgiveness when you made me. You are all I have.”
    Serge shrugged, sweeping his long, blond hair off his shoulders. “In time, you will know the gift you’ve been given.”
    He turned his attention back to the wood. Cracking noises persisted, growing louder with every passing second. Then a large fist shot like lightning out from the trees, followed by a bare foot, which splintered through a thick trunk. The rest of the man emerged, breaking free from the forest’s grip. He had massive shoulders, red hair softened by moonlight, and wore naught but a plaid slung low on his hips.
    “Come see my stock,” he said to Serge without ceremony.
    Serge smiled at Hamish Munro. He was his sort of werewolf: beautiful and wicked to the core. Stepping into the wood, Serge spied a large cage deep inside. Three men peered through the irons, all tall and broad of shoulder. His eyes raked over their naked bodies, admiring their thick muscles. When he drew even closer one snaked out his hand and grabbed Serge’s cloak before he saw it coming.
    Serge smiled. “Impressive.” Then Hamish reached inside with a narrow club and jabbed the man hard in the ribs.
    “Take your pick,” Hamish said. “Their soul’s are too pure for my purposes.”
    “What is your name?” Serge asked the man who had grabbed him. He stared hard at Serge but did not reply.
    Serge curled his fingers around the bars and leaned close. He looked the Highlander over, pausing at length to study his soft amber eyes. “You do have a good soul, Highlander. I can tell. I look forward to ruining you. Now, tell me your name.”
    With a defiance Serge had come to expect and appreciate from Highland stock, the man stepped forward. “I’ll not,” he snarled.
    A slow smile spread Serge’s lips wide. Then his fangs dropped.
    The man’s eyes widened in alarm. “Kendrick,” he said, scrambling away from the bars.
    “Good boy, Kendrick.” He retracted his fangs. “I’ll take this one,” he said to Hamish. “I like his spirit.”
    When Hamish did not respond, he swung around. His host had stepped free from the trees and had trained his ear toward the moors. Serge joined him. “What do you hear?”
    “A pounding heart, racing breaths.”
    Serge scanned the hills. His ears lacked Hamish’s range, but his powerful eyes easily caught the movement of a pure white wolf racing over the moors.
    Hamish growled.
    “Do not move,” Serge warned, dropping his fangs and grazing the points across Hamish’s bare shoulders. He froze. “Put them away,” Hamish said. “I’ll