A Druid of Her Own

Chapter One

Spinning, Kennard O'Caha held his sword at the ready, his entire body honed and prepared for battle. He was a warrior, and his skills were sharp. He wished he could say the same for the man nearest him. His gaze moved to his cousin, Liam, as Liam's cell phone ringtone filled the darkened grotto. Any hope of making a stealthy entrance and catching the enemy by surprise was gone. He shot his cousin a hard look as a song about someone leading a gangster life emanated from the cell phone and echoed off the cavern's walls. No one would be surprised to see them now. Not with the amount of noise they were making.

Okay, the amount of noise Liam was making.

Of course, the dark mage they were hunting didn't have the same level of hearing they did, but anyone could hear the ruckus being raised by Liam. They didn't require preternatural senses.

Kennard tipped his head to the side, his gaze fixed on Liam as the song continued to play. He sighed. "Yer a gangster? Since when?"

"Somewhere around the 17 th century is my best guess." Liam laughed, worrying his jaw with one hand. "The damn War of the Three Kingdoms made me hardcore and gave me street cred. Now, people see my plaid colors and they shake in fear."

"Shake in fear, do they?" mocked Kennard. He'd have yelled at Liam for the cell phone, but there was no point. Liam wouldn't listen or care. His cousin did as he pleased. Always had. Always would. And if Kennard dared to make too big of a deal of it, Liam would be sure to repeat the incident as much as possible.

Liam grinned, the look rather wolfish and fitting, considering. "Aye. I terrify them."

"This explains so much," replied Kennard, a note of sarcasm to his words. Liam was the family jokester. The one who always tried to lighten the mood. He was also the one they tended to lose their patience with first. Probably had something to do with the jokes. No one ever claimed Liam was actually funny. Well, no one except Liam, that was.

The ringtone continued to bounce off the cavern walls, echoing from far-reaching corners, coming back at them threefold. With a groan, Kennard cast a disapproving look in his cousin's direction. "Do you nae understand we're up against a dark sorcerer and mayhap we do nae want to let him know exactly where we are or even that we've found his lair?"

Liam pursed his lips, seeming in deep thought as his dark hair fell forward in his eyes. A devil-may-care smile eased over his face. "Aye, it occurred to me and then I said fuck it."

Obviously.

"Must be the street cred talkin'," said Kennard snidely.

"Want me to flash my plaid colors. That'll teach him how hardcore I am," answered Liam, sounding anything but comfortable with the phrase.

"Oh, please do. I'm sure he'll quiver with fright." Kennard squeezed the hilt of his sword tighter. Heavy use and centuries of remembered touch left him knowing every inch of it. Pure muscle memory for him now. It felt more like an extension of himself than the killing instrument it was.

Liam's ringtone continued. Kennard stifled a growl. Had Liam not been kin he'd have entertained using his sword against him. As it was, they were blood and blood was everything to their kind—immortal druid sorcerers who were sworn to protect mankind against evil. O'Caha men stuck together through thick and thin. Hell, one of their clansmen was actually half blood-drinker and they still accepted him, even when he hadn't been able to accept himself.

Thankfully, that had ended well.

Then there was Kennard, his brothers and a select number of his cousins who were slaves to the moon, because in addition to being druid sorcerers, they were shifters as well. It was rare but happened every now and then. Kennard's mother and Liam's mother were first cousins, both coming from a line of shifters. The women had married brothers— druid brothers. Though, the women weren't the first additions of shifters or other supernaturals introduced to the long-standing line of druids. The O'Caha bunch was powerful and spread out over the world, though close-knit all the same.

"I hope we kill him quickly," said Liam, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I've a need to run and the moon calls to me."

"Aye, it calls to me as well, cousin. Are yer runes holding'?" he asked.

"For now," replied Liam.

They'd been relying on dangerous magiks to help keep them in human form for the time being—something not recommended or encouraged—so close to finally ending the dark mage that they didn't dare stop, even for a night. And it was wise they hadn't. Athol was cornered now and they'd finally end his reign of terror. Too many close calls had already occurred on the hunt for the famed dark sorcerer as it was. They couldn't risk many more. They would end him tonight or die trying.

"Are you ready to focus?" asked Kennard, wishing he'd brought the other twin in with him from the start, in place of Liam. Cillian was more by the books, less ringtones. He'd also been highly against them drawing upon dark magik to suppress their wolves, but he'd caved to the pressure and gone along with it, knowing they couldn't risk missing the chance to destroy Athol even though the opportunity lined up with a full moon. Cillian was making sure there was no other way out for the evil dark mage. He was also probably still protesting under his breath about their choices.

Liam nodded. "Time to find and kill this bastard."

"Agreed."

Liam ran a hand through nearly black hair that hung just past his shoulders. The men in Clan O'Caha kept their hair longer, as had been the custom back in the days when most, such as Kennard and his cousins, were born some seven hundred years ago. Others in their clan were even older. Seven hundred years was a long time to roam the Earth, protecting it and its inhabitants from evil. It was a tireless, thankless job, but one they'd all been called to perform by Powers greater than them.

Shoving his cell into the back pocket of his jeans, Liam waggled his brows, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Shirtless, with a sword strapped to his back, wearing jeans and military boots, Liam looked like something time had hodgepodged together. He also could have gone either way with good guy or crazed lunatic. Kennard guessed most would assume the latter of the man.

They wouldn't be entirely off the mark.

There were many times Cillian and Kennard wondered how sane Liam was anymore. He was old and time had not been kind to him emotionally. If he didn't mate soon, they'd be hunting him in much the same fashion they were Athol.

They'll be hunting us all, thought Kennard.

Kennard liked dressing as he once had, with his plaid and his weapons. It felt right. As a highlander should dress. But he drew the line at the old footwear, preferring modern boots instead. In many respects he wasn't that far off his cousin's chosen attire.

He winced at the realization.

Looking down the blackened corridor, Kennard knew it led to the dark sorcerer in question—Athol. Evil floated over the air and it thickened around him, making him feel miserable.

The man's heart was black and he bled evil.

Pure and simple.

Long ago Athol had been a druid too, like them. But the lure of the dark arts had proven too strong and he'd turned his back on the druid path, forgoing their beliefs. Ignoring the ethos. The innocent lives lost to the madman were too high in number to count. And all had been to feed Athol's hunger for more power. Tapping into the darkness came at a high cost to the individual as well as those around him. Many times innocents were caught in the crossfire.

He had to be stopped at all cost. And that was what Kennard and his cousins planned to do. Kill the prick and put an end to his terror. Then go for ale and drink until they forgot their own names. They'd more than likely find some beautiful women who wanted to have their worlds rocked by them, and they'd all reconvene the next day, hungover and with their needs sated.

The hunt for Athol had been extensive. More than any Kennard had participated in over the past several centuries, making Athol a worthy opponent, even though he was a boil on the ass of humanity. Prior to the increase in his powers afforded him by the dark magiks, he'd been a weak druid. The type who would never be selected for any grand tasks. He'd been bottom of the barrel then and Kennard was sure it was why the man had turned his back on it all—hungry for more power, more status and, in his mind, more respect.

His cousins thought Kennard had become obsessed with hunting Athol—especially over the past two decades. They didn't quite see him as the threat Kennard did. And they did not share his burning need to find and end him, as if Athol had offended him personally, rather than betrayed the druids as a whole.

Kennard couldn't explain it and he no longer bothered trying. He just knew he had to find and end Athol. That it was imperative Athol not be allowed to live.

Cillian, Liam's twin in looks only, entered the corridor. "He's here. I'm sure of it."

"Aye," answered the other two men.

Cillian paused. "Why is it I heard music coming from the cave on my approach?"

Kennard pointed to Liam. "You really have to ask?"

"No." Cillian armed himself as well. "We do this now."

Kennard couldn't have said it better himself. They'd spent too long hunting Athol and had fought too many battles to let him get away. The time had finally come. Fate was on their side.

Or so he hoped.

He felt it then, cold, evil power spreading over his feet, inching up his ankles, to his calves. The dark energy encased his lower legs, trying to hold him in place as it attempted to sap the ancient power coursing through Kennard's veins. He was too old to permit such a thing from happening and too versed in the magiks of his kind to fall prey to such trickery. He'd dabbled his fair share in the dark arts in his younger years. He was not a novice. Far from it.

Liam lifted a booted foot, shaking off the nuisance spell. "Guessin' dickhead knows we're here."

"Guid," Kennard said, moving forward in the cavern. "I'm eager for a fight."

The three men entered deeper into the blanket of raw power. The power changed, taking on a deeper threat, one that caused the men to glance at one another, alarmed as their personal wards were tested by the dark magik. Each man was skilled in the arts of magik, but the three druids didn't make a habit of drawing upon the dark arts as Athol did. As Kennard entered the larger open area of the cavern, Athol was there, his arms wide, standing wearing nothing more than a dark brown robe. The air smelled of sex. Kennard's wolf picked up on it at once and recognized it for what it was—sex magik.

Kennard didn't want to know how many women the dark mage had gone through to gather the extra power he now wielded. More than once in their long history of hunting him he'd taken human women to his bed, using them to gather sexual energy and magik before sapping their very souls, their essence, their lives.

They'd nearly caught Athol some twenty-three years back because of the man's weakness for women. He'd taken up with a young woman in a small town, setting up something of a life there, which was laughable. When Kennard had found Athol, he'd been standing over the woman's dead body, covered in blood, holding something tight to his chest before he'd vanished.

Kennard stilled, remembering how he'd hesitated back then. He'd had the perfect chance to run Athol through with his sword but he'd not taken it. He'd not even thrown magik at the man—when he was more than capable of doing so. It was a truth he'd never confessed to his cousins, mainly because he couldn't rationalize why he'd choked in such a manner.

This was his chance at redemption. A chance to finally end Athol once and for all. An opportunity to end his obsession with stopping the man. And maybe prevent whatever horrible event of Athol's design he felt was pending.

Athol was the bringer of death and destruction. He had to die.

The mage's hair whipped in the chilled wind that had suddenly sprung up. Symbols, each a testament to how far down the path of darkness he'd gone, covered his chest, legs and arms.

Kennard could hardly judge the man on that account. He and his cousins each wore some of the same symbols. Each had touched darkness more than once.

Athol whispered a chant, summoning additional dark powers to him. The chant wasn't one Kennard recognized and he'd had over seven centuries to master the craft. This dark magik was different—darker even than that Athol normally wielded. Oddly, rather than raising his hackles, the new power called to Kennard. It piqued his interest, making him want to run his hand out and through it to know it better—to know where and who it really came from.

Glancing at Liam, he expected his cousin to make a comment on it too. But neither Liam nor Cillian seemed to notice it. Was it merely a trick? Something to fool just Kennard?

No.

It was real.

Kennard drew upon his natural shields to protect him from the impact and lure of darkness. As an unmated male, with as many centuries as he had behind him, he found the temptation to go the way of evil harder and harder to resist anymore, especially since he'd dared to dabble in it to help him fight Athol. While Cillian and Liam had joined him in drawing on the dark for their current expedition, they'd not done so as much as Kennard, nor as many times.

"What the hell is he doin'?" cried Liam as an unseen force knocked him backwards, his hand going to his chest.

Cillian grabbed for his brother, yanking Liam out of harm's way by a hairsbreadth before a bolt of raw, unfiltered power followed and struck the area where Liam had just been standing. Kennard tried to advance on Athol, but was knocked back as well. The sizzling charge of power stole his breath and it took him a moment to recover, longer than it should have.

The O'Caha men pushed forward as one, their swords and their magik at the ready, creating a shield in front of them. They threw power at Athol, visibly weakening him with each strike so that he stumbled. A second before they would have run him through with their swords, the dark sorcerer burst into a dust ball of blackness that fluttered to the floor around them. A plume of the ash rose up and the men coughed, none wanting to breathe in powdered bad guy if they could help it.

"What the…?" Cillian cleared his throat and bent, gathering the remnants of Athol in his hands. "I've never seen a dark mage do that."

"Aye, was different," chimed Kennard, unsure exactly what had happened.

Cillian tipped his head, holding ash up to Kennard. "Is he dead?"

"I'd say so," added Liam as he lifted a handful of what remained. "Though, I do nae recall a time in the past when anything other than a blood drinker turned to ash at its demise."

"Me either," Kennard added as he moved forward, pushing his booted foot through the remaining ash. Liam was right. They'd never seen anything like it happen outside of blood drinkers when they died. He glanced at his cousins. "Think it's a trick?"

"Nae a trick I've ever seen," said Liam, jutting out his chin. "You?"

"No," answered Kennard, bending and lifting a handful of the ash and then letting it fall through his fingertips. "I've nae seen anything of the sort."

Cillian shrugged. "Looks dead to me. Let's get a drink."

Liam snorted. "Aye. I'm up for a pint. Kennard?"

An uneasy feeling settled over Kennard. He wasn't so sure they'd seen the last of Athol. After battling the man and his minions for centuries, the death had been underwhelming to say the least. In his mind he'd imagined the battle at the end would be epic. This was anything but. "Go on without me. I'm goin' to make sure he's dead and gone."

His cousins shared a look before rolling their eyes. Cillian was first to bend next to Kennard. "Cousin, he's gone."

"I expected…more. We spent so long hunting him and he's killed so many. He was a powerful opponent, and for it to end like this? It does nae feel right. I always assumed it would be more dramatic when we killed him."

Cillian touched his shoulder. "Aye, as did we, but dead is dead. Let's drink. Then we can figure out a way to try to force a shift. I need to run. I suspect we all do."

"And find bonnie lasses to fuck," added Liam, pulling a groan from the other men. He pumped his hips, humping air. "I might get me two or three. Lasses like to share me."

Chapter Two

The roar of motorcycles was near deafening as the rush of them rode past her tiny coffee shop, their sound carrying easily as the doors and windows were all open. So much leather. So much muscular hotness in one place. Maggie wasn't sure she could handle much more testosterone overload. She spent her free time—which wasn't much of late—reading romance books, always hoping for a hero of her own, but in truth, she wouldn't know what to do with an alpha male.

She'd probably run and hide. The idea of one was great. The reality was more than likely very different. She was also strong-willed in many respects, though she kept that fact a carefully guarded secret—only Maria, her best friend, knew the truth. It was best those around her believed her mild and weak. They already had enough fear of her oddities, and the rumors from her childhood still swirled around the small town. Adding fodder, or in this case, the truth that she could stand against them if they ever turned on her. She was Mad Maggie. The girl who'd sworn, at various points in her life, that she saw a man who looked to have a snake's head. That was before he moved to just haunting her dreams. She was the girl who blamed the same snake-headed man on what had happened to one of her foster fathers—a man who had tried to get fresh with her, but ended up being thrown out a second-story window and who landed some thirty feet from the home, still breathing.

He'd had no memory of how he'd come to be in that state other than he'd been headed to Maggie's room. So naturally, she'd been blamed. Mad Maggie the witch. Mad Maggie the crazy girl who said she sees demons.

She'd thought herself crazy for a portion of her youth, until she learned demons were real and bad crap was out there, wanting to hurt good people. Then she realized everyone else in town was just clueless and she actually started to feel a little bad for them. She also stopped talking about the snake-headed man to anyone except her best friend.

For now, the townspeople had at least accepted her enough to keep her coffee shop with a steady stream of business. They came in, ordered their fancy lattes or hipster tea blends, read books or worked on their computers quietly, letting her be, and she let them be. It was perfect.

Bike Week in the lakeside town was something a lot of locals dreaded. It brought with it thousands of bikers. The tourism center nearly wet itself every year it happened, gleeful with the added revenue it brought. This year it coincided with the Christmas in July festivities, meaning a larger crowd than normal was expected—that, and some bikers rode in dressed as Santa, which always made Maggie smile. She loved the holidays, even made-up ones. Though, it was a bit difficult to totally get in the spirit of the holiday when it was pushing a hundred degrees out and the humidity was nearly eighty percent. Somehow, sweat and Santa did not go hand in hand in her mind.

The shop was decked out in Christmas lights, and paper snowflakes were strung up behind the counter. She was going to put up a small Christmas tree in the corner, but Maria talked her out of it, saying she'd probably already done enough as it was, considering it really was only July after all.

She was probably right.

Maria tended to be her voice of reason. Most of the time. But not when it came to men. Maria loved just about any man and was a hopeless flirt. Maggie not so much.

"Damn bikers," grumbled Mr. Hopkins from the side table nearest the window. The elderly man was a regular, coming in every day at the same time, ordering a black coffee and a piece of cinnamon bread Maggie always made fresh each day. Mr. Hopkins didn't like much in the world, but she knew he loved his daily treat.

She smiled. "They bring a lot of business to the town."

The elderly man glanced around her shop that, while busy, wasn't filled to capacity, and currently had no bikers in it that she was aware of. That didn't surprise her. Most of the bars and grills were now open for the day and that seemed to be where the new arrivals congregated. It had a lot to do with the live bands that started around eleven when those places opened.

Maggie kept the smile on her face as she refilled Mr. Hopkins's coffee. This would be his last warm-up. He only liked getting three. Said it was his limit and he was quite the creature of habit.

"Do you plan on marrying?" he asked out of the blue.

She held the carafe in her hand and watched him, avoiding a response as one was unnecessary. Everyone in town knew she was the town crazy. The weird girl with the disturbing past and the strange friend. A man wasn't in her future. Not if she stayed in town. And whether or not the town of Sandsville knew it, they needed her and her strange friend. Now more than ever. Sandsville was a hotbed of paranormal activity, though she didn't know why. If she were a demon she'd have found somewhere more exciting than Ohio to bother with, but who knew, maybe they were into lake-effect snow in the winter and humidity and oppressive heat in the summer.

To each his own.

Maggie and Maria had only just finished dealing with a group of demons who had come to town looking for a cult following. They'd nearly managed to gain one from the disenfranchised youth they preyed upon, but the girls had put a stop to it. Maggie had used her magik and Maria had used her strength, speed and a dagger that was bespelled. Normally, Maggie would have been able to help more, but she'd been so drained the last few weeks, never feeling rested and always feeling a little under the weather. Thankfully, in the end, several of the group of demons were no longer breathing and the rest had hightailed it out of town, just beating the rush of bikers descending on the place.

The residents thought the bikers were demons on two wheels. Not Maggie. She'd met real demons in her life. Men dressed in leather weren't anything to be worried about. Not with what really roamed the earth and was out there, waiting for a chance to strike. Humans were clueless and that was for the best. They tended to panic easily.

Evil had been growing in the area, getting a foothold over the past several years, and if Maggie and Maria left, no one would be around to stop whatever was happening. Heck, very few even recognized it for what it was. They just saw it as a rise in crime. According to the locals it had a lot to do with all the riff-raff that was coming in from the bigger cities.

More like coming in from hell.

Demons sucked.

No way around it.

Mr. Hopkins grumbled, pulling her attention back to the here and now. He ate the last of his bread before glancing back up at her. "You're young and pretty. How is it a man hasn't swept you off your feet? Does it have anything to do with all those romance books I see you reading? You waiting for a man to live up to the standards set in those?"

She was, but knew that wasn't really an option.

"Nah, just a warm body with a pulse." She was only half kidding.

It earned her a grin from the normally cantankerous man and she let him be, heading off to take an order at the counter. A steady stream of patrons came and went, and she knew the day's earnings would be decent. She would never be rich, but she got by and that was all that mattered.

A slow smile touched her lips as she heard even more motorcycles. She relished the swell of newcomers who came for the festivities. Loved getting to talk with new people and hear about their travels. Quite often those who came were from far away, much further than she'd ever traveled. While she was worldly in the way of things that went bump in the night, she'd barely seen anything outside of the tri-city area. If you took away what she was and what she knew existed, she was just a small-town girl who wanted to see the world, but was too afraid to leave her comfort zone to do it.

"Hey there, sexy thing."

She cringed at the smarmy voice of the assistant manager of the bar across the street from her coffee shop. The very sound of him often made her feel as if bugs were crawling on her. He'd talk, she'd think a spider had fallen on her and was creeping its way over her. Even now, she shivered, doing a small heebie-jeebies-induced shudder.

Everything about Rodney screamed snake in the grass. She'd met demons who affected her less than he did. Her response to him had always been disgust. Ever since she'd had to go to his rickety trailer on the edges of the town to grab mail that had been "accidentally" delivered to him—though she strongly suspected he took it from her shop's outer box —she could easily imagine him there, rubbing one out, as he watched the endless porn he owned. He'd been so proud of the collection, trying to get her to agree to stay and watch some with him.

She shuddered again.

No thanks.

She'd thought of banning him from her establishment, but had a feeling that would only make matters worse with him. He wasn't the type to take no lightly. It wasn't as if she'd hadn't run into her fair share of slime balls, but Rodney did seem to take the cake. It was as if he tried to be the biggest sleaze she'd ever met. Maybe he did. And maybe he was. All Maggie knew was she avoided ever being alone with him, as did any woman who had the displeasure of meeting the man.

His beady gaze swept to her collection of romance novels behind the counter. "Mags, if it's a man you're after, I've got what you need."

She almost gagged.

One of these days she was going to hit him with so much power his head spun. She resisted the urge to do so now. She did her best to ignore him as she moved past him—forcing down the need to vomit. He crowded her space and she thought about beating the crap out of him. She could do it. She was stronger than humans and spent enough time at learning self-defense that she was skilled too. She had to be. Killing paranormal uglies required both speed and know-how. Maria was even better at it than her, but then again, Maria had an unfair advantage. "What can I get you to drink, Rodney?"

"A large cup of you, sweetness," he returned, easing closer. She moved around to the back of the counter again, thankful it was between them. She didn't want to make skin-to-skin contact with him.

"A large mocha latte?" she asked, already knowing his order. He got the same thing every day.

With a nod, he glanced at the door, watching as another wave of bikers drove past. "Assholes have landed."

"Pretty sure the biggest asshole has already been here," she murmured, pushing an artificial smile to her face as she set about making his order.

"Still waiting for Prince Charming?" he asked, his attention back on her books. "That why you always have your nose in those romance books?"

"I enjoy reading them, Rodney," she said, holding back the line of obscenities that wanted to fall from her lips. The guy wasn't worth the breath they'd take. She really wished she could make his coffee faster to get him out the door.

"Those kind of guys don't exist, sweetness," he said, raking his gaze over her in a way that left her feeling dirty. Most everything he said or did made her feel that way.

Maggie thrust his latte at him and didn't bother taking Rodney's bait about heroes from romance books. Like he'd know a real hero if one bit him in the backside. The guy lacked anything in the way of charm and had some questionable bathing habits to boot. He was nothing like the men she read about. The type of man she dreamed would whisk her away to somewhere wonderful and who wouldn't care that she was a total freak of nature.

That she was different.

The type of guy who would love all of her while being super hunky, and if she was really lucky, would have an accent on top of it all.

Mmm, a Scottish one, she thought, letting her mind run from her. Hey, if she was going to daydream about Prince Charming, she was going to dream him exactly the way she'd want. Tall, dark, different, and in a kilt.

Yummy.

"Daydreaming again, Maggie?" Rodney asked, ruining her fantasy of a hot Scottish guy coming to save her from her drab and somewhat dreary existence.

Maggie took his money and was thankful that this time it wasn't sticky. It had been more than once before. She'd still wash her hands after dealing with him. "Have a great day. I'm sure the bar will be busy."

He watched for a bit and then left, latte in hand.

She exhaled and scrubbed up. The weather had been warmer than usual for July, which meant it was downright oppressive at times. Most thought humidity wasn't really an issue in the area. They were wrong. But the warm weather meant the coffee shop could seat more patrons during the lunch hour by opening the French doors to the patio. More people meant more business and Maggie needed all the cash she could get. Her beat-up trailer needed too many repairs to list and her lease on the shop continued to go up and up. The owner of the row of buildings on her side of the street had everyone paying more than they should to be there but the alternative was she close up shop and move to a location in town that didn't get as much foot traffic. She'd never make it then.

Another wave of bikers passed and she pushed a smile to her face as she refilled an iced tea for one of her customers. She had a small, reliable staff, so she never felt overwhelmed. Since she'd started offering food options, business had picked up even more, but dealing with her short-order cook was proving to be interesting.

Josefina only spoke Spanish. Maria could hold wonderful conversations with her, but Maggie struggled to communicate. When Maria wasn't able to walk down and sort out a problem, Maggie either had to wait until Josefina's nephew showed to help translate or just forget there was an issue and work around the problem. Josefina was an amazing cook and she'd needed the job.

Maggie couldn't turn away anyone in real need. Not to mention, Maggie had it on good authority that Josefina wouldn't bat an eye if something supernatural were to happen around her. Apparently, she'd seen and done it all in her fifty-plus years.

Taking an order out to the front patio area, Maggie was lost in thought, so much so that the newest wave of bikers arriving caught her off guard, startling her as they came around the corner. The town would burst at the seams soon at the rate they kept coming.

Time seemed to slow as she spotted the biker nearest her. His long, jet-black hair hung just past his shoulders and had various braids in it, with dark leather straps securing the ends. His face was square, his jaw firm and powerful. Everything about him was powerful. He was set apart from all the others who had passed. He seemed rougher, manlier. He exuded alpha-maleness, something she hadn't been aware was even possible, but the guy had it in spades.

He was simply…more.

Romance hero kind of more, she thought, her body tightening as she soaked him in. An alpha male on two wheels.

A five o'clock shadow coated his strong jawline. Strange tribal markings of sorts covered his muscular arms. The black t-shirt he wore blocked her ability to see his chest, which she had little doubt was equally chiseled and buff. His jeans fit him perfectly, and even seated he had a great ass. Black sunglasses blocked her view of his eyes, but not the fact that he was staring at her. He veered a touch with his bike and she worried he'd wreck, watching her as hard as she was watching him.

For a moment it was as if they each held the end of an invisible string, connecting only them. For half a second Maggie worried her condition had gotten away from her. The feeling passed, but didn't totally vanish. It lingered just beneath the surface of her skin, making her very aware of his presence still. He kept pace with the other two men in his group, but there was no doubt he was just as interested in her as she was him.

She smiled softly and then it faded as reality set in. Nothing would come of the encounter. "No man for you."