Velvet Haven

Table of Contents

Bran felt her before he saw her.

A woman with long black hair stepped forward, and he struggled to pretend indifference. The white shimmering band of her aura weaved its way over to him. Through the window it came, his magic calling it forth, beckoning it. She was strong, but there was a vulnerability there as well that engaged him, made him want to explore it. And she was passionate. He felt the desire, the longing for pleasure. The ache for sex. She wanted it but she would fight him, make him work to convince her to accept him. There was something so raw and primal about her; if he could make her submit to him, he felt he could survive off that energy for years.

It was so rare, a pure white aura. White meant perfect balance. He should probably fear it, but he was drawn to it—to her. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to take all her pleasure inside his body and convert it into magic.

Yes, this mortal female would give him great power. Tonight.

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First published by Heat, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, March 2010

Copyright © Sophie Renwick, 2010 All rights reserved

HEAT is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Renwick, Sophie.
Velvet Haven / Sophie Renwick.
p. cm.—(The Annwyn chronicles series; bk. 1)

eISBN : 978-1-101-18582-7

I. Title.
PS3618.E64V46 2010
813’.6—dc22 2009039627

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Velvet Haven
would not be here if not for the wisdom, patience, and hand-holding of my excellent editor, Tracy Bernstein. Thank you for helping me see the forest for the trees! It was sometimes a difficult task, but thanks for sticking with me and not giving up on either Bran or me!

From this darkness will rise the sacred nine, bringing the beginning and ending of all things. But there will be one among them, a Dark Soul, whose ascent shall either be that of savior
. . .
or destroyer.

Death.
Even now it was bearing down upon him, its arrival thick, menacing.
Unstoppable
.

Kneeling on the ground, eyes closed, heart beating heavily in his chest, Bran waited for the inevitable. Just as he did every night when the moon rose and the winds stilled, he awaited his vision.

It was a gift, this ability to divine death. It had saved many of his people over the centuries. But now his gift was more a curse. To envision his own murder, but not when or by whom, left him wondering why the universe had allowed him this warning. Why bother, when none of the information necessary to protect himself from his untimely end was given to him?

When would his murderer arrive and who would it be? Those two questions had plagued him for months. Tonight, he
would
get answers.

Listening intently, he heard the shimmering birch leaves coalesce with the whisper of wind that swept through the dark woods. Combined, the two reminded him of a woman’s sultry laugh. The sound made his body tighten with anger he found difficult to restrain.
Morgan.
She was the reason behind this. Even from the Wastelands her spell bound him to her.

Bitch
.

He should have just married the witch and been done with it. Then his brother would not have been damned and lost to him. And he himself would not be carrying the Legacy Curse.

But now was not the time to dwell on the past. It was the future that brought him here tonight. A future he
must
find a way to alter.

As the minutes ticked by, the moon ascended higher in the sky, the beams creeping through oak branches, penetrating the grove slowly, a graceful arch across the black velvet that draped the altar before which he knelt. Once the silver rays illuminated the pewter chalice, filling the body of the cup, it would be midnight and time for him to die.

The silver beam, Bran noticed, had just crept to the rim of the chalice.

He stilled his mind. Quieting his breathing, he gazed deep into the glow of the candles that surrounded the altar. Almost immediately, he found himself at one with the grove, the trees, the animals in the forest. The life force of the elements wove around him, wrapping around his knees, then his body, until he felt the energy on his face. He harnessed the strength, the protectiveness, of the magick circle he had created, and watched the first glimmer of moonlight sneak into the chalice.

Seconds later, Death arrived.

As it always did, it claimed him in its cold, unrelenting grip. The familiar imagery floated before him and he swayed, trying to search deep within for the strength to hold on and divine as much as he could from Death’s visit.