Free Becoming Bad (The Becoming Novels) by Jess Raven, Paula Black

to that girl.
    ‘Is that what I am? The love-child of some monk’s broken vow?’ Even as a child, Ash rarely questioned her paternity. It hurt her mother to speak of it. Little wonder, if she was the result of a one-night-stand, or worse, with some horny priest who couldn’t keep it in his pants. She’d assumed if her mother hadn’t wanted to tell her, she was better off in the dark. ‘Do you know who my father was?’
    ‘I cannot say with certainty, but my every instinct tells me he was one of us, a pure-blood wolf.’
    ‘Are you telling me one of your men raped my mother?’
    ‘We are not the monsters you think us. We are a proud and ancient race fighting for survival, and desperate times call for extreme measures. Fomorians inhabited Ireland before any others; We have as much right to our homeland as they do. Is it wrong to desire freedom?’
    ‘Will you grant me mine?’ she challenged.
    Mac moved with animal grace towards the door, aiming gruff words over his shoulder. ‘I want to help you, Ashling. Let me. In time, you will see Fomor as a home, not a prison, and perhaps, what you feel for me … can be something more than just this blood-tie we share. I have already waited an eternity. I mean to persuade you that you can love me, Ashling, as you thought you loved him.’
     

THE KING'S BED

    Triggered by MacTire’s exit, the tension keeping Ash rigid and angry dissolved, opening the floodgates and turning her into a fetal ball on the floor.
    Her head was reeling with Mac's revelations. Little wonder she'd felt a connection with Connal. Like recognised like. They had history in common, so much he never had the chance to tell her. He lost his mother young, just as she had. He'd been dragged from the life he knew and was left to fend for himself. Sure, a few rough years bouncing around foster homes didn't begin to compare, but the loneliness, the abandonment, the fear. Those were her old friends.
    Except that was where the similarities ended.
    He fought back.
    Her heart refused to believe he was all bad. She'd seen his compassion, with the damn dog, with the graveyard, with his dead son. He’d given his life, for her.
    What had she done? Cringed away from the nightmare of her childhood, tried to make herself so small that maybe nobody would notice her, and she’d be left alone. All her life, she avoided friendships and relationships, too cowardly to face what life might throw at her. She'd kept her head down, buried in ancient mythology, because the real world seemed so much scarier. And for what? The monsters found her anyway.
    Maybe Mac was right. There was nothing left for her in her old life. She'd been so busy avoiding life, it had passed her by.
    Ash cried until her heart hurt and her chest seized up. She was alone, the cuckoo bird dropped into another’s nest. She’d die without them, Mac made that much clear. But honestly? What did he think she had to live for? Her man was gone, if he’d ever really been hers, and she was left with some wolf hoodoo she was trying not to understand.
    Ash had no one.
    Mac wanted to be her someone.
    It was a mess, a big, volatile mess, and she was exhausted by it. Tears blurred her vision and she whined pathetically, giving in to the next wave of despair.
    Sleep must have taken her at some point because when she next opened her eyes, her head was pillowed. She’d been moved and was sprawled on a giant bed, the weight of a powerful arm draped across her waist, a large palm spread over her stomach. She was fitted flush to the lines of a muscled body and in her waking fog, Ash could almost pretend it was Connal holding her. But straight blonde was intertwined with her dark curls and it shattered the dream.
    The King’s bed held none of the comfort Connal’s had, in fact … She lifted the arm pinning her and scooted from under it, redistributing her weight on all fours for minimal disruption. The mattress shifted, but Mac only growled, eyelids fluttering in sleep. He