Never Been Bitten by Erica Ridley

already procured the sustenance necessary for rapid healing. But he was in godforsaken England trying to pass for human. Regardless, no maiden in her right mind would offer a nip to a mud-stained rogue in such an abominable condition. He would simply have to give his best careless-rake smile and feign nothing was amiss. The usual.
    “Well,” he murmured to the shivering puppy. “If we’re to be stuck with each other, we might as well introduce ourselves. You can call me Cain. And I’ll call you . . .” He studied the puppy in his arms. Light brown fur, dark brown eyes, a quick, wet tongue, and a whip of a tail that managed to slap Cain’s tender shoulder and spray dog-scented rainwater into his eyes with every swipe. “The more I think on it, the more I come to believe you’re the one who should be called Cain,” he informed the recalcitrant puppy, and was rewarded with exuberant face-licking. “As that’s already taken, you’ll have to settle for . . . Moch-éirigh .”
    Closing his eyes, Cain shook his head in self-disgust. He’d lost his mind and named the damn thing. Hadn’t he sworn to himself a thousand times over that his puppy-adopting days were done? And hadn’t he triply sworn that he was done torturing himself by giving animals names that reminded him of home, and of things he could never, would never, see again? He’d named his grays Sunrise and Sunset, and now he’d gone and named the puppy Early Riser. As he had been, once. Back when it was a joy to greet the dawn and spend the day awash in sunshine.
    A regular glutton for punishment, he was. He deserved the bittersweet reminder of who and what he was.
    He took a deep breath—which only served to unbalance both dog and collarbone, and was unnecessary for survival in any case—and tramped forward into the night, his eyes squinting against the onslaught of rain. The puppy snuggled tight against his unbeating heart. They both desperately needed a bite to eat, so the sooner they descended upon the festivities, the better.
    After what felt like miles but was likely no more than ten minutes of cursing and stumbling, Cain could fully make out the Breckenridge estate looming up from the darkness. Unlike Cain, his horses were apparently in no rush to make themselves known. Instead, the grays stood perpendicular on the muddy path, their faces buried in a thatch of rain-battered grass.
    He managed to fetch the ribbons without dropping the puppy and hauled himself back onto his perch. With a tug, his horses abandoned their meal and resumed the miserable trudge to the Breckenridge stables. The ceaseless rain managed to cleanse nearly all the mud from both Cain and puppy, but had no ameliorating effect whatever on tangled fur or ripped linen.
    The swarm of liverymen who rushed to greet the carriage had enough breeding to hide any shock at Cain’s appearance—or perhaps he was not the only guest to have arrived worse for wear from the vicious downpour. A stroke of fortune, since he was scarcely in any condition to Compel the minds of a dozen servants at once.
    Nonetheless, brown and bedraggled was not at all the impression Cain hoped to make upon the weekend revelers, and his sole request of the obsequious footmen was to be granted admittance through a side door, so as not to cause a stir. This petition caused startled blinks all around, but in short order Cain found himself welcomed to Breckenridge via the connected conservatory, and ushered to sumptuous guest quarters featuring both a crackling fire and a large bath.
    Heaven, Cain decided the instant he sank into clean, warm water. Hell, he amended, upon the unexpected accompaniment of his new puppy.
    By the time the dinner bell sounded, Cain felt ... well, if not like a new man, then at least like a reinvigorated Scottish warrior disguised as a harmless—and shameless—Society flirt. He had played this role for so long that sometimes he almost forgot he was acting. Both personas were men of a single