The highly anticipated second book in the Wildsong series debuts tomorrow! Read on for a delicious sneak-peak.

The true fated mates,
Once shall meet.
Standing at love’s gate,
Their marriage complete.
Unknown to both,
Their paths are chosen.
They’ve taken the oath,
Their hearts now spoken.

Golden eyes, as though lit from within, stared at her through the flames of the bonfire. Sorcha Kelly prided herself on never stepping down from a challenge, so she met the man’s gaze dead on, lifting her chin in acknowledgement. A smile quirked his lips, and heat seared her core as he raised a hand and beckoned to her with one finger. Pushing her instant attraction aside, Sorcha raised an eyebrow in disdain. The man had another thing coming if he thought she’d answer to a summons of that nature.

Queen of her own destiny, Sorcha turned away from the fire, and followed the increasingly heavy beat of drums that made her insides thrum. The music was impossible to resist and Sorcha bounced to the rhythm as she made her way through the festival grounds, laughing as a random woman grabbed her hand and pulled her into an impromptu series of complicated Irish dance steps. Dance was Sorcha’s love language, and she fell naturally into step, laughing and tossing her cherry red curls over her shoulder. Music, laughter, and creativity were her fuel, and this weekend’s festival for artists filled her soul.

Billed as the “Burning Man” of Ireland, the Ring of Fire Festival encouraged artists of all types to commune together for the weekend to create art that would set souls on fire. These types of events were like catnip to Sorcha, and she’d packed up Betty Blue, her trusty camper van, and made her way to the festival tucked in the Irish hills with her gear in tow. She’d freelanced for years in the performing arts, mainly in dance and acrobatics, but was currently working on a new skill that had piqued her interest – fire dancing.

The art had risen in popularity both with photographers and audiences who wanted live performances at their events. Sorcha had been booked for everything from weddings to photo shoots and was finally beginning to eke out a steady stream of income. For the first time in years, she was allowing herself to embrace her art, and her lifestyle, without the heavy weight of guilt placed on her from her family.

With six sisters, Sorcha was but an afterthought in a long line of disappointments for her father. She’d watched the rest of her siblings try to live up to his expectations and quickly realized it was a game she’d never win. She was fairly certain the only thing that could win her father’s approval would be if she could go back in time and be born a male. While she had many talents, time travel was not one of them, and she’d cut her losses and hit the road shortly after she came of age.

Oh, but she loved her life now! Sorcha laughed as the dancing woman plopped a kiss on her cheek, and she gave a small curtsy before wandering back to Betty Blue to fill her insulated cup with wine. Once there, she paused, leaning back against the cool steel of her car, and studied the scene.

The sun had long since descended, and the full moon shone brightly on the bonfires that dotted the hills. Fairy lights were strung up between campsites, and music and laughter rose to the gently sparkling stars above. Everybody here shared a common interest – to create – and the joy and love found among these people made Sorcha feel like she was burning from within. Aptly named, this festival, she mused as she took a sip of her wine.

“You ignored me.”

Sorcha jumped, wine sputtering from her lips, as she turned to see the golden-eyed man standing beside her. He’d approached as lightly as a breeze, and Sorcha took a few seconds to study him more closely to see if she could get a read on him. She’d traveled alone for years now, and her instincts had kept her safe thus far.

“Sure and you can’t be thinking that the way to a woman’s heart is to beckon her with a single finger?”

“Oh? Do you prefer to be the one who makes the demands?” The man gave her a silky grin. The light dancing in his golden eyes told Sorcha this exchange amused him.

“I do prefer to be in charge, thank you very much. Do you have a name then? Or shall I just call you a cheeky lion?”

At that the man threw his head back and laughed, the huskiness causing Sorcha’s toes to curl, and she found herself strangely entranced. While dressing in costume was encouraged for the festival, Sorcha got the impression that this man wore his regular clothes. Red leather pants, a fitted long-sleeve black t-shirt, and a tawny head of gold hair with gilded red highlights contributed to her impression of him looking like a lion. It was the eyes though, that made her take a second and then a third look. He must wear color contacts, and the effect his golden eyes had was both startling and arresting. Sorcha drew closer. Starkly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jaw, this man carried himself with a confidence that wouldn’t be easy for most men to pull off while wearing screaming-red leather pants.

“That would certainly be a first. My name is Torin. And what is yours, my enchantress?” The words purred from his lips, their heat searing straight to her core.

“Sorcha.” She took a sip of her wine, as her throat had gone dry, while Torin studied her with the same intensity with which she watched him.

“And isn’t that the perfect name for a woman of your nature? I find you impossibly beautiful.”

The words, simply delivered, struck Sorcha with their sincerity. Tears threatened, and she forced herself to break his gaze and look over at the festival for a moment. Quirky? Yes. Interesting. Most definitely. But beautiful? No, Sorcha had never fallen prey to those types of compliments before. While it might be just another line to get her into bed, the conviction with which his words were delivered resonated deeply within her.

“Are your eyes real?” Sorcha turned once more to Torin.

His lips quirked, the sulky half-smile that had captured her interest across the fire before, and he reached out a hand.

“Dance with me?”

“See if you can keep up,” Sorcha said, raising her chin in a challenge once more. Downing her wine, she tucked the cup behind the wheel of Betty Blue and grabbed Torin’s hand. A shock of heat rippled through her, and she gasped when his hand tightened on hers instead of releasing. Turning, she met his eyes in the moonlight and read the invitation held there.

Sorcha swallowed, not ready for the question he posed, and instead pulled him into a circle of people who danced around a large bonfire to a haunting Celtic melody. The pipers stepped forward, increasing the speed of the song, and Sorcha closed her eyes to catch the beat. Torin’s hands circled her waist, and then he pulled her into his arms. Sorcha floated along, allowing herself to be pulled into a fluid dance, the heat of his touch invigorating.

Time seemed to slow, as they fell into an ancient rhythm where music propelled them forward, twisting and turning, their bodies brushing, their gazes caught on each other. Torin matched Sorcha step for step, challenging her with his movements, his tawny eyes searing hers. As the night drew long, Sorcha found herself caught in whatever spell he was casting.

The flames will dance,

Fire lights the dark,

To give love a chance,

Takes only a spark.

His voice husky, his eyes clouded with lust and something much more tender, Torin traced a finger over her lips as he sang. Intoxicated with him, Sorcha accepted his hand when he drew her back to Betty Blue, where she found herself pulling him onto her bed, twining her body around his as sinuously as they had danced together. Caught in a spell, the two feasted on each other’s bodies, the pulsing of the drums mirroring the pulsing of their hearts, as lust and fire drove their most intimate of dances. Flames licked through Sorcha’s veins, desire all but smothering her, as she met Torin’s appraising gaze as he took her mouth once more. Light flashed, and Sorcha started, but Torin took her under once more, drawing her attention back to his touch. Only near dawn, once sated, did they fall apart, gasping for breath.

Sorcha blinked at the ceiling of her van, where she’d tacked up a hauntingly beautiful print of the sun slashing her fiery rays across a stormy sea, and turned to speak to…

Nobody.

Torin was gone. Gasping, Sorcha sat up and clasped her shirt to her naked chest, a trickle of sweat slipping down her back. Had she imagined the whole encounter? Her mind scrambled to make sense of the last few hours, for everything in her screamed that her meeting with Torin had been real.

Heat spread along her palm, to the point of pain, and a deep-rooted urge compelled Sorcha to open her hand. When a single flicker of flame, no larger than that from a small candle, winked to life and hovered over her palm, Sorcha closed her eyes against the panic that threatened.

Had she danced with the wrong man that night?