One.

Two.

Three.

She heaved open the chest.

Terror clawed its way to her throat, killing her scream.

The man inhaled one harsh breath and his eyes flew open, locking on Bree. A battle cry worthy of Braveheart echoed off the walls. Bree jumped back as metal flashed and a rush of air kissed her face. Petrified, she watched him crawl out of the burial vault, a wicked-looking dagger in his hand. Her scream tore loose as she turned and fled.

Fingers grazed her shoulder, and she glanced back. The last thing she saw before her feet tangled with the shovel was the dead man reaching for her. She fell, smashing her face against the stone floor, and then lurched to her feet. He towered over her, blocking her escape, so close she could see his pulse throbbing with life, even though he’d just climbed out of a tomb.

“Where’s Druan?” His voice was a growl, body taut, like a lion ready to pounce.

Bree stumbled backwards, but he followed, his eyes as hard and cold as the dagger at her throat. He scanned the shadows as if he expected a horde of demons to appear, before his fierce gaze settled on her again.

A thousand disjointed thoughts tumbled in her head as the blade pressed harder. “Who are you? How did you get here? Are you a ghost?” She wasn’t sure she believed in ghosts, but she also didn’t believe in dead men rising from their graves, and this one was wearing a kilt.

“A ghost?” Dark brows drew into a flat line. He lowered the dagger, opened his other hand, and stared at it. “No.” He didn’t sound sure.

She wasn’t, either. He looked too muscular for a spirit, but there was no doubt she was talking to a man who should be dead. And he was standing between her and the door.