If his verbal foreplay wasn’t enough, he reached out and smoothed his fingers lightly across her cheek. Sparks ignited and her heartbeat thumped inside her chest. “Don’t deny the desire growing between us. The quivering in your loins tells me what I need to know.”
Her cheeks heated, telling her exactly what she feared—she was blushing like a schoolgirl. “Are you hoping I’ll forget the bargain we made?”
He dropped his hand to his side and sighed. “Of course you wouldn’t.” He turned and walked toward the door. “Are you coming or not?” he asked.
“At least you can tell me where we’re going, I hope.”
“And ruin the surprise?” He laughed. “Come now, let’s get going before you have another hissy fit.”
Shooting him with invisible daggers as he led her into the hall, she followed him out the back door. A young man wearing jean overalls greeted them. His gaucho hat was lowered over his eyes, hiding his expression. He didn’t even acknowledge her. He handed Roark the reigns to the horse and asked, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Thank you, Caleb. We’ll return in a few hours. Before you go, did you take care of the situation?”
“I’m working on it,” Caleb said. With a curt nod, the boy excused himself.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.” Bronte huffed. She came around and patted the stallion on the neck. It was a lovely creature. They’d had horses on their land when she was a kid and she’d grown up riding.
“What for?” he snapped.
“Does everyone here greet you and do your bidding as if they are worshipping a master?”
His eyes widened. “I’m not asking them to do anything more than what is expected from them, handed down generation after generation.”
Just when she thought she’d heard it all, he went and blew her mind again with his egotistical notions. “You’re so full of yourself.” He seemed genuinely shocked. It was a lost cause. “Where is the other horse?”
“What other horse?” he asked.
“The one I’ll be riding? I’m capable.”
“I’m sure you are.”
If his tone didn’t hint to something more, the sliding of his gaze down her body most certainly did. Her insides melted. Logical reasoning out the door again. “Are you suggesting we ride together?” she asked.
“I’m not suggesting anything. You can walk if you’d like, but that wouldn’t be timely for either of us. Otherwise, Seed Demon here will oblige us both.” He patted the horse’s backside.
Did he actually smirk as he said the words? “That’s not his name, is it?”
“Yes.” He lifted himself onto the horse then lowered his hand to help her.
“I thought you said you haven’t been out of the house in months? I’d hate to be the reason you change being a homebody.” She’d rather be in the house than in the saddle with him.
“Thank you for your consideration, but no worries. We won’t be going far.”
Bronte snorted. She should have figured he’d have an excuse, but without further argument, she placed her hand into his and allowed him to help her into the saddle, nestled behind him. This was a position that quickly reminded her of the kiss they’d shared in her bedroom and their bodies pressed against each other made her fully aware of how muscular he was. She attempted to slide away from his steely frame, but it was impossible in the soft leather.
“Hold on tight, Bronte,” Roark said over his shoulder.
Barely having enough time to adjust her weight, she snaked her arms around his waist as he shooed the horse. They took off at a running pace as the hooves beat like drums against the ground. The horse was stealthy and strong under her legs, while the wind combed through her hair and a sense of freedom floated over her. Two in a saddle was surprisingly intimate. And it didn’t go unnoticed that he was skilled at the reigns—riding smoothly. His ripped abs tightened under her hands and her inner thighs rubbed his tight buttocks. Brushing her nose against his shirt, she breathed in his masculine scent.
The ride was thrilling, even if it shared with Roark. The rhythmic thumping of the horses gallops, the power underneath her bottom and the feel of Roark’s back pushed against her chest was indescribable. She didn’t understand, but something about the closeness, the smells and the scenery seemed familiar, like she’d lived all of this before.
Plagued with strange dreams over the last year, she couldn’t deny Roark fit the image of the tall, dark, handsome stranger she’d imagined. Was it coincidental that she and Fallon had talked about the dreams right before Roark’s men had taken her?
Other thoughts bothered her. If Roark was a man who only wanted to plant his seed inside her, then why did he bother with all of the niceties? He’d had his chance to seduce her into making love, but instead he’d pulled away, as if he wasn’t ready.
The biggest piece of the puzzle was his offer…she would call Fallon for information. What particulars was she missing that he needed her to understand? And where was he taking her?
Trusting him was risky. Each time she started to believe he wasn’t fraudulent, she reminded herself that no man worthy of his word would keep her against her will.
Moving her attention to their surroundings, they passed a field of wildflowers and rode through the tall grass. The smell of the weeds mixed with country reminded her of when she was a child and her mother would ride with her. Bronte hadn’t ridden since her mom had passed away.
Roark led the horse into the shadowed woods as he slowed the pace to a stroll. The sudden cool breeze made her lean into him for warmth. She laid her cheek against his back, hearing the strong beating of his heart. Bronte didn’t mind and because she felt awareness with him, she knew her being with him wasn’t a fluke. She didn’t know why or how, but there was a linking between them, and the longer they were together it seemed to grow, even she could no longer deny the facts. The emotions fluttering inside of her were terrifying. Her trembling stomach and fast ticking heart reminded her of what it’d be like to fall in love.
She sat up straight. What the hell?
What was happening to her? She not only disliked Roark, but he was holding her captive. This was not a love story.
The horse stopped and she dragged her concentration away from her silly thoughts. Bronte looked around the small clearing and further ahead sat a small shack, which appeared held upright by a few rusty nails and a warped board. It belonged in a horror film, not a backdrop for the beautiful scenery. Roark hopped down and then helped her slide off. “Where are we? It’s creepy,” she said.
“That’s a compliment to the owner.” He winked.
“I’d take you seriously, but then I may become a lunatic as well.” He laughed and goose bumps rose on her body. “Being creepy isn’t a compliment, and crazy isn’t either.”
A screeching noise echoed through the woods and someone appeared through the open screen door of the house. Fear mixed with curiosity made Bronte’s stomach twist.
“Come, Bronte.” Roark motioned for her to follow him.
She didn’t want to go. Unease crawled its way through her, warning her that she wouldn’t like what he’d planned. Shaking her head in refusal, she remained while he continued walking. A shrill cry of a coyote from the woods made her jump. “Roark?”
He stopped and looked at her. “What?”
“I don’t want to,” she said.
“Do you want your answers?” he asked. She nodded. “Then come on.”
With trembling knees, she caught up to him through the overgrown weeds. Side by side, they walked toward the shack.
As they reached the porch, Bronte saw the shadow of a person still standing in the doorway. “Is that a woman?” she asked Roark.
“I guess you can call her a female,” he snarled.
The silhouette moved across the porch, each board popping under her weight. The long, black cape she wore trailed behind her and the hood remained over her head. She walked bent over and her cane thumped the wo
od, like the booming of thunder.
“Good day, Azelda.” Roark greeted her, but his sour tone made Bronte believe there was animosity between the two. The woman named Azelda sniffed loudly. Roark climbed the stairs and Bronte followed. She wasn’t sure the rickety wood would hold his weight, let alone their entire capacity at one time.
The peculiar stranger wobbled across the planks and came to stand before Bronte. The woman’s shaky, twisted hand slid from the arm of the cape as she slowly pulled away her hood. Bronte gasped but quickly bit her bottom lip. The sinister sight shocked her. The aged woman staring back with beady black eyes made Bronte’s skin crawl. The woman’s pale, crinkled skin streaked with deep veins, reminded Bronte of blue cheese. A large, red, hairy mole overshadowed the pointy set of her jaw. Strands of oily hair framed her unpleasant features and she smelled strong of burnt wood and eucalyptus, making Bronte’s nostrils burn and her belly rumble.
Although she wanted to run, Bronte didn’t move a muscle—too afraid of what would happen. She waited for what seemed an eternity before the other woman said, “Name?”
“My name is Bronte.”
“Ahhh…I’ve been expecting you.” The old woman’s voice crackled. “It’s taken a while.”
Bronte snapped a look in Roark’s direction. His eyes slanted as he continued to stare at the older woman. “Expecting me?” Bronte asked.
“So you’re not deaf. That’s what I said,” Azelda said with a snort. She looked at Roark and shook her head. “She’s too skinny. If she stands in a high wind she’ll float away.”
One corner of Roark’s mouth lifted as if he found the situation humorous. Bronte wondered why they would judge her weight when he had issues with his personality and the woman definitely had a few problems of her own. Azelda moved toward the door, pausing while frowning at Bronte. “Come along, girly. I don’t have all day.”
Bronte stayed. The last thing she wanted was to walk into the ramshackle house.
Roark took her elbow and gently squeezed as if in support. “She wants you to follow.”
Bronte tugged her arm away from his touch. “I get that, but I’m not going to,” she whispered.
“Yes you are,” he countered.
“No, I’m not.”
“Bronte, it’s okay. You said you wanted to know why you’re here, right?”
She nodded, knowing this may be her only opportunity for escape. But the woman scared her and she’d already disappeared into the house. Bronte hesitated. She was in the middle of nowhere, in a dilapidated house, her captor telling her to follow a woman who resembled a witch—how could things get any worse?
They most certainly could, Bronte realized as she opened the screen door. A strong odor accosted her before she even stepped foot in. The pungent smell made her nauseas. Feeling Roark’s nudge on her shoulder, she turned and huffed. “Don’t push me.”
“Go on,” he urged. Irritation made crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.
“Why don’t you go first?” she asked.
“Do you really want to be in the back?” One brow lifted.
Thinking over his words, she shook her head. She’d watched too many horror flicks to know the last person is always the first to meet death.
Stepping across the doorstep sent chills over Bronte’s skin. She couldn’t believe she was going along with this crazy scheme. She didn’t get far in the dim room before disgust paralyzed her. “Oh my god. Are those doll heads hanging from the ceiling? Is that blood dripping from their eyes?”
“It appears so,” Roark answered. “Azelda is an unusual artist.”
Hundreds of the bodiless, scraggly-haired heads obstructed her view. It resembled a reoccurring dream she’d had as a child where she was stuck in a massive pile of bloody doll parts. She shuddered.
“Unusual isn’t the word I’d use,” she whispered.
“She’s back there.” Roark encouraged her to move further into the cluttered space.
Bronte wanted to turn back but she knew Roark would force her to continue. She had no choice at this point. And if she could get some answers, it’d be worth it in the long run, at least she hoped. She wasn’t sure why she had to come here for so-called answers, but wondered if Roark wasn’t getting a sick thrill from her fear and anxiety. She shrugged off her thought and pushed through the plastic heads.
The floor was uneven and she was careful as she moved through slowly, afraid of what was below her. Roark’s string of curse words made her look over her shoulder. “What is wrong with you?” she asked.
He had to duck to keep from banging his head on the low ceiling. With each step he took he got twisted up in the strings attached to the doll parts. Bronte smiled at the sight. He’d laughed at her enough over the last two days.
As absurd as this all seemed, she had a feeling this was serious.
Turning forward, she kept going until finally she came to another room. Bronte knew immediately this was where the toxic smell came from. Sitting in the middle of the space was a large black pot of bubbling liquid. Straight from a child’s scary fairytale. At the moment, it was her worst living nightmare.
Bronte didn’t want to look around. The less she knew about the shack the better, but curiosity caught the best of her.
Clear glass containers filled with colorful liquids lined the shelves on one wall. To her right was an empty birdcage littered with feathers and droppings. Bronte found the red parrot sitting on the windowsill. He lifted his clawed foot and scratched his ear, then in a singsong voice it shrieked, “Company. Company. Company. Fuckin’ company.”
Bronte laughed. If she hadn’t she would have cried. She wished she could close her eyes and wake up in her bed with her only concern being an author with a bad book. Her brain didn’t want to absorb what was happening; she had a witch standing two feet before her, a brawny ogre following behind her and a scraggly, cursing bird on the side. Whether she liked it or not, she was going to have to slog through until something changed in her favor.
“Sit,” Azelda barked, pointing a crooked finger at a chair against the wall.
Bronte hated being ordered about, but she guessed it was best not to argue with a woman who had a bubbling cauldron in the middle of her house and doll heads hanging from the ceiling. She glanced down at the raggedy chair cushion and bile burned the back of her throat. Bird feathers, seed and droppings covered the worn material. “Uhh, do you have another place I could—”
“I told you to sit.” Azelda’s tone vibrated the room. The bottles bounced together making a chiming noise. The parrot screeched, “Pissed her off. Pissed her off.”
Bronte gave a quick swipe of her hand down the seat and sat, keeping all of her extremities as close to her body as possible, thankful that she had boots on. There was no telling what lived in the shack besides the witch and parrot.
“You.” Azelda pointed a bent finger at Roark. “Get out. You’re energy upsets the pet.” The witch reached over and tapped the parrot on the head who responded with a loud squawk.
Bronte’s heart raced. She didn’t like Roark, but oddly reason she felt safer with him near. “He should stay,” Bronte said in a rush.
Azelda’s beady eyes landed on her with invisible force. “I didn’t ask you!”
Bronte turned and gave Roark a pleading look. Then he said, “I’m staying, Azelda. I’m her captor and I can’t take a risk that she’ll escape.”
“I’d turn her into girly pea soup before she could take one step in any direction,” Azelda cackled.
Bronte swiveled around, eyeing the witch. Beastly woman. Bronte wanted to tell them both to jump off the nearest cliff, but she remained quiet. She didn’t want to test the witch’s patience.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Roark’s unyielding tone left no room for argument.
Bronte was grateful that Roark didn’t falter. He stood at her left shoulder and didn’t make a move.
“So be it. Just keep your mouth shut.” Azelda stepped toward a three-legged ta
ble and began mixing two liquids. Vapor rose from the beaker and a foul odor mingled with the existing stink in the air. Bronte tensed, hoping she wouldn’t be asked to drink the solution.
The witch wobbled to her and Bronte started to tremble. She watched as the old woman dipped her gnarled pinky finger inside the glass and swirled it around the bright blue liquid. She brought her finger out, started for Bronte’s face and she darted back. “It’s okay, girly. It won’t hurt, at least not much.”
A rustling sound behind her made Bronte jump and then she felt Roark’s large hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.
Although she had no reason to trust him, she sensed his protectiveness.
The witch swiped the warm substance on each of Bronte’s temples. Seconds passed. The bird squealed loudly, echoing in the small room. Nothing happened. Azelda bent and stared into Bronte’s eyes. She didn’t blink, but she felt her blood rushing through her veins and warmth following. The witch moved, placing the tube back into a wired stand on the table then she lowered her elderly frame into a wooden chair, propping her cane against the wall. “Now, it’s time for the truth. The serum will help you accept reality.”
Bronte doubted that anything the old woman said could make the occurrences over the last two days acceptable or believable. “I think this will be a waste of time,” she said. Movement on the wall caught her attention. Narrowing her gaze, she focused. A lizard had his eyes on her from his perch. “Don’t let that thing near me.”
“Stop talking and listen to details. That’s what you’re best at,” Azelda whispered.
Bronte narrowed her eyes. Was that a backhanded compliment?
“One-hundred years ago there lived a family of wolves,” Azelda began. Bronte snorted, but she held her tongue. “By day the tribe would carry on, masked as humans. At night, they’d transform into their true identities. No one ever knew of the secret. It was not the life they’d chosen, to hide like criminals, but peace lived in their hearts. They lived in a world where no one would understand.”
“Seriously?” The serum wasn’t working. “Tell me you’re not.” She sniffed back her sarcasm. What sort of story was the old woman conjuring?
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