by Erica Woods
“I . . . I don’t know if I can.”
Ruarc settled back against the headboard, dragging me further up his body. The warm, steely muscles under his shirt would have felt delicious at any other time, but I was too torn to really appreciate it.
He bent his head until his cheek rested on top of my head. “It’ll help,” he murmured, his hot breath sending shivers up my spine. “Give me some of it.”
In his deep, gruff voice I heard the unspoken promise; sharing my burden would lighten it, make it easier to bear and his shoulders were broad enough for us both.
“I . . .” I trailed off. What could I safely share? Did I want to share anything at all?
Yes. Yes I do. The memories were like venom in my blood. What if I let out just a bit of it?
“I was . . . held captive.”
Ruarc’s arms tightened around me, but he didn’t speak. His silence helped, made me feel like I could go on. Questions would make it harder.
“For many years . . . by e-evil m-men.” God, this was hard. My voice shook and my hands trembled where I clutched them together in my lap. “They did . . . they didn’t treat me well.”
A deep, dark rumble greeted my confession. Even though I could feel the violence in the way his corded muscles shook with repressed anger, see it in the fisted hands at his sides, and hear it in his harsh breaths, I wasn’t scared.
Not of him.
“T-they are never going to s-stop. They want me back—”
Ruarc tensed below me. “Never,” he snarled. “You will never go back.”
The grim vow made me catch my breath. He looked so ferocious; wild and untamed like a proud mountain no man, beast, nor monster could ever hope to conquer. His strong jaw clenched, the white, slashing scar proof of his perseverance. He seemed like a battle-hardened warrior, baptized in blood and death.
The brutal violence contained so close to the surface should have terrified me, repulsed me, even, but something inside of me rejoiced. A worthy male, it seemed to whisper. A powerful male.
I couldn’t tear my eyes off him, this harsh warrior glaring down at me. Glaring, not because he was angry with me, but because he was angry for me.
He’s angry on my behalf.
I softened, clutched at his shirt. Here was a man who wanted to protect me, who—
“No,” I whispered as the truth hit me and my blood ran cold. “They kill people,” I whispered. “Me being here . . . it’s not safe for you. Any of you.” There, I’d said it. Even as dread flooded my body, I also felt relief. Now he knew, well not the whole truth, but some of it. They would make me leave, as they should. If I brought death here . . .
My stomach revolted.
As I began making plans of leaving, a dark chuckle drifted down from the big male.
“If they come here . . .” Ruarc bared his teeth in a chilling smile that promised death to anyone fool enough to challenge him. “They will die.”
They will die?
I blinked up at him, took in the confident arrogance of his expression, and reared back. Sitting on my heels next to him rather than on him, I already missed his heat, his protection, but I had to look him in the eye when I tried to explain why his words were dangerous.
I needed to know he truly understood how serious my situation was. That the threat to me was real, nothing to scoff at or wave away just because he was a physically superior male specimen.
“Ruarc,” I began, yelping when he dragged me right back onto his lap.
“Right here,” he grumbled. “You feel that?” He put my hand over his chest. “I am safe.”
My heart skipped a beat, warmth and terror fighting for supremacy.
I have to make him understand so he doesn’t get hurt.
“Ruarc, y-you can’t . . . You can’t go to the authorities—” His snort interrupted me. “I’m serious! They have people everywhere. It’s not safe.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he replied in the same arrogant voice.
The starch went out of my spine and I melted into him.
Thank god.
“Killing them will be better.”
I jerked back up.
“Ruarc!” My heartbeat accelerated. I could almost feel the blood pumping through my veins. “You can’t! T-they’ll kill you.” I could barely get the words out. It was too foul a notion.
“No.” Said with complete confidence. His voice, so low and deadly, was almost enough to convince me.
Almost.
But I’d seen first hand what the Hunters were capable of, and I had the nightmares to prove it.
“You don’t k-know them. They are terrible, evil creatures.” I couldn’t even refer to them as human, although I knew they must be. Only humanity could hate with such passion and perform such utter atrocities on those they deemed lesser.
“So am I,” he replied and bared his teeth in what I could only hope was meant to be an assuring smile.
“You’re not!” I protested, appalled he would ever refer to himself as evil. Dangerous, yes. Volatile and violent, probably. But not evil.
Never evil.
If he were, he wouldn’t have comforted me after I relived one of the many horrors I had experienced. He wouldn’t have vowed to protect me.
With his mouth set in a grim line, he narrowed his eyes at me. Before he could start arguing, I spoke, “Please promise me you won’t try to find them.”
He tensed. “Fool female!” he pushed out through clenched teeth, and though it shouldn’t have, the insult hurt. “I’d never make a promise like that!”
His lack of faith in me hurt too, as did his belief I didn’t know what I was talking about. Why couldn’t he be reasonable? He’d get himself killed!
Suddenly I was furious. Jerking away, I crossed my arms over my chest and huffed. “Well, you’ll never find them without me, and I’ll never tell you anything more!”
Every single muscle in his body tightened. A low growl built in his chest, rumbling like thunder.
This time, he was the one who pulled away. With stilted movements he put me against the headrest, careful of my injured foot. Once I was settled, he surged off the bed and stood with his back to me. The corded muscles in his powerful neck looked like they were about to snap.
One moment he was standing still, brooding and dangerous, the next he exploded into motion. Halfway to the door he spun back around, glaring at me. “You,” he growled, pointing a long index finger at me. “Stubborn, foolhearted female!” Breathing heavily, he stalked forward until he stood at the end of the bed, towering over me.
I bit my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. He didn’t have to keep insulting me! I was just trying to protect him. “Well, you are . . . you are the most . . . the most—” The most confusing man alive? The most appealing, maybe?
No, don’t even think that, I scolded myself.
“What?” he snarled.
“The most hardheaded!” I yelled.
“Need a hard head to deal with you!” His thunderous roar echoed in my ears. The way he was glaring at me, all furious anger and heated frustration, abruptly made me nervous.
What am I doing? I shouldn’t be provoking someone as explosive as Ruarc.
Especially not a man.
The fight seeped out of me. I slumped, fighting back the ever-present tears. When had I become this person who always seemed to be on the verge of crying?
Weak. Helpless.
During my captivity at the hands of the Hunters I’d barely ever cried.
“I . . .” I didn’t know what to say. My voice was low, trembling.
Ruarc shifted, heated gaze examining my face.
I bent my neck, unable to look at him.
“Jesus . . .” He took a step toward me and I couldn’t help but cringe. It was an automatic reaction, born from years of experiencing the not-so-tender care of men.
He came to an abrupt halt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him run a hand over the ragged scar on his face. Then a harsh exhale, al
most angry.
I risked a quick glance up.
Clenched jaw, jerky movements as he dragged his palm over his stubble, eyes unreadable. What bothered me the most, though, was the slight slump to his shoulders, like he was tasting defeat.
I did that.
Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. Something I’d done had caused Ruarc emotional pain. It didn’t matter that it barely showed. Even if it was something minuscule I never wanted to be the reason he hurt.
Not after everything he’d done for me.
“Ruarc . . .” He wouldn’t look at me. “Ruarc, I—”
“It’s fine.” He made a slashing motion in the air, as if he was cutting the last few minutes from his memory. His eye twitched.
A sick feeling of dread slithered through my body like a hungry, venomous snake. Ruarc’s clipped tones, how he was not looking at me, the hard jaw and clenching fists made the air feel heavy.
Suffocating.
He opened his mouth, paused, then pressed his lips tightly together. Without looking at me, he left the room.
The soft sound of the door closing behind him sounded like a gunshot to me, piercing deeper than a bullet ever could.
I didn’t understand why, but I felt like I’d lost something vital.
With stiff limbs and a burdened soul, I crawled under the covers, curled up into a ball, and pressed a pillow to my face to muffle my sobs. The weak, wretched creature I’d become disgusted me.
No wonder Ruarc had left.
What kind of woman flinched and recoiled just because a man was angry?
A part of me, a very small, very stubborn part, told me to give myself a break. After what I’d been through my reaction was probably not that unusual, and feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to change anything.
But . . . what was?
Sniffling, I wondered about that until I fell asleep.
And that time, thank god, I didn’t dream.
17
ASH
“More than one!” Ruarc roared. If we had been anywhere else, it was likely he would have punched through the wall. That he curbed his temper was testimony to the close bonds of our pack. He would never want to damage Lucien’s work-room, not when the other male considered it his sanctuary.
Situated far enough from the main house that the noise did not disturb—despite our enhanced hearing—the single room was larger than that of a normal shed. We had built it ourselves, from sturdy material Lucien had picked out, and while he might never show it, we all knew how much he enjoyed the quiet and solitude that came with his work away from pack politics and the intelligence gathering he was so very good at.
The workshop sported only a single window—not tall, but wide enough to create the airflow Lucien required, each wall serving a purpose.
Shelves lined the back wall, every inch of space filled with various materials. Oils and polish—from home-made beeswax and raw linseed oil, to Danish oil for a durable satin finish—were stacked neatly, sorted by use and the wood for which they were best suited. The scent they created was one I had come to enjoy for the simple fact it smelled like home. Small wood-samples filled boxes of exactly the same dimensions, labeled by Lucien’s exact handwriting. One shelf was dedicated to smaller tools, such as several different measuring devices, rolls of sandpaper, various clamps, a random orbital sander, and several more items I had seen Lucien use on more than one occasion. While another shelf held paints their owner seldom used, and the last carried the heavier equipment.
To the right rose a massive bench. Power-tools sat in spots made specifically for each item and its purpose. A fine layer of sawdust he could never quite be rid of had drenched the pores of the work-bench. Their scents—pine, birch, oak, all the woods Lucien used—blended with those of the oils and the paint. No matter how much Lucien aired out, the smell always lingered, and I imagined it would eventually soak into the male himself.
But it was the left wall that never failed to hold my attention. While all the furniture Lucien made was either sold or used in our home, he occasionally created what could only be described as art. Wooden figurines, their details so fine I doubted even Michelangelo would find them flawed, delicate frames made for pictures that had never seen the light of day, and wooden canvasses filled with landscapes carved by the most precise of instruments.
Lucien may not have been a painter, but what he created was art, and his landscapes were as beautiful as those created by master painters.
“They had their filthy hands on her!”
Anger rose, swiftly and unbidden at Ruarc’s furious words. It took all my control to keep from jerking back, from showing how his words affected me. A female in pain was bad enough, but one being abused, repeatedly and purposely hurt?
That was something no decent male could stand for.
“Are you sure?” Jason rasped.
“Aye!” The Scottish accent Ruarc had all but buried rose to the surface.
Twice in one day. The volatile male was close to reaching his limits.
“What exactly did the wench say?” Lucien leaned back against his work-bench, cool tones at odds with the way his fingers clenched around the edge.
The way he spoke of Hope made me want to bare my teeth. Hostility had eroded his normally cold logic, and while he had always had a suspicious nature, it seemed the little human brought out the worst in him.
“Why are you such a bastard to her, Lucien?” Jason asked, a hard edge to his voice and a tightness around his eyes I had not seen for years.
“How many reasons do you need? Do you not care that she is dishonest? That her story is filled with holes? The very day we were to confer with Quentin and his damned pack she appears out of nowhere, refusing to answer our questions and handing out untruths as though she believes them. Do not tell me you haven’t smelled the lies she spews.”
“She is scared!” Jason countered. “The way you attack her at every turn doesn’t help.”
The newfound animosity between my brothers unsettled me. Friction was common in a pack such as ours, fights breaking out whenever tensions ran high, but I had never seen Jason this shaken, nor Lucien so on edge.
“Perhaps she is scared due to her own treachery. She is hiding something, possibly aiding some Strays in an attempt to take over our territory. Thus, she is scared of being caught!”
“Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Helping Strays . . .” Jason pushed away from the wall and glared at Lucien. “Like those mangy beasts could ever organize enough to even attempt any sort of infiltration.”
“They have in the past.” Green eyes cooled. “Ever since Ruarc prevented their last attempt they’ve been chomping at the bit to try again. The human girl would be a perfect accomplice—”
“Bullshit!” Ruarc roared. His eyes had grown more reflective as his control slipped. When fangs grew and pushed against his bottom lip, I heaved a tired sigh and stepped in. A hollow pit gaped in the bottom of my stomach as I moved to the center of the room and waited for their attention.
Once given, the familiarity of solitude uncurled its mighty wings and settled in my bones. “Calm yourself, niijikiwenh,” I addressed Ruarc, the old tongue flowing easily as I reminded him of our ties, of the family we had all chosen, rather than been born into.
Brothers in truth.
I made sure to keep my expression tranquil and my voice steady. They had need of my strength.
They already have too many burdens to carry. All of them.
I drew my gaze over the three males that were my family, before settling on Ruarc. “When you are ready, niijikiwenh, please tell us what you learned from Hope.” It could not have been much or we would already have been out there, searching for her abusers. “We must try to understand her situation before we can decide what is to be done. And no, Ruarc,” I added before his temper had time to ignite, “that does not mean we will kick her out.”
“Perhaps we should,” Lucien said.
Eyes narrowed to thin slit
s, Ruarc bared his teeth. His nostrils flared as he scented Lucien’s aggravation, though it quickly faded. It took a great deal of restraint to block our fighting impulse when risen, but Lucien controlled his beast, not the other way around. Rarely stirred beyond a cold anger, he seldom brawled outside the Assembly grounds.
With a gruff sound of acknowledgment for Lucien, Ruarc shared Hope’s story. Or as much of it as he had gleaned. Hostility poured off him in waves as he spoke, while vengeance shone a quiet promise in eyes that had lost all pretense of humanity.
Only animal remained.
When he was done, I understood the fury driving him. It took root in me as well.
But it is not only fury . . .
Breathing in through my nose, I picked up the faint scent of an emotion I could not place. It was hollow. Akin to grief, but not quite the same.
Instead of picking at the threads to unravel Ruarc’s mystery, I gave him his privacy and turned my thoughts to Hope. The more of her past that was revealed, the darker a picture was painted. The concept of her, helpless and alone, at the mercy of a group of people I could only assume was some kind of mercenary organization, left me feeling closer to the edge than I had in a long time.
Memories of blood and death tugged at my soul. The terrified cries of my people, the people I had condemned without regret, rang in my ears. The nightmarish scene from my youth was one I kept close. A reminder of what would happen should I lose control once more.
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to center myself, I clawed my way back in charge and focused on the one thing I could control; what came next.
“Did they . . .” Jason swallowed hard. “Do you think they . . .” He trailed off, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
The unspoken question hung heavy in the air, affecting us all with its ugly ramifications. While Ruarc looked on the verge of tearing out of his skin, Jason looked as nauseous as I felt, and even Lucien seemed agitated.