by Erica Woods
I was about to admit that, yes, he had inspired it, but one quick glance at the man in question convinced me otherwise. Ruarc’s mouth was set in a grim line, expression dark and foreboding. Both eyebrows were lowered over stormy eyes, glaring at everyone who dared look his way.
Oh, no. What had I been thinking? Ruarc probably thought I was mocking him, or making fun of his grumpiness.
Trying to show him I was sorry, that I would never intentionally set out to make him feel bad, I sent him a small, apologetic smile, and shook my head at Ash. “No, I just . . . no,” I finished, for once not caring that I sounded like a ninny.
Ruarc’s burning eyes bored into me from across the table, pinning me in my seat with their intensity. His gaze lingered on my lips before he jerked his head away, glowering at his food and muttering under his breath.
The whole thing was a disaster. The cooking had been fun, but Ruarc clearly disliked being around me. Not that I blamed him. Always saying the wrong thing, always doing the wrong thing . . . it felt terrible, like a weight around my heart.
I slumped in my seat, chewing at my bottom lip. I only had two choices; either I could try to avoid Ruarc from now on, or I would need to find some courage and ask him what I’d done to rub him the wrong way.
Maybe it was something I could fix?
25
RUARC
Bloody hell. Bloody hell!
The little female was impossible! Either she cowered and shrunk away, making me feel like a mean, hulking beast, or she graced me with a hesitant smile—one of the ones that looked a little like she was surprising herself with the action but couldn’t quite help herself. A smile like that reminded me of all the reasons why this was a bloody bad idea, not to mention the knife piercing my gut every time she said or did something that made me think of her past. Knowing she’d gone through so much shit in life that the idea of smiling was surprising to her made my blood boil.
The other reason why her smiles were so deadly was the reaction they elicited in me. A feeling of possibility, of a light at the end of my dark, dark days. Those tiny smiles, those beautiful, lethal smiles . . . they made me wish for things I knew could never be.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered, skewering Jason with a lethal glare when he raised a questioning brow at me.
It wasn’t meant for you, you idiot.
That was another thing. My surliness. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t curb it. Didn’t stand a chance. During our lessons I’d tried not to snarl. Tried not to glare at the little female, but it’d proved impossible.
When she bit her lip, concentrating hard on whatever task was before her, I got hard. So hard I wanted to punch through the wall.
When she ducked her head to hide a shy smile, I was hit by the certainty that I would never make her smile like that.
When she stared up at my ugly mug or studied my scarred hands, I felt like the biggest brute in the world, and all I wanted to do was lash out at her for a judgment she hadn’t delivered.
And probably never would.
The worst, the absolute worst, was when she flinched. It’d happened when I’d made a sudden move, reaching for the spices above her head, throwing a fork into the sink next to her. Innocent, everyday occurrences done a little too fast, a little too sudden, and she’d flinch. Either that, or jerk back. Sometimes she’d even throw a hand in front of her face, as if to shield herself from harm.
The fury that took hold of me when that happened was so dark, so hideous, I wondered how it didn’t burst from me and sear the floor with its acidity. Wanted to rip off the heads of the motherfucker lithbhárs who’d hurt her, but I didn’t know who they were!
She won’t tell me!
That, again, had poisonous rage flowing through my blood, twisting my insides until breathing became difficult.
When that shit happened—when my rage got away from me—I knew she felt my tension. She probably didn’t understand how or why, but I had a feeling the little female was more in tune with others than she thought. It was there in her eyes, the concern that made them round and big, the light that would not be extinguished no matter what was done to her.
It floored me. It amazed me. It made me turn into a bloody fool.
“Bloody hell . . .” No one commented this time, but Hope stared down at her food with huge, wounded eyes.
You see? You will never do anything but cause her pain.
I snarled at my own thoughts. A female like her was too fragile for a savage animal like me. I’d end up hurting her, either physically—accidentally, due to my size and what I was—or emotionally when I didn’t respond how I should, or I was too abrupt with her. Hell, looking at her now, hanging her head and looking fucking miserable, I would say I’d already accomplished that.
“Goddammit!” I banged my fists on the table, losing control of my temper once again. Three heads shot up while one, the most important one, shrunk further back in her seat, looking for all the world like she wanted nothing more than to disappear. “Going out,” I snarled, fighting the Change as I stormed outside. With my teeth elongating and tearing a strip of flesh off the inside of my lip, I chided myself.
The little female had gone through something terrible; the abuse she’d suffered was clear in the way she carried herself, the hesitant tone she used when talking, the nightmares that made her scream as if someone was tearing strips off of her flesh.
Claws shot out from my fingers as the familiar, hot fury filled me. I threw my head back and roared. I roared for the female, for the horror she’d been through, and for my past—the hideous betrayal that had left me too scarred to be any good to anyone.
But most of all, I roared for the loss. The loss of something I hadn’t even had a chance to experience.
Dunnae fool yerself, boy, my sire’s voice taunted in my mind, ye never stood a chance.
Hundreds of years after his death, the evil man could still get in my head. It made me weak, as foolish as the taunts ringing in my ears claimed.
Growling, I dropped to all fours. No more, I thought. Never again. Banishing the bastard to the furthest corner in my mind, I took off running. A run would clear my head. Maybe when I came back, I would have some answers.
Not bloody likely.
26
ASH
A light breeze rustled leaves and lifted strands of Hope’s hair, allowing them to caress her face in a dance she must have found annoying. She batted them away with a wave of a not-quite-steady hand. “W-what are we doing out here?” she asked in a trembling voice, eyeing the trees to our left as though waiting for something—or someone—to pounce.
The scene with Ruarc at the kitchen table had stolen her newly found fire, and once more she was stammering and unsure, smelling of fear.
At least the scent is more subtle now. Lessened.
“I thought you may like to spend some time with the horses. If your leg feels up to it, of course,” I added. Lucien had not mentioned any complications which could only mean it was healing nicely.
“Oh . . .” She peeked up at me. “That-that would be nice.” A cautious smile formed on her lips, giving her pallid shade a hint of a blush.
A few days of decent food and rest had been transformative. Her face was no longer as gaunt as it had been, her cheeks not as hollow. If she lifted her shirt her ribs would not be protruding like vulnerable sticks ready to be broken.
Improved but not healed.
Making sure to keep my eyes off her lest she felt threatened or uncomfortable, I kept my pace slow and even. The last thing I wanted was for her to stumble or hurt herself further. So far there had been no signs of discomfort, no tension around her eyes, no smell of rot or blood on the air. But the way her leg had looked that first day . . .
My hands curled into fists.
“You must tell me if you are overtaxing your leg. I do not want your injury to worsen.” Even though I kept my eyes off her, her sharp, indrawn breath and sudden halt alerted me to her distress. Her face, when I turned, was
ashen and her lips trembled.
Alarmed, I reached out a hand to steady her quivering form. “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”
She ducked her head, refusing to meet my gaze. “No.” A shrug, the gesture dismissive but for the way her chin kept dropping. Nervous hands fiddled with the string holding her sweatpants up, her bottom lip disappearing between her front teeth.
Something was not right.
“Hmm.” I took my time assessing her movements. She must have felt my gaze caressing her smooth skin, but not once did she look up. Her eyes glued to the ground, her thin shoulders hunched, she looked like a terrified child convicted of crimes that shamed her deeply.
Guilt colored the otherwise pleasant scent of her skin.
Strange . . .
Guilt and shame should not cloud a victim’s eyes. Were the emotions misplaced, rooted from the same dark corner of the subconsciousness of those harmed by others and left to believe they were to blame? Or did she feel shame for relying on strangers to help her, for the fuss we made over her injuries? Guilt for her wrongful belief of putting us out?
Whatever the reason, pushing her would do more harm than good. She would only open up when she was comfortable, and so I would be patient.
“Would you like to continue?” If she said no, I would escort her back and try this another day.
She met my eyes for a moment before averting them. “Yes, please.” A breath of relief.
If she knew what I had planned once we reached the stables her relief would be short-lived. I had no misconceptions about what this would mean. If everything went according to my plan, Hope would reveal some things about her past today that would most likely haunt me. And to get her to trust me enough to share, even just one experience, I would have to share first.
My jaw ground together.
“Do you enjoy it?” Hope asked as we resumed our walk. Grass, wet from the night’s rain, reached up to share its moisture with the bottom of her sweatpants. Rolled up as they were, she would not feel the dampness unless she walked outside for hours. “Rehabilitating horses, I mean,” she added with a faint blush.
“I do.”
She looked up at me, a line appearing between her delicate brows. “What . . . what about it do you like the most?”
She wants to know more. Talk to her.
A tall order for someone like me. I was not used to explaining myself. Not used to sharing, either. Everyone considered Ruarc to be the reticent one, but while he was a man of few words, he could share if need be. For me, keeping emotions and events to myself had been a matter of survival since I was a child. Breaking that habit would be tough.
“There is not an aspect of it I do not like. Except for seeing the trauma inflicted on some of the poor animals,” I added. “But the rest I love. In particular the moment trust re-enters the equation. The day the horse sees that, finally, there is a person who will not harm him. Once I have earned their trust the rest of the journey is one of understanding.”
Hope blinked up at me, a sheen of moisture making her eyes shine beautifully. “That’s . . .” She cleared her throat. “That’s really nice.”
“Hmm.” My reply must not have been sufficient—she was still looking up at me with her wide, soulful eyes, like she was waiting for me to expand.
Or maybe she wanted me to reciprocate, show an interest in her life?
No, that would just bring back bad memories for her and make her shut down before I was ready.
As we came up to the stables, the window of opportunity was closing; Hope’s eyes were back to staring at the ground, her shoulders hunched.
Keeping my tone even and non-threatening, I held the door open for her. “I thought I would introduce you to a mare who is almost ready to go home.”
She nodded and hurried past me, careful not to brush up against me as she went.
“She is right over here,” I said, leading the way.
The mare in question was beautiful; a coat as black as the deepest ocean on a moonless night, with an elegant head and wide, curious eyes. The scars marking her face and body were faint, nothing like the open gashes she had sported when she arrived.
“Hope, this is Dancing Queen. Queenie to her friends.”
“Hi, Queenie,” Hope murmured, a slight smile warming her face and making her look a little less lost. She reached out, looking pleased when Queenie nuzzled her palm.
“Queenie used to be a racehorse,” I murmured, keeping one eye on Hope as I told her the horse’s story. “When her owners realized she was never going to place, they sold her to the highest bidder. Unfortunately, the man who bought her was cruel and had no knowledge on the right way to train a horse. He used violence to push the poor girl past her limits. Almost killed her.”
“That’s terrible,” Hope whispered. “How did you save her?”
“The man was spotted beating the horse by someone who cares about animals. They called me, and here we are.”
Sad eyes glued on the horse, she asked, “How did you get him to give her up?”
With great pleasure, I thought, remembering how the man had looked after Ruarc and I were done with him. “We convinced him it was in his best interest to find a different hobby.”
Her shoulders tensed, but she kept petting the horse. “Good,” she said fiercely, making me think she understood some of what had transpired.
“Would you like to brush her?”
The way her eyes lit up brought a shocking sadness to my heart. Every time we showed her kindness or consideration she was so clearly surprised and delighted. It was as though no one had ever shown her anything but pain.
“I would love to! If she likes it, that is,” Hope added.
I nodded, reaching for the small tack box I had left outside the stall a few hours earlier. “Try this one,” I said and passed her Queenie’s favorite.
Hope accepted the round, plastic brush, her small, delicate hands turning it over as she examined the rounded, square rubber-teeth sticking out at regular intervals. “What kind of brush is this?”
“It is called a Curry Comb. Rub it in a circular motion, like this.” I made a smooth circle in the air with my right hand. “Queenie loves it. The massage feels good and it is healthy for her blood flow.”
Hope nodded, a determined tilt to her chin. “Got it.”
“Take this side.” I guided her over to Queenie’s right. “I will start on the left.” I ducked under the mare’s neck to stand on the opposite side. The top of Hope’s head barely reached the mare’s back, making it hard for her to see me.
Just as well, I thought. It will make it easier for her to talk when the time comes.
Working my greater height to my advantage, I peered down across Queenie’s back and watched the top of her head as she gingerly touched the brush to the soft fur in front of her.
“Do not be afraid of pushing too hard.” I lifted my matching brush, using firm strokes that made Queenie grunt with pleasure. “Experiment with the pressure. Watch her eyes and ears for signs of discomfort. If she dislikes what you are doing, her eyes will widen, she may step away from you and her ears may flatten against the back of her head. If she closes her eyes, sighs and lowers her head like that, it means she is enjoying it.”
“Okay,” Hope whispered. “Thank you.”
Her next few strokes were firmer. She kept a careful watch on Queenie, and a slow smile spread across her face as the mare closed her eyes, head lowering in relaxation.
“Very good.” I wanted her to feel useful. To feel as though she excelled at something, even if it was just brushing a horse. The way Hope carried herself, the lack of confidence shining through her clear, brown eyes made me suspect she felt inadequate, insecure, and it made me doubt she had rarely, if ever, had the opportunity to learn something she enjoyed.
I should teach her to ride.
“You’re different here,” Hope murmured. She kept her head down, making it impossible for me to see her expression. “You sound so
at peace. Not that you normally don’t,” she added, picking up speed. “I just mean . . . oh, I don’t know. It’s just different.”
“Hmm.” I took a moment to think about her words. “I have always felt at home with animals, especially horses. They are an unusually perceptive species. If you are calm and treat them well they will repay you a thousand times. They will give you peace in times of distress, and comfort in times of sorrow. Most animals are gifted at sensing your emotions, horses in particular.”
The sharp sound of Hope’s next indrawn breath was like a knife to my heart.
I glanced over at her, my chest constricting at the sheen of tears in her eyes as she lifted her face to stare at the scar Queenie had just below her eye. With a trembling hand, she gently traced the white line with her thumb.
“Will she ever be okay?”
Her tremulous voice stoked the anger I kept under lock and key, tempting my beast into a hunt that could only end with death.
A hunt I knew Ruarc, in particular, hungered for.
I took a deep, calming breath, letting the familiar scent of horse and hay relax my tense shoulders. Another inhale and a different scent prodded something in my brain. It wasn’t Hope’s sweet scent, but a complex pattern buried below the surface. Underneath her honeyed fragrance lay something sharper, something that stirred a longing in me I did not understand, nor wished to examine.
I cleared my throat, focusing on Hope’s question. “Queenie will always have scars. Some you can see, like the one below her eye, and some you cannot. It is the hidden scars, the ones deep inside, that are the most difficult to overcome.” I paused, waiting for a reaction. Except for her quickened breathing and the scent of sorrow in the air, she gave no outward appearance of having heard me. “Luckily for me,” I continued, stroking the mare’s smooth neck, “Queenie is a fighter. I saw it on her first day here; the fire in her eyes, her determination. She was not aware of it then, but that’s what saved her. Not me or anything I could have done, but her own will.”