by Erica Woods
It felt . . . It felt like . . . It was—
Like being tickled on the inside of the stomach. Not in a way that made me want to laugh, but in a way that made me want to squirm and collapse and moan and make it stop and make it go on forever and ever and ever—
“R-Ruarc . . .” His name was a plea on my lips. A plea for something I didn’t understand.
My skin felt too tight. My body too tense. The tingling in my stomach was unbearable, and yet, exquisite in its torment.
It was light and it was dark and it was everything. And it was brand-new.
“Your taste,” Ruarc growled against my lips, his tongue running along the seam in a hot caress that left them prickling. “Can’t get enough.”
If my life depended on a reply right then and there, death would have claimed me. There were no words in my mind, no thoughts, no worries. Only need. Need and a myriad of new, combustible sensations, igniting and exploding with every touch.
Ruarc’s calloused hand gripping my nape.
Ruarc’s mouth devouring mine.
Ruarc’s tongue exploring, claiming, possessing.
A tug against my lower back. Our bodies as close as they could get. His scent invading me, his heat branding me, the deep bass of his voice making my toes curl with every word, every sound, every groan.
Exotic restlessness teased at my senses. It made me bury my fingers in Ruarc’s silky hair. Made me arch into his body and rub my breasts wantonly against his chest.
Ruarc growled and pulled me impossibly tighter.
A fervent moan left my throat.
An inhuman snarl, then Ruarc was across the room. His breathing was ragged, eyes wild.
“Gotta stop,” he rumbled, his voice a deep rasp.
I could barely hear him over the pounding in my ears. I stared, and whatever he saw on my face had him curse under his breath, close the distance between us, and bury his face in my neck.
“Smell so damned good,” he groaned.
“You too,” I whispered back, inhaling and letting his scent, that wild, masculine scent, stoke the flames smoldering in my belly.
A low, deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You hungry?”
“Not re—”
“Should eat.” Having apparently decided, he pulled away with a reluctance that made my cheeks heat. “Will fix you something.”
At some point he’d nudged the pot with cocoa off the stove. It stood steaming with chocolate goodness, the aroma nearly as delicious as Ruarc’s own scent.
While I fidgeted—silently cursing whatever phenomenon that made every inch of my body super sensitive—Ruarc poured a cup and pressed it into my hand.
“For me?” I said, inwardly groaning at that ridiculous question.
“Sure as hell didn’t make it for me.”
My brows climbed up my forehead. “You don’t like it?”
“Too sweet.”
“Sweet is good!”
Ruarc grabbed a pan from one of the cupboards, placed it on the stove, and turned. Silver eyes dragged over every inch of my exposed skin so slowly and with such hunger that his gaze gliding over something so innocent as my arms somehow felt erotic. When he finally reached my face I was sure it had to be bright red.
“Yes,” he growled. “Sweet is good.”
Heat flared deep in my belly, and Ruarc turned back to the stove.
“Pass me those,” he said, his voice a little too rough
I passed him the cloves of garlic he’d indicated with a typical Ruarc chin jerk and slid forward, preparing to jump down and help.
A heavy hand squeezed my leg. “Stay. Like having you near.”
My stomach did a little tilt, spinning twice as fast when he stroked up my leg. Then he grabbed a plastic board and a knife and started to peel the garlic.
“You have questions.”
The sudden change of subject extinguished the last of the flames, and I suddenly remembered that my world had just expanded.
“I . . . I do,” I said at last, thinking about all the things I wanted to know, all the things I wouldn’t know to ask. It wasn’t just their age, but how their world worked and what other creatures inhabited it. It was how this whole thing would affect me and my relationship with him. And the Council . . .
The idea that had begun as a seed in Ash’s office when my world had shifted to include lycans, was now a Thought that wouldn’t stop growing. A Thought that, once it had found soil, refused to pull up its roots and leave. It grew impossibly large, until I feared it would all come pouring out and destroy everything.
But when I opened my mouth, it didn’t come tumbling out, and neither did any of the important questions I needed to ask. Instead, what came spilling out was, “How did you get your scar?”
At first I didn’t think he’d heard me. He didn’t react at all, he didn’t even flinch. But the garlic got sliced a little faster, and his knuckles were white around the knife. “Happened centuries ago,” he said without once glancing up from his task.
“Centuries?”
His lip curled. “Yes. Wolves don’t die of old age.”
“Y-you’re immortal?”
“No. Just very hard to kill.” He poured some oil in the pan and went to the fridge. A red onion took the place of the cut garlic that was now gathered neatly at the edge of his cutting board. Metal flashed as he made quick work of the onion, slicing it into small pieces before throwing it into the pan. Then he looked at me, and there was so much unsaid in that shuttered look that I almost flinched. “Sure you want to know?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”
Sure it was important that I knew. Sure we couldn’t have a relationship while he carried whatever burden this was by himself.
Why does it matter if you’re leaving soon?
Maybe . . . maybe I didn’t have to. Eventually, yes—there was no happily ever after in my world—but maybe . . . not yet? Maybe not for a while.
“Grew up in Scotland,” Ruarc began, eyes never leaving the knife clutching in his right hand. “Hard land. Hard people.”
Onion sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with a sharp yet sweet scent.
I reached out and put my hand over his, stroking his scarred knuckles.
The knife clattered against the board.
“When I was a lad my sire, Tighearnan”—his nostrils flared—“sent me to foster with a clan who held an important territory. They were powerful and had many warriors, but they weren’t wolves. My sire wanted their territory for himself and since a full on attack would have cost too much, he sent me instead. Told me to gain their trust, learn their secrets, and lead the attack when the time was right. Still hadn’t gone through my first shift, and at ten summers I was already behind. Tighearnan thought the mission would harden me, speed my development along.”
“Oh, Ruarc,” I whispered. “That wasn’t right.”
“Was what it was.” He moved his hand so we were no longer touching, and grabbed a wooden spatula. “The chieftain had two daughters. The youngest, Fiona, was only three and was kept apart from the rest of us. The eldest, Ailsa, was my age. Fair of face and with a gentle soul, she was the first truly kind person I’d come across.”
I struggled to keep my face blank in case Ruarc looked over, but he never did and I probably failed anyway.
I’d never been one to care about my looks—honestly, there had never been much reason to in the past. If I thought about it, I guessed it would have been nice if I didn’t look quite so wan, if my ribs didn’t stick out as much as they did, and maybe even if my hair was smooth and shiny instead of coarse and dull. It would have been nice to be beautiful, if only to please Ruarc. But looks had nothing to do with the knots in my belly or the ugly sparks of jealousy stabbing at my ribs.
No, this had everything to do with the last part of what he’d said. Not the fair-face-thing, but the gentle-soul-thing.
If Ruarc ever caught a glimpse of my soul, he’d see a steel strap made of teeth and poison and d
eeds so black even the Hunters found it abhorrent.
And he’d hate me.
Unaware of my dark thoughts, Ruarc continued his story, “She befriended me and three years passed. Convinced myself I’d been forgotten by my sire, and was . . . content. Life was still hard; back-breaking work, sword practice and the Fergus’ firm rule dominated my days—“
“Sorry,” I squeaked, hating to interrupt. “But who was ‘the Fergus’?”
Ruarc lifted the wooden spoon and gave the onions a quick stir. “Fergus was the laird.” He rolled the R so Fergus sounded like Ferrrges, and laird sounded like lairrd, with an extra hard D at the end. “Being away from my bastard of a sire was a blessing, but it was Ailsa who made me happy. She was my first friend, ye ken? Made me feel like kin—” Ruarc slammed the spoon into the pan and ran his now-empty hand through his hair. “Damned accent sneaks up on me,” he growled. “Talking about this shit . . .”
Heart hurting for him, I inched closer. “We don’t have to talk about it if it’s too hard.”
A frown took over his face. “It’s fine.” He finally looked at me, just a quick flick of his eyes, before he went back to glaring at the food he was preparing. “You deserve to know.”
A heavy sensation weighing at my chest, I watched Ruarc get some vegetables out of the fridge with his jaw clenched tight and each movement stiff—like his joints had forgotten how to bend. He filled a pot with water, turned on the heat, and began cutting a bright red bell pepper into small squares.
“Let myself relax, told myself he’d forgotten all about me.” His expression darkened, thunder brewing in bright, silver eyes. “Was a fool. Day I turned thirteen, day of my first shift, my sire found me. While I lay naked in the woods, unable to move from the pain of the first Change, he questioned me. Wanted to know all about the Fergus’ fortress, his men; their numbers and weaknesses. I refused. He beat me until I passed out, but I never told him.” Ruarc bared his teeth in a grim, violent smile. “Didn’t tell him shit.”
Tears pricked at the back of my eyes, but I didn’t speak, didn’t give in to the urge to reach out and comfort him. I had a feeling if I interrupted him now he wouldn’t be able to finish the story. So instead, I waited and I hurt with him.
“He cursed me, told me I was no longer his son. Then he left.” Ripples beneath his skin, like this body was a restraint and he was aching to tear free. “The relief was overwhelming. Was finally rid of the bastard who’d made my life a living hell.”
My heart sped up; something bad was coming.
Ruarc tossed the bell pepper into the pan and reached for the next ingredient, something green I couldn’t remember the name of but vaguely remembered not liking as a child. He stabbed the knife into the green mass, cutting hard and fast, decimating the thing until there was nothing left to cut.
Only broken pieces.
The knife tumbled carelessly onto the table. Ruarc closed his eyes, leaned forward with his hands clutching at the counter and his face paling until the white slash of his scar was barely visible.
“A few days later, Ailsa was dead.” Said in such a flat voice it took my brain several seconds to digest his words. Long enough that Ruarc continued speaking and my shocked gasp went unheard. “Tighearnan found out about my friendship with Ailsa. Guessed she was the reason I didn’t want to betray the Fergus clan. So he killed her.”
“Ruarc, I . . . I’m so sorry.”
His eyes flew open. “Don’t,” he snarled.
I put my hand on top of his, heart clenching when his fingers jerked away from my touch. “It wasn’t your fault, Ruarc. You were a child.”
“Was my fault. If I’d done as he said . . .” A growl that cut off before it started. “He wanted to punish me. Remind me that I was his property to do with as he pleased and that any resistance would be punished.” His voice lowered to a deadly calm. “And that was the day I knew I’d one day kill my sire.”
It hurt. I hurt. Ruarc had lost everything, and at such a young age.
We have that in common, I thought. Though Ruarc was blameless in his loss while I . . . I wasn’t.
“Years later, when I was one and thirty, Fiona became engaged to a moron named Leod. Knew the man; a pretty fop with a penchant for cruelty. Had been married twice. Both wives dead.” He scratched his cheek—right where his scar bisected his skin—the gesture almost unconscious. After a second, he jerked his hand away and glared down at the table. Or the knife? “Didn’t want Fiona to be the third wife he killed, not sweet Ailsa’s younger sister. Couldn’t handle it.”
I swallowed what little moisture was left in my mouth before I remembered the cup of hot chocolate. I took a small sip, grimacing when the sweetness hit my taste buds. It suddenly felt wrong. Cloying and ugly.
Watching Ruarc talk with obvious affection about another woman, even a dead one, had my stomach churning, but it was nothing compared to seeing his pain. To sit there, powerless, while he suffered.
How could I make this better?
“Watched him for a while. Was no doubt in my mind he would end up killing Fiona, and after a mere three days I had proof. Bastard attacked a twelve year old girl, would have raped her if I hadn’t put an end to it. I killed him.”
I killed him.
No emotion. Expression empty.
If I was going to be scared of him, now was the time.
But I wasn’t.
So Ruarc had killed. It didn’t really come as a surprise. I’d thought him a warrior when I’d first seen him, and I’d been right. He’d lived in a time of Scottish lairds, of feuding and territorial disputes. A time I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Besides . . . anyone who preyed on children didn’t deserve to live.
“Good.”
His eyes snapped to my face. Searching. Then he turned back to the stove, grabbed the mangled mess that had once been a vegetable, and threw it into the mix.
“Good, she says.” He used the spatula to stir the hot oil around the new addition, shook his head once, as if to shake my words free of his mind. “Went to see Fiona. Told her Leod was dead. She became hysterical.” Something akin to regret flickered to life in his eyes. “Apparently she loved him, was taken in by his pretty face and charm. Let it slip she was pregnant. It would ruin her.”
He spun around, speared me with a look that was almost a plea.
“Was my fault,” he rasped. “My fault she lost her sister, my fault she lost her fiance, my fault she was ruined.”
“No, Ruarc, that’s not true!” I exclaimed. I inched closer, daring to cup his bristled jaw in my hands.
He jerked away with a feral snarl. “Don’t!”
I dropped my hand, my heart sinking. I hated the pain he was feeling, the guilt and misery etched across his strong face.
I also hated how he pulled away from me. It left my heart a shriveled, useless thing.
“If it weren’t for you she would have suffered for years under the hands of her fiance,” I said, speaking to my knees now. “She would probably have died. And,” I added, willing him to hear me, to know that I was right, “even if you hadn’t been involved, your—Tighearnan—would have killed her and her entire family when he eventually invaded their territory. Ailsa would have died no matter what you did.”
“I offered to marry her. Fiona,” he said in a quiet voice. “She refused.”
My eyes squeezed shut. I wasn’t sure what shredded me more; that he’d asked someone to marry him, or that the idiotic woman had refused and crushed Ruarc’s heart in the process.
His next words firmly pushed me away from hurt feelings and shoved my face into an ocean of black rage.
“She . . .” He faltered and looked at me. Jaw clenched, brows drawn together, his face changed until he was glaring. “She didn’t like me. Wasn’t good enough for her, and she hated the way I looked. Too big. Too ugly. Not good with words.”
“That bitch!”
Ruarc stared at my mouth.
“What?” There was a definite
defensive note to my tone.
His lips twitched. “Nothing.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, she was.”
The twitching sped up until his mouth split in a wide grin; all his glorious, white teeth on display in a way that would terrify even the bravest man. “Not arguing, a chuisle.”
I melted a little at the wonderful endearment I had grown to love. “Okay then.” I moved a little more, my side pressing against the forearm he was leaning on. I tensed as the memory of his earlier rejection hit, but nonetheless reached out and cupped his chin in my small palm. “I find you very handsome,” I breathed and watched his pupils dilate.
It had taken me a while to admit it to myself, but it was true. I did find him handsome. Had since I first saw him. Well, at first I’d thought he was scary looking, definitely worthy of a couple of nightmares, but there was something infinitely attractive about his strength. The raw power held within such a large body.
Fiercely strong, yet exceedingly gentle.
Hesitatingly, as if he wasn’t sure of his welcome, he reached out and brushed his hand over my cheek. “Would tell you to stop lying,” he growled, “but I almost believe you mean that.”
“I do.”
Another one of those deep growls. Ruarc inched closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Sweet. Much better than chocolate.”
When he moved back to look at me, I almost fell off the counter as I instinctively chased his lips. Only his hand on my stomach stopped my forward momentum.
A small grin played on his lips, slowly disappearing the longer we looked at each other. “Want me to finish?”
“Only if you want to.”
He grunted. After a minute where he put some rice in the now boiling water and gave the vegetables in the pan another quick stir, he continued, “After she refused me her father found out. He was furious. Commanded her to marry me. So she did.”