“A stor, Isabelle….my treasure.” He motioned for her to come back down to his side. As she did, he took her hand. “I love you. More than anything. More than life itself. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see you happy in this life. And that’s the reason I can’t let you be with him.”
She frowned. Not the reaction she’d been expecting. His response seemed practiced. It was lacking anger, and instead, seemed rehearsed with a calm clarity that only time could offer.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “If you want me to be happy, why can’t I be with someone who makes me that way? He’s not anything like the other MacGrath family members you’ve told me about. He’s kind and gentle, and wants me to be happy, just as you do.”
He scoffed. “Isabelle, MacGrath men never put another’s happiness over their own. Not ever. If Jack MacGrath gave you his paintings to bring here, he must be getting something out of the deal.”
What could he possibly be gaining by letting her borrow his collection? If anything, she’d taken from him. Especially since she took the one painting he loved most. Without asking.
If anyone was the thief, it was her, really.
“All you have to do is figure out what your precious Jack wants most,” her father said. “And then ask yourself, can he get that from you? If the answer’s yes, you know he’s like every other MacGrath in his family line. Only with you, stringing you along, so that he can get what he wants.”
From nearly the moment she met Jack, he’d made it perfectly clear that he wanted her and no other. More than that, he wanted to bond with her.
So that he could live.
As the thought struck her, her father squeezed her hand.
“I hate that I’m right all the time,” he said, “but I’m an excellent judge of character. Show me a MacGrath who’d put someone else’s needs above his own, and I might change my tune. Until then, you have my blessing to paint and travel and rule the pack after me. But you do not have my blessing to be with Jack MacGrath.”
He’ll die without me.
She was going to be sick. Head spinning, stomach souring, Isabelle hung her head in her hands. Every muscle in her body tightened to the point of pain, and her heart—good God, her heart—clenched into a rock.
She’d gotten what she’d always wanted: her father’s blessing to paint.
But she’d have to continue on with life, missing one half of her heart.
Chapter Eighteen
Jack searched through the dark, kicking rats as they came close. The mangy varmints were really emerging from the tunnels now. They must’ve smelled desperation, and it was seeping from his pores.
He’d been down here for an hour. Maybe two? He’d managed to ward off the fainting spells as they washed over him—might’ve had something to do with the possibility that rats would gnaw on his lifeless body while he was out. He was more determined than ever to stay alert and stay awake until Isabelle came back.
A door slammed on the floor above him. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. Readying for a fight, Jack did a quick flip of the chains on his wrists, so that he was holding down about a foot on each side.
All he’d have to do is get close enough to throw the slackened chains around Hulk’s or Squatty’s neck. He’d cross his arms as he threw, creating a loop—a noose, in this case—and bear down.
It was his only chance for escape.
Pretending to be tired and weak—something he knew how to pretend damn well—he backed against the stone. Slouched against the wall, and dropped his head lifelessly to his shoulder.
Squatty appeared at the base of the stairs carrying a sandwich and a bottle of water. “Rise and shine, MacGrath,” he said. “I brought dinner.”
Jack didn’t move. Not a muscle.
“Hey, MacGrath.” Squatty stalked closer. “You hear what I said? I’ve got dinner. If you don’t want it, I’ll feed it to the rats.”
Please don’t let him toss it from there.
He needed to come closer.
Playing the part, Jack opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. But he whispered the words, as hoarse as he could. And then with a limp wrist, he clutched at his throat.
“Somethin’ wrong, MacGrath?” Squatty knelt out of reach of the chains. “Speak up.”
Jack pretended to try again, amping up the dramatics. He raised his left hand to his throat, crossing it over the right, and this time he made his hands shake.
“Help,” he rasped. Coughed. Faked a choke. “Can’t…breathe.”
“What the hell happened to ya?”
Squatty came close, within reach if Jack got up and charged. But he only had one shot at this, and he needed to be closer.
“Rats,” Jack mumbled.
It was all he could think to say, even though it didn’t make any damn sense.
“Rats?” Squatty’s eyes went wide in shock as he knelt close, getting comfortable with Jack’s weakened state. Sucker. “One jump down your throat or somethin’?”
This guy wasn’t bright, but he was perfect.
Using every last ounce of energy he had, Jack threw his arms into the air toward Squatty. Crossed his wrists. Let the slack on the chains loose. Squatty reacted, but it was too late. The chains circled around his neck. With his arms crossed, Jack slid back onto the floor and yanked hard, bringing Squatty crashing on top of him. And then, when Squatty was gasping and spitting for air, clawing at the chains around his neck, Jack rolled. Flipped him onto his back. Knelt over him, a knee to his chest, the chains tight around his neck.
Squatty punched and kicked to get free, but Jack dodged the blows. He took a few knees to the back, but within a few seconds, the lack of air must’ve gotten to Squatty. Eyes rolling back, his mouth fell open. His head fell, hitting the stone with a dull thud.
After making sure he really was passed out, Jack released him.
Didn’t want to kill the sucker, after all.
But he did need the key to the shackles. And the sandwich.
After finding the key to the cuffs in Squatty’s back pocket, Jack freed himself. Shoving the sandwich in his mouth, Jack dragged Squatty up the stairs and onto the main floor where the rats wouldn’t get him. Since the guards were in the castle, he’d planned to go out one of the tunnels, but now, as he pushed out the door beneath the stairs, not a single questionable scent hit him.
Where was everyone?
Tiptoeing out, Jack’s bare feet slid over the hardwood. He wouldn’t make it far without shoes. Scanning the study for this boots and his backpack with the adrenaline shots, he came up empty.
“They took the damn bag.” His stomach fell. “What the hell am I going to do?”
Voices from upstairs.
“Shit.”
Scurrying back to the hall, Jack ripped the boots from Squatty’s feet and shoved them on his own. The boots were a tight fit, but they would do the trick. He needed shoes to run faster.
That was all that mattered.
More voices. Hulk’s scent. He was coming.
Pushing out the front doors and into the night, Jack made a beeline around the house and searched for a garage.
There. Three bays. Looked like a workshop of sorts.
Sprinting along the side, a door came into view. Unlocked. He slipped inside, shutting it behind him, and searched the dark. The garage could’ve easily fit two cars, but the stalls were empty.
Gerard had said Isabelle wasn’t home. Her father meant the world to her. If she wasn’t with him in his weakened state, he instinctively knew where she’d be.
Readying the paintings in Dublin.
The garage stalls may’ve been empty, but against the far wall a tarp had been draped over something bulky. Striding over, unease settling in his gut, he yanked off the cover.
A black Bandit motorcycle. Looked to be a few years old, but someone had taken the time to clean it. And had been dumb enough to leave the key in the ignition.
Please start.
Walking the bi
ke out so as not to alert Hulk or anyone else in the castle, Jack punched the button in the guard shack to open the gate—the same one he’d watched Hulk push to let him in. Once out of the gate, he straddled the bike, brought the engine roaring to life, and took off north, following signs to Dublin.
The ride was cold and wet, as a fierce rainstorm moved over the Wicklow Mountains, following his route. His T-shirt and jeans were drenched, and his skin was covered with chills. By the time he reached the outskirts of the city, he was trembling head to foot.
Was it from the weather? Pre-blackout?
He couldn’t tell, but had come too far to let anything stop him now.
He had to see Isabelle. Once she saw the state he was in—the state her father had put him in—she’d run to him. Choose him over her father. They’d bond. And he wouldn’t have to worry about blacking out ever again.
So close.
He sped past Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, City Hall, and Trinity College, catching every green light on the way. He’d never blown through so many intersections in his life. It was as if fate wanted him to have a clear shot while he raced to his Luminary’s side. Still, drivers honked. Pedestrians hollered, giving him a fist in the air as he waved apologetically. A few close calls and adrenaline bursts later, the National Gallery of Ireland appeared on the right. He pulled up to the front, dismounted the bike, and darted up the steps.
Isabelle’s unmistakable scent struck him the moment he stepped inside. Mixed with it was the pungent stench of death.
Her father was here.
Following the pull in his gut, Jack trudged over the glistening floors, leaving a trail of rainwater behind. It spilled from his body and clothes and squeaked in the soles of his mis-sized shoes.
“Where are you?” he mumbled to himself, shuffling through the museum. “I have to see you.”
One look at Isabelle’s angelic face and he’d feel better. He’d fill with warmth and light, and then, once her father saw them together, he wouldn’t be able to deny their connection. He’d see Isabelle’s face light up. He’d know, once and for all, that Jack was the one who could make her happy.
He’d have to give his blessing then.
As he turned through a massive archway, Werewolf in Venice came into view. And then Werewolf in Manhattan. And Werewolf in Moscow.
He froze. Taking in the way each of her paintings had been displayed.
The spread was magnificent. Everything she’d dreamed it would be. Her work was breathtaking in his private gallery, but it was safe there. No threat of non-shifters seeing it. When displayed out in the open this way, with werewolves revealed on canvas, there was a sense of vulnerability coupled with it. The whole thing made him feel somehow light and free.
“You did it,” he whispered.
And then he saw her.
Isabelle stood with her back to him, facing her father and Werewolf in San Francisco. Although she was standing in front of her father, blocking his face, his arms were folded over his chest, and his foot tapped angrily against the foothold of his wheelchair.
He wasn’t happy.
She’d told him.
Straining, Jack used his heightened hearing to listen for the inflections in her voice.
“I know you said you’d never give your blessing,” she pleaded. Her voice cracked—a blow to his heart. “But isn’t there anything he could do to win your favor?”
Desperate to hear, Jack darted behind a stone pillar separating one gallery from another. He’d do anything to have her. And if her father had any conditions for them to be together, it was done.
“He could be born to different parents.” Gerard took her hand and set it on his lap. “He could have been raised as part of the Irish wolf pack. Short of those things, it’s not going to happen. Isabelle, he’s not one of us. He’s simply not.”
“But I love him, Father. I do.”
She loves me.
Everything in Jack’s body screamed to run to her, haul her into his arms, and take her away from here. But he waited, listening, heart leaping out of his chest.
“Do you love me?” her father asked.
She shifted the weight on her feet back and forth. “You know I do.”
“And do you love the pack?”
“As my brothers and sisters,” she said, nodding.
“Then you must not turn your back on them, on me. Your responsibility lies with the pack. It always has. You were born with the task of leading your brothers and sisters in this world. After I die, you must go on and teach them the old ways. You must keep our Irish tradition alive. Cherish the love you have for them and forget what you think you feel for Jack MacGrath.”
She lowered her head.
Jack’s heart cracked, right in two.
Choosing him meant turning her back on her father, her packmates, and the life she’d built in Ireland. If she chose to be with him, he’d be the happiest man in the world and elongate his life to a thousand years. But she would be disappointing the only family she’d ever had. Even if he lived every day of his life to make her happy, there would be a hole he couldn’t fill. A shame that would burrow deep in her heart. She would know she’d turned her back on her loved ones, and she’d come to resent him for that.
I can’t do that to her.
He couldn’t make her choose between a life with him over a life with her pack. He knew the right answer in his bones. To him, they belonged together.
But there was no right answer for Isabelle.
And making her choose would break her.
With a burning ache in his heart, Jack watched Isabelle kneel down and embrace her father. Tried to imagine her heart filled with love for him and her packmates.
Good-bye, Isabelle.
And then he strode out of the museum, accepting the fact that he’d be dead before the year was through. His death wasn’t what mattered at all. It was Isabelle’s happiness.
That’s all that had ever mattered in the first place.
Chapter Nineteen
Four weeks later
“Have you heard from her?” Branson asked as they took their seat at the back of McDougal’s Auction House.
Nodding, Jack eyed the front, where pieces were moving in and out. “She called right after I left Ireland. She left a message, asking me to call her back.”
“Nothing since?” Branson waited for Jack to answer, and when he didn’t, he said, “What’d she say? Have you listened to it yet?”
“No. I can’t.” Jack’s hands shook, so he tucked them beneath his legs. “I fear listening to her voice would weaken my resolve.”
“You know,” Branson said, leaning closer, “for someone who held on so tight to something for so long, I didn’t believe you’d give up the fight. You’d been searching for your Luminary for years. To give her up like that…I didn’t expect it. Least of all from you.”
“I didn’t give up, Branson.” He paused, remembering how torn she’d looked in the museum that night. “I let her go. There’s a big difference.”
His friend nodded as if he understood, though he couldn’t possibly. The pain he’d felt every single day had nearly killed him. Being away from Isabelle was torturous. At first, when he returned to San Francisco, Jack thought he might’ve been able to handle the separation as long as he focused on the time they had together. But that only made things worse. Now, Isabelle was on his mind twenty-four hours a day, and he constantly felt on the verge of a breakdown.
“I didn’t think she’d send back the paintings,” Branson blabbered on. “Not after you told her to keep them.”
“Branson?” Jack glared. “Do you feel compelled to torture me today?
“No sir,” he said, smiling smugly. “I just can’t wrap my mind around the fact that you’re not together. You won’t last long without—”
He stopped at Jack’s sideways glance.
“Forgive me, sir. I shouldn’t have overstepped.”
“Nothing to forgive,” Jack said. “You were merely
stating the obvious. I’m getting weaker by the day. I thought I’d last the year, but after the toll this last month has taken on me, I’m not so sure.”
It seemed that missing Isabelle had affected him more than he’d initially realized. He was used to feeling physically drained, but he hadn’t expected heartbreak to be so damn exhausting. His shakes had gone from intermittent to near-constant, and when his headaches came on, they felt like chisels drilling into his temples. Blackouts were more common. With each one, he wondered whether it was going to be the last. One of these times, he simply wasn’t going to come around at all.
“I thought the adrenaline kick from the skydiving would’ve held you over for a week.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Jack gave a hard shudder from the mere thought of it. “I’ll take fifty shots in the leg before I’ll jump out of a perfectly good airplane again.”
As Colin announced a Monet, Jack’s attention shifted to the front. Branson flipped through the brochure showing the day’s art for auction.
“Did you find out which Bella Nolan piece is going up today?” Branson asked.
“Nothing more than it states in the brochure.” Jack shook his head. “All it says is an exclusive piece. Never before seen. Isabelle sent back the pieces she borrowed after I returned to the city, so I’m not sure which one they have.”
Which was precisely the reason he came today. Isabelle seemed to believe she had her entire collection showcased for her father. Either this was one she’d forgotten about, or a forgery.
He was here to find out which.
“Next up,” Colin announced from the front, “we have a special Bella Nolan piece. It’s Werewolf in Dublin, and never before seen.”
Wait…Werewolf in Dublin?
He’d heard Isabelle mention that before…
Anticipation rattled in Jack’s gut as the cloth was removed from the art, and Isabelle’s words came back to him: My first painting, Werewolf in Dublin, was of my father in wolf form, standing in front of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral…he destroyed it.
“Can’t be…”
Sliding to the edge of his seat, Jack covered his hand with his mouth. Analyzed everything from the strokes and colors to the pressure of the brush and the signature on the bottom corner of the art.
Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) Page 15