by T. A. Grey
Broderick opened the wooden, arched door which creaked like something from an old castle. It was dark inside, the chill felt all the way out in the hallway.
He motioned them inside. “Get in. There will be guards stationed outside the hall and outside your barred window. There’s no chance for escape. Tomorrow morning you’ll start work bright and early. I suggest you get some shut-eye.” With that, he closed the door and left them encased in cold silence. The lock clicked, shutting them inside.
Alex, shivering, found a light switch and flicked it on. An overhead chandelier flickered on. Hanna took stock of her surroundings.
“There’s no bed.” The first thing she noticed.
“Unless that brown mattress on the floor counts as a bed,” Alex said. She swore she heard a hint of humor in his voice, but she ignored it. She did not feel like laughing at all.
She’d made a vow to herself after ending things with Tom that she wouldn’t cry over fickle things. She wanted to be stronger and that began by faking it until you make it. Pretend to be strong, pretend to be someone she wasn’t, that’s how she’d overcome these past few months. How she’d found the strength to end things with Tom.
She would never be that submissive, subservient woman again. Cheated on. Used. That was all in the past now. Finished.
“I wouldn’t call that a mattress,” she said, “More like a cot. Without the cot.” A chuckle escaped her, catching her off guard.
Alex laughed too and that set her off with renewed energy.
“Can you believe this place? Cold, dark, and dirty.” A single doorway, sans a door led to the bathroom which consisted of a single toilet against a barren wall and a shower on a concrete, cold floor. No shower curtain, no doors. How lovely.
Alex’s heat filtrated through her clothes to warm her as he stepped close enough to peer into the bathroom. He grimaced. “Could be worse I suppose.”
“Could be,” she agreed, though had troubling imaging a worse scenario. How was she supposed to pee with him in the room with her and no door separating them? She grimaced to think about it.
Hanna gazed back at the bed. A lonely, small pad of material covered with a single unadorned blanket and two used looking pillows.
This was gonna be hell. But her circumstances could be worse. Though she was standing trial for murder. So she supposed it didn’t get much worse than this.
“We’ll share the bed,” she said. “It’s dirty, but oh well. It won’t be a problem.”
Alex nodded in agreement, then excused himself to the bathroom. Hanna yawned and made her way to the cot. It was late and she’d had a long, long weekend.
“What work do you think they’ll make us do tomorrow?” she asked out loud.
From the bathroom, Alex said, “Some kind of labor most likely. Something demanding probably. They burn a lot of wood out here with the heavy snow fall. Maybe woodcutting.” The shower kicked on and ran for a few minutes.
Hanna grimaced at her grubby clothes and dirty body. She couldn’t shower tonight, still felt too vulnerable. Maybe another time.
Alex returned a few minutes later with wet hair in a wave over his forehead. Hanna felt her breath catch.
“Your shirt?”
She hadn’t really meant to say anything but the words came out anyway.
He didn’t have a shirt on. It was the first time she’d seen him in such a state of undress. He was…gorgeous. A hard, square jaw, angular cheekbones and a nose that was nearly crooked as if it’d been broken too many times. His brown hair was disheveled and close to needing a cut as it fell over his ears. His jaw was clean-shaven, for the moment, but it was his shoulders that caught her attention and made her mouth go dry.
He was big. So much bigger than she would have thought. His shoulders were hard, the muscle developed in his biceps and chest. He was strong, the definition in his abdomen making her toes curl. She even liked the pattering of dark hair across his chest. Oh my.
Alex looked over at her, catching her spying on him. He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his forehead. She bit her lip. He was gorgeous, sexy. Did he know it? The muscles flexed in his arm, his neck she could see tendons of corded muscle.
Wow.
She hadn’t blinked in an entire minute.
“I was going straight to sleep. I usually don’t wear much clothes to bed,” he said. If the shirt’s a problem, I can leave it on. Let me grab it.” He retreated and came back with the dirty shirt balled in his hand. He began shaking it out to put it back on.
“No, don’t. You don’t have to. I’m sorry. I was just surprised.” Her eyes, big and round in her face, stared openly at his bare chest. She gulped feeling Alex’s eyes watch her as she looked at him. “I’m sorry,” she apologized again, looking away.
One corner of his mouth turned upward. The first hint of a smile. “I’m not sorry. If me shirtless can make you look that surprised, I might just do it more often.”
Hanna rolled her eyes, surprised to find herself laughing. “You’re being ridiculous. I do not want to see you without a shirt.” The lie came out clunky, her dishonesty ringing loud as a church bell.
His grin broadened and he stood up straight to his full height--and boy was that tall--and posed. With his shirt off, she could see the taper of his muscular waist, the muscles that banded in cords down his torso and flanks. His shoulders were square and stacked with muscle, pecks large and in charge. She let a soft whistle. To which he flexed a peck sending her into another fit of soft laughter. The man was packing. He looked nothing like Tom who was more soft and thin.
Talk about out of her league, the wayward thought came. But, wait. Why was he out of her league? She was a newly single, divorced woman. So the thought came again: why couldn’t she be with someone like Alex?
“You’re so ridiculous,” she said, trying to insert some seriousness into her voice. And failing miserably.
“Eh, I think I’ll leave it off.” He plopped down beside her, then grimaced and made work of trying to find a comfortable position on the stiff mattress.
After a few moments, it grew quiet. Both drifting in thoughts of the past few night’s chaotic events. Hanna sat up and turned the light off. She paused for a moment in the dark and looked at the man, practically a stranger, lying in the bed she’d sleep in. His face cast in angular shadows. Her chest filled with a great weight, heavy as the world, pushing her down.
She laid back down and pulled up the thin cover to keep the cold at bay. To the darkness she whispered her truths, her apologizes, knowing she couldn’t be forgiven for the Remi’s death. Rightful or not.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered aloud. “For all this.”
Her confession came from the soul. Spoken for the entire world to hear. An admission of her guilt and shame. But only one person really needed to hear it.
She heard his head turn on the pillow as he looked at her. For a moment, suddenly, tears sprung to her eyes. She was so sorry about all of this. So, so sorry. For Remi, for Alex. For her poor family having to come up here and deal with her problems. She just wanted things to go back to normal, to be how they were supposed to.
Hanna brushed the few stray tears away and turned on her side to face away so Alex couldn’t see. She wouldn’t be some sorry sap crying about her position in life. Maybe the old Hanna, but not the new one.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Hanna,” he said gently. His tone reassuring and deep.
She nodded but found no comfort in his words.
That night she fell asleep with Alex Thompson and it was the least romantic thing she’d ever done with a man in bed.
Chapter TWELVE
Jo stepped inside the queen’s quarters and nearly turned right back around.
What the hell was this mad woman thinking?
Fuck.
His eyes looked. Not him, see. Just his eyes. Because he wanted no damn part in her shenanigans.
Even as he fought to do so, hating her in this mome
nt for trying to manipulate him with her body, he looked over every inch of skin she bared to him.
Queen Lysette Gerioux stood there positively naked.
Unfortunately for her, the queen had yet to realize that even as naked and succulent a body she might have, he didn’t care. Truly did not care. There was more to people than their physical body. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Anyone could obtain a pleasing physical form with enough effort and work; however, a shitty personality and homicidal tendencies were not so easily changed. And the queen had those characteristics in spades.
Jo had been summoned to the queen’s private quarters. After midnight, while most of the castle slept. His suspicions were raised to say the least.
He hadn’t even known which room her “private quarters” were until the guard showed him. Apparently, that meant her personal showering room. A large, extravagant space with a watering pool, showers, and hot Jacuzzis. A fountain in the middle of space steamed up the whole room with humid fog. The moist, warm air opened up his lungs while also making him sweat.
The queen rose from the pool of water unabashedly naked. Skin like creamed milk, hair worked in a circular braid pinned atop her head so as not to get wet. Her breasts had upturned nipples. Rather lovely actually. Her waist curved inward to hips that were narrow and straight--that led down to slim thighs.
She stared at him, chin raised like the queen she was. Naked as the day she was born, and without a hint of shyness.
“Jo MacKellen, my new liaison for the MacKellen pack. Care to bathe with me?” She held out her hand indicating the pool.
Queen Lysette Gerioux’s voice was something else. The hint of heavy French took you by surprise. She did not look as though she would sound like that: husky and mature, the voice of a wise woman. But she did.
Jo didn’t answer her question. Not exactly. It was a ridiculous question.
He answered but without words. Which was his preferred way of telling people to fuck off. Jo braced his legs shoulder-width apart and crossed his arms. It was the “bodyguard” pose, one worn by many security detail persons outside of clubs and malls across the world. What most people didn’t know is the pose left him ready to fight. His arms were not clenched tightly as one might “hug themselves” while stressed but, rather, held loosely. His position left him ready to easily snap his fist out to crack teeth, or to quickly grab someone by the throat, or halt an incoming attack. The position also appeared intimidating to some.
“I see,” the queen responded. One red eyebrow cocking upward. She snapped her fingers and instantly a young maid with a long golden yellow braid raced to bring her towel. Jo could see the gold letter stitched on top of the white, fluffy towel. It had the letter G for Gerioux.
Though, towel was hardly an apt description he realized as she opened it up. The material looked closer to that of a blanket. It was good to be the queen. It had its perks. Such as...big towels.
Jo supposed she was not very intimidated by his presence. Unusual seeing as small women and men were usually the first to have a problem with him.
“Hanna and Alex will begin working for me in the morning. The least they can do...to begin repaying this travesty.”
“We are prepared to offer 1000 livestock, a steep dowry, and a treaty of peace over this unfortunate accident, Queen Gerioux.” He purposely used her title to show respect. “The MacKellens would be honored if you’d accept our offer, and we are willing to negotiate.”
Damn, but he hated trying to place ‘nice’.
Lysette eyed him shrewdly as she ran the towel down one arm then the other. “Please spare me.”
Completely at ease, she stalked closer to him, rubbing that towel down her breasts and stomach. She had small, pert breasts, but no less wonderful to his idiotic male brain. An unfortunate flaw in the male mind, in his opinion. Luckily, he could control his impulses. He’d practiced for years, so that no one could ever manipulate him again.
Yet, the sight of jiggling breasts that swayed from her gait still caught his attention. Her nipples were small for the size of her breasts. The sight wasn’t unappealing, but as she was finding out, she had zero effect on him.
Whatever she had hoped to accomplish by bringing him here to see her bathing nude had been pointless. She was beginning to realize this as he looked her in the eye and no place else.
Lysette snarled at him like a dog. Lips quivering at him to reveal white, sharp teeth. Then, as quickly, she smiled. Like a switch thrown, she went from unhappy to happy. She sauntered away, tossed the towel on the floor and watched the maid scurry to pick it up.
Which reminded him. They were not alone. There were guards, two of them, outside the room who could be inside in a second with weapons drawn if she but raised her voice. Certainly, there were even more nearby. Then there were two more inside the room with them both watching him astutely.
“You may leave us,” the queen said. She poured herself a glass of wine, giving him her a complete view of her naked backside. He looked, but again, while pleasing—he wanted to roll his eyes at her obvious manipulation tactics. He simply did not care. It’s not that he wasn’t a sexual being but there was more to people than that. Nothing made him lose interest quicker than a woman who thought her worthiest wiles were in her body. Damn stupid if you asked him.
The maiden scurried away first, blonde braid trailing behind her like a tail.
The two guards hesitated. “My queen--are you certain?” dared one guard to ask.
Clink.
Her glass slammed down. Sharply her head snapped left to glare at him. “Do as I say.”
Nodding, the guards quickly escaped. The doors closed, entombing them together in her opulent bathroom, which could easily fit in at a high-end spa. Certainly the space befit a queen.
“Now that we are alone we can finally speak frankly.”
And here Jo thought he’d been doing that this whole time.
Lysette turned around, a bored, pissed-off expression on her face.
“My nephew is dead.”
Jo did not say a word. He sensed she had much to say.
“My sister, Rachelle...” her expression grew distant but she shook her head to clear it. “She was good. Do you hear me? Good.” The mistiness stayed in her blue eyes but tears did not fall. “The better sister. The good one between us. And that was perfectly fine with me. Because I loved her and because she didn’t try to be good, she just was. Some of us are. Some of us aren’t.”
What a bitter, hopeless philosophy on life, he thought.
She turned away and downed the entire glass of wine in one throat-squeezing gulp. Must’ve been painful because she gasped afterwards, but poured another.
“Rachelle married Renfroe, a sweet man who wasn’t much in the way of looks but he’d cared for her deeply. Devoutly. She knew this and respected him for it. They’d had one child. Remi. When Claudette died...” her voice cracked. She took a moment to regain her composure. “When she died, I took in Remi. Renfroe died with my sister if you care to know. They were murdered brutally in their home, slain by vigilante humans who’d heard about us ‘wild lykaens’. Though we know now we’re not much different from humans. We share many characteristics, yet differences as well. We live longer, silver hurts us and a sure way to kill us is and will always be a beheading. But we live and lose just as humans do, do we not?”
Bitterness filled her voice and so much pain that each word spoken trembled with enough emotion to make Jo’s heart thud in a dangerous pattern.
What was going on here? Why was his brain pretending to care about any of this? Her stories could all be lies for all he knew. But he suspected this was truth, his gut told him so.
“We were forced out of Quebec. We traveled through the harsh terrain west until we settled here. Just on the border of your country and mine. We nearly touch, you know. Our packs. Save for the however-many miles of human land between us. We are practically family.” She took a sip of wine. “A deranged
family.”
Jo remained silent.
Lysette heaved a great sigh and leaned against the bar for support. She looked tired and exhausted as if all this had taken a heavy toll on her. To him, even standing naked in front of him, she appeared nothing at all like the appetite-whetting sexual goddess she’d wanted to be when he first strode into the room. She looked like a real woman with real problems.
“I took in Remi to be my own. We had problems of course. From the beginning. His parents had been slain and the only reason he was spared was because the humans wouldn’t kill a baby.” She licked her lips. “My mate, Etienne, and I took him in as our own son. I--have always had trouble conceiving myself.” She placed a hand upon her belly, looking down with an expression akin to grief. A tear slipped down her cheek, only one.
Holy hell. Jo’s chest squeezed tight with emotion.
He’d been wrong. This woman could cry and feel pain. That made things complicated.
“I thought he’d be my like own boy. I loved him dearly before they died. But after his parent’s deaths he’d become unhinged, I suppose. For a while, things had been tolerable, but I noticed his aggressive behaviors beginning around age seven. So young....” A tear slid down her face to catch the trip of her pert nose. “I kept trying to straighten him out. Be sensitive and love him. He’d lost his mom and dad. I couldn’t imagine how painful.”
The queen gathered herself then strutted to the table that had sparkling clothes and shoes laid upon it. She began dressing, pulling on a glittery nightgown that fell to her thighs. Finished dressing, she looked at him once more, eyes far more tired and sad than they’d been only minutes before.
He could apologize for her loss, because he was sorry, but those words would mean nothing. They couldn’t ease the pain nor bring anyone back to life. So, he remained silent.