but the girl was only interested in her
uncle.
Carsha clung to Nash’s leg with what
Maralee took as fear. “Will you play with
me, Uncle Nash?” she asked, looking up at
him with watery eyes. “Please.”
Nash stared down at her, his guilt
tangible. “Later, Carsha. I promise.”
“Carsha! Get in the house,” a harsh
feminine voice called from a nearby
cabin.
Carsha cringed. She looked up at her
uncle with a pleading look, before
releasing his leg, and dragging her feet on
her way towards a house. Maralee
watched her apprehensively. Carsha
climbed a set of porch steps and stood
outside the door with her hand on the
doorknob. The door swung open.
“Hurry up!” the same harsh voice
demanded. A hand shot out of the house,
grabbed the girl by one arm, and hauled
her inside.
A queasy feeling settled in the pit of
Maralee’s stomach. “Is she alright? She
won’t be beaten, will she?”
Nash glared at her and Maralee
suddenly wanted to flee for her life. He
took her elbow in a harsh grip and forced
her forward again.
“The people of my village would
never harm a child,” he said angrily.
“How dare you even insinuate such a
thing?”
Fear snaked up her spine. Her unusual
reaction unsettled her. “I’m s-sorry.”
Nash didn’t look at her as he
continued. “She just found out her father
was murdered. How do you expect her to
act?”
“M- Murdered?”
Nash forced Maralee up a pair of
stairs onto a porch. He wrenched the front
door open and shoved her inside. His
hands were shaking when he released her.
She backed away from him, wondering if
Nash was capable of murder. He certainly
looked it at the moment. She retreated
until the backs of her legs connected with
something solid. He pursued, leaving no
room for escape.
“You, sit,” he said in a low growl.
Maralee sat down on the sofa behind
her, never taking her eyes off him.
“Don’t move,” he demanded. “And
hand over that damnable sword of yours.”
“Like hell!”
He leaned forward, his nose inches
from hers, and maybe she was imagining
things, but it seemed as though he was
snarling at her. “Sword,” he said. “Don’t
make me take it from you.”
Maralee’s heart tried to leap from her
chest, but her breastbone impeded its
progress. No matter her degree of alarm,
she refused to give in to him. There was
no way she was handing over her father’s
sword without a fight.
“Then you’ll have to take it,” she said
evenly.
He assessed her for a moment and then
surprised her by backing down. They
stared at each other for several moments.
Maralee didn’t dare blink. “Be careful
with it,” he said.
“Of course.”
He turned away and she took a deep
breath. He walked over to the fireplace,
and bent to build a fire in the grate.
“I apologize for frightening you,” he
said quietly.
Maralee’s
hand
moved
to
the
comforting hilt at her hip. She could
understand why he might be leery of a
lady carrying a weapon in his house, but
she was not prepared to disarm herself.
She didn’t even know this man, and here
she was, sitting on his sofa in his cabin in
the woods. She wasn’t exactly sure how it
had happened. She hadn’t intended to
come here. Something about the man
compelled her.
Nash started a fire and added a few
logs before turning away from it. He
watched her for several long minutes until
she began to inch to the sofa’s far end
under his scrutinizing gaze.
“I still don’t know what to do with
you,” he told her, scratching his head. Her
eyes moved down his hard body as he
removed his leather trench coat and hung
it on a hook by the door. When he turned
to look at her again, she tore her eyes from
his lithe form to focus on his intriguing
eyes. She knew she was blushing, but she
couldn’t help it. She remembered what the
corded muscles beneath that sweater and
those pants looked like a bit too vividly.
She hated that she cared and that it
unsettled her so.
“Have you had breakfast?” he asked.
“I…yes.”
“Do you mind if I eat?”
“Of course not,” she whispered. Why
was he being nice to her again, when he’d
been so harsh only moments before?
“Stay.” He crossed the room and
entered a door near where she sat.
Stay? What was she? A dog? She
considered leaving right then, just to
prove she wasn’t going to obey him
without question, but something kept her
sitting there. Curiosity? Longing? Her eyes
widened at the thought. No, not that. He
was just different somehow. Which made
him interesting. That’s all there was too it.
She found him interesting. Not... arousing.
She touched her cheeks with cool
fingertips, glad he was out of the room for
a moment so she could collect her
scattered thoughts.
Maralee glanced around the room,
trying to make sense of the man who lived
here. Situated beneath a window facing
the porch was a well-made, wooden desk.
Old books with yellowed pages and worn
bindings were scattered over its surface.
Near-empty inkwells and tattered quills
crowded one corner. Papers, in uneven
stacks, rested among the tatty books.
Beside the desk was a bookshelf with
more old volumes, and in the corner of the
room, a comfortable looking chair draped
in a thick bearskin. Another bearskin was
on the sofa beneath her, and a third served
as a rug in the room’s center. A hunter or a
fur-trader? He liked to read or write. She
wondered what else there was to this man.
He intrigued her.
“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
Nash asked, peeking into the room at her.
“The game’s fresh. Yesterday’s hunt.”
“I had breakfast at the inn.”
A crooked smile graced his lips.
Her cheeks flamed again. Her heart
hammered. It was as if his smile activated
the make-a-fool-of-myself lobe of her
br ai n. Curses! She wanted to be very
angry with him for his attempts to bully
her. She should be livid. Why wasn’t she?
He disappeared into the kitchen o
nce
more.
A moment later, he returned with a
dressed rabbit on a spit, and set it over the
fire to broil. He glanced around the room,
his eyes resting on her eventually.
“Do you like to read?” she asked,
nodding in the direction of his books.
“Oh.” He approached his desk and
closed several open books, before
returning them to the shelf. He scooped up
a pile of papers and stuffed them into a
desk
drawer.
“Just
researching
something.”
“What are you researching?”
He turned and caught her eye.
“Something.”
Her thoughts scattered. He looked
away.
“Do you like to hunt?” She glanced at
the bearskin on the floor.
“It serves its purpose.” He returned to
the fire to turn the spit. The mouth-
watering smell of roasting meat filled the
room and added to the cozy scent of
burning wood.
Maralee felt she had to fill the silence
with conversation, which was a strange
need for someone who normally kept to
herself. “I never imagined a village could
exist so deep in a forest.”
“We keep to ourselves for the most
part,” he said. “You’re the first… uh…
non-resident to visit here.”
He glanced at her briefly, and then
devoted his full attention to his cooking.
“Will you direct me to Sarbough? I’m
not sure I can find my way back easily.”
A slight nod was his only answer. The
silence between them was awkward. She
scrambled for something to engage him in
conversation.
“Did you say the girl, Carsha, was
your niece?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening.
“She’s sixteen.”
“Six teen?”
“I mean… six?” He looked at her as if
gauging her reaction to his claim.
“She looks about six.”
He nodded. “Yes, she’s six.”
“You said her father had been
murdered, then he must have been—”
“My brother.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know
how awful it is to find your loved ones
murdered.”
He glared at her. “Do you? Do you
really?”
His sudden outburst startled her, but
she continued. “I…yes. My family, all of
them, were murdered by Wolves. Only I
survived. I was Carsha’s age.”
He tore his gaze from her. His jaw
clenched and he slammed his fist into the
wall beside the fireplace. The entire cabin
shuddered under the intensity of the blow.
Maralee gasped. Perhaps the memory of
his brother was still too fresh in his mind
to talk about just yet. She still found it
hard to relate her tragedy to others, even
after all this time. And she understood the
anger. Sometimes, it crippled her.
“I apologize. I shant mention it again,”
she said.
Nash remained kneeling by the fire for
a long time, turning the spit every now and
then. The room was growing warm and
comfortable now. Maralee found her eyes
drooping. Her lack of sleep and the
excitement of the morning had caught up
with her. She untied the laces of her cloak
and pushed it from her shoulders. It
pooled behind her, but she didn’t bother to
stand up to fold it properly. She wasn’t
planning to stay long and didn’t want Nash
to think she was getting cozy. As soon as
he finished his meal, she would ask him to
direct her to the inn. And if he refused,
she’d try to find her way back on her own
and hope she didn’t end up getting lost in
the expansive and unfamiliar forest.
His breakfast of rabbit grilled to
perfection, Nash stood and carried his
meal to the next room. He didn’t look at
Maralee as he passed her and she
pretended she didn’t see the tears on his
lashes.
CHAPTER 3
Nash sat down at the small table in his
kitchen and picked meat off the broiled
rabbit with his fingers. He preferred it
raw—had cooked it for her benefit. The
Huntress. He wasn’t sure why he
bothered.
He ate slowly, ears trained towards
the silent living room. He kept expecting
her to make a run for it, wicked sword
drawn and flailing, slaughtering his
people with some sort of strange self-
righteousness.
He
hoped
he
had
effectively frightened her into obeying
him. He wasn’t usually so domineering,
but she infuriated him.
So why didn’t he hate her? It was
strange. He wanted to hate her, with her
haughty airs, stiff demeanor, and endless
questions. If he weren’t careful he might
actually find himself liking her, and that
would be plain irritating. She was the
enemy. She had slain his brother for sport
and now she sat on his sofa as if she
wanted to be his best friend and have him
confess all of his secrets.
He heard the rustle of fabric and sat up
straighter. If she had relinquished her
sword, he’d feel more secure with her
being here. The possibility of her killing
someone weighed heavy on his heart. I
never should have brought her here.
“You aren’t moving, are you?” he
called from his seat at the table.
I sound like a complete monster, he
thought, rubbing a hand over his face.
What is wrong with me?
“What if I am?” came her haughty
reply.
He grinned. He had to pay homage to
her spunk. Few would dare bait him.
He ate about half of his rabbit
breakfast, its cooked consistency making
him lethargic. His short nap on his
brother’s grave was the only sleep he’d
had in over twenty-four hours. Preparing
for the full moon each month was a huge
undertaking for Nash. Some of his people
agreed to confinement and just waited out
the moon’s phase locked in their homes,
but most Wolves severely injured
themselves if restrained while under the
effects of the curse. Until Maralee’s
arrival the night before, Nash’s methods
for dealing with each pack member
depending on his or her reaction to the
curse had protected both Wolves and
villagers from harm for over one hundred
years. He put the leftovers in the cold
room off the kitchen and returned to the
living
area
to
find
Maralee
had
succumbed to sleep herself. She had
fashioned her cloak into a makeshift
pillow and had even removed her boots.
Her feet were curled beneath her on the
sofa, her hand tucked beneath her chin.
She was a rare beauty. Dark hair
surrounded a heart-shaped face with high
forehead and cheekbones. Her eyes, when
open, were inquisitive, wide and silvery
gray. Her skin was creamy ivory and
flawless. What most appealed to Nash
was she seemed unaware of her beauty—
as if she was too busy hunting his kind to
worry about trivialities such as fashion
and beauty tips. His eyes drifted to her
mouth. Such lush lips. He was certain they
would be soft against his. He wondered
how she tasted. He really did want to kiss
her. Mostly, just to see her reaction. He
smiled at the thought of throwing her off
guard. She seemed so worldly yet so
innocent at the same time. He’d never met
anyone like her. She intrigued him.
She killed Cort, he reminded himself.
You saw her kill him with your own eyes .
She would have killed every pack member
who had journeyed Sarbough that night, if
he hadn’t stopped her.
She was a murderer.
He couldn’t blame her for hating
Wolves. Most packs of his kind were
without the protection of a Wolf Guardian,
but the curse of the full moon brought
madness to them all. His pack didn’t kill
humans, but only because he was there to
stop them. Other human villages did not
have the same protection. So many lives
had been lost. She was a protector, just as
he was. Their methods were different, but
he understood her motivations more than
he cared to admit.
“I still don’t know what I’m going to
do with you,” he told her sleeping form.
“Sleep with you, I suppose.”
His eyes drifted to the hilt of her
sword. He wondered how many Wolves
had died by the mercilessness of that
silver blade. Perhaps he could take it from
her now, while she slept unaware. He
knelt down beside her and unfastened the
sheath from her belt. Like a stealthy
burglar, he lifted it from her hip. Even
though the sword was sheathed, his skin
crawled when he touched it. If he
accidently cut himself—even just a small
nick—it would be his end.
Maralee sighed in her sleep and he
froze. She snuggled deeper into her
improvised pillow, and he waited until
she stilled again, before he silently
climbed to his feet. The slight weight of
the sword surprised him, but he could not
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