by Selena Kitt
He had told her to go, but she didn’t. Instead, she knelt by the side of the tub, her eyes glued to the way his hands roamed his chest and shoulders and arms, wondering what it felt like to map that fleshy terrain. His hands dipped under the water with the soap, toward areas she didn’t dare peek at.
Her mother had bid her to tend the man, and so Bridget reached for a washing cloth, dipping it into the water to wet it, and then holding her hand out to him silently for the soap.
Griff looked at her for a moment, a bemused smile playing on his lips, but he handed it over, watching as she rubbed soap into the cloth, making suds.
“How’d ye come t’be ’ere, Bridget?” Griff asked, leaning forward when she put a hand on his shoulder and pulled.
“Tis m’home,” she said simply, standing and moving in behind him so she could scrub his back. His flesh was beautifully tanned, his shoulder blades jutting like wings as he let her scrub, up and down, back and forth. He gave a little groan when she rubbed the cloth hard over his shoulders.
“Ye like that?” She cocked her head, her fingers digging into the muscle, and he gave another soft moan.
“Aye.” He rolled his head from side to side. “T’was a long journey.”
“Where d’ye come from?” she asked, wondering about it, knowing now that his pack had been the same that her parents had left. They had once lived in the same den. “Where’s yer home?”
“Scotland,” he told her, glancing back in surprise at her question. He was wondering why her parents hadn’t told her. And she was wondering the same thing. “Middle March. Right on t’border b’tween Scotland’n’England. We used t’have a mountain den, back a’fore I was born. M’mother says t’was lovely, wit’ a valley contained in t’mountain range, an’ a stream runnin’ through it. Now we live in a den underground—on MacFalon land. Tis a beautiful place. Reminds me of this.”
“I’ve ne’er known any other home but this,” she admitted, her fingers digging into the hard, bunched muscle of his shoulders. He let out a sigh of relief at her touch, and another groan when she dug her thumbs into his flesh. “I’m not hurtin’ ye?”
“No, lass.” He chuckled. “Not likely.”
She stiffened at his words, withdrawing, knowing he was referring to their first meeting.
“Do’na stop.” He looked back at her in the firelight. “I did’na mean t’insult ye. It’s jus’… I’ve ne’er met a woman like ye a’fore.”
“What’s that mean?” She frowned, but she put her hands back onto his shoulders, continuing to knead his flesh like bread dough. He moaned again, eyes closing. He really seemed to like it, and for some reason, that pleased her. “Griff?”
“Hmmm?” His head tilted forward as she dug her fingers into his shoulder blades.
“What d’ye mean, ye’ve ne’er met a woman like me?”
“Where I come from,” he said, hissing when she scraped him lightly with her nails. “Women do’na fight. Wulver women… they’re not warriors.”
“Ye do’na think a woman should be a warrior?” She frowned, watched the water trickling down his skin in little rivers. There were no scars or marks on the man, and she wondered at it, but then she remembered—he was a wulver. A warrior, like Alaric.
She had once nicked her trainer with her long sword, a gash in his arm that would have taken her months to heal from—and would have left a very bad scar—but on Alaric, the wound had closed up in moments. Within a quarter of an hour, there was no sign it had even happened at all.
“Yer a fine swordma—swordswoman.” He corrected himself, smiling back at her. “He’s trained ye vera well. Ye gave me quite a beatin’ out there, lass. I was afeared I was’na gonna make’t into t’temple after all.”
“Now you’re just humorin’ me…” She rolled her eyes, poking him in the shoulder with her finger.
“Mayhaps a lil.” His smile spread into a mischievous grin. “But tell me t’truth… d’ye wanna be a warrior?”
“What d’ye mean?” She wrinkled her nose at him, cocking her head. “I’ve been trained t’be t’temple guardian’n’priestess. Tis what I’m meant t’do.”
“Hm.” Griff’s gaze moved to the fire. In this light, his eyes were almost gold. “Mayhaps.”
“Ye came ’ere because of a prophecy,” she reminded him. “Ye mus’ b’lieve in destiny.”
“Ye’d think so.” He snorted. “Y’know, the Scots—they let women lead their clans. The MacFalon’s trained ’is daughters right alongside ’is sons.”
“The MacFalon...” Bridget frowned, remembering their conversation at dinner. It seemed a million years ago now, but the things that had been revealed at that meal had changed everything for her. She couldn’t look at her parents now without feeling a sense of loss and betrayal. Why had they not told her where they’d come from, what they’d left behind?
“M’father’s told me stories about the Scots—and The MacFalon,” she told him. It was true, but only in a general sense. Alaric had told her about a pact between wulvers and men that had been drafted by the king of England himself.
“Different man, I promise ye.” Griff assured her, seeing her expression as she moved the washing cloth over his shoulder, down his arm, as she came to kneel beside the tub. “Donal MacFalon would’na hurt a wulver. He married one.”
“Kirstin...” It was the first time Bridget had said the girl’s name aloud, and it pained her greatly. Her parents, the people who had loved and raised her from infancy, had another daughter. And she had never known. How could it be?
Griff’s wet hand touched her face, tilting her chin up so she was forced to meet his eyes. She knew he would see the tears there, the ones she’d been trying to hide. Her breath caught, her throat closing up, and she felt her lip tremble as he searched her face with those strange-colored eyes of his.
“Ye did’na know they had a child, did ye?” he asked softly.
“No.” She barely whispered the word. One of the tears that threatened trembled on her lashes and fell down her cheek.
“Yer not their own.” He wiped her cheek with his wet thumb, frowning. The look on his face made her want to sob—everything she was feeling was reflected in his eyes. Her anger, her sadness, bewilderment, confusion.
“They took me in,” she told him, reminding herself of this fact. They were the only parents she’d ever known, and they loved her. She knew that was true.
“How old were ye?” He leaned back as she soaped the cloth again, washing his shoulders, his collarbone. He seemed to like it when she rubbed hard, so she did so.
“Jus’ a bairn,” she said, making him lift his arms so she could scrub underneath. “M’mother says someone left me at t’temple, near t’secret entrance.”
“The one in t’rock?”
“Aye.” She traced the cloth down the center of his chest, between his ribs.
“How’d they know t’was there?”
“I do’na know.” She shrugged, grazing the cloth over the row of hills and valleys that made up the man’s abdomen. It was hard as rock, so unlike her own softness. “M’father thinks t’was a mage who knew there were guardians at t’ temple who’d care fer me—and train me t’be like them.”
“Tis strange, leavin’ a human child wit’ two wulvers.” Griff watched her move the washing cloth lower. His eyes were darker now, almost orange. “How’d they know you’d not be breakfast?”
“But they did’na eat me.” She laughed. The man had a line of dark hair that ran from his navel down under the water and she traced that with the cloth, too, fascinated. “All is as it should be.”
“Ye keep sayin’ that.” Griff tilted his head at her.
“Tis true.” She shrugged, wetting her lips—her mouth felt suddenly dry—when she saw the appendage between his legs had grown in size, pointing directly at her. She knew enough about mating—animals, humans and wulvers—to know what it meant. But Bridget found herself fascinated by it. She wanted nothing more than to reach down and t
ouch him.
“If ye do what yer thinkin’ of, lass, ye’ll n’leave this room a maiden,” he told her, voice low, and she startled, blinking up at him in surprise. “Not that I’ll stop ye…”
“Oh… I…” She cleared her throat, leaning back, gripping the edge of the tub, and saw the way his gaze dropped to her breasts. Her nipples were achingly hard and completely visible through the thin, wet material of her white robe. She glanced down at them, and saw they were like little pink pebbles. Ripe cherries, waiting to be plucked and devoured.
“Ye’ve ne’er been with a man,” he remarked. His voice was low, matter-of-fact, and it moved over her like a caress.
“I’m t’be a temple priestess,” she confessed, swallowing past some sort of obstruction in her throat. “As well as a guardian.”
“So ye mus’ retain yer maidenhood, then, aye?” Griff inquired, eyebrows going up just slightly, waiting for her response.
“I… no…” She shook her head, denying it, although why she was so quick to do so, she didn’t understand. Just like she didn’t understand her body’s response to this man’s closeness—and his nudity. “A priestess mus’ be whole in herself. Aleesa is no maiden, nor was she when she came ’ere. But a priestess mus’na be subservient to anyone—man or woman.”
“Aleesa isn’t subservient to Alaric then?” Griff asked. “But they’re mates, aren’t they?’
“Aye,” she agreed, frowning. “But their marriage is that of equals. Aleesa holds far more power here than Alaric.”
“I do’na understand.” The man puzzled this out, brow drawn. “A man is naturally more powerful than a woman.”
“Physically mayhaps.” A smile played on Bridget’s lips at his assumptions. “But energetically, a woman’ll always be more powerful than a man. She’s t’ocean, t’weather, t’very air ye breathe. She’s t’life giver. N’man can say that.”
“Has any man e’er told ye how beautiful ye’re, Bridget?” He reached a hand out to rub a thumb over the line of her jaw. He stopped at her chin, his thumb moving over her bottom lip, back and forth. He seemed fascinated with her mouth and she swallowed, trying to take in the man’s words. Earlier, he had infuriated her with his arrogance and sense of entitlement. He had come here assuming he would best the temple guardian, gain entrance to their sacred space, and then find and exploit whatever information he could glean from them. She didn’t feel him deserving of the knowledge contained here, even if he had bested her.
But in the end, that was her own failing—if Alaric had been the one to confront him, mayhaps things would have been different?
But now, here in this room, with the two of them alone, he didn’t strike her as overconfident. He’d let his guard down, and she wondered at it. His words didn’t matter to her—although when he told her she was beautiful, something ignited inside of her she didn’t quite recognize or comprehend—as much as the soft look in his eyes when he told her.
“M’father’s told me I’m beautiful.” Bridget cleared her throat, using the soap in her hands to create suds. “Now close yer eyes, wulver. I’m gonna wash yer hair.”
“Aye, mistress.” Griff dutifully closed his eyes as she stood to run her hands through his hair. It was thick, even wet, and she used her fingernails to scrape his scalp, hearing him give a little growling noise in his throat in response. “So tell me, Bridget, d’ye really believe e’erythin’ happens as it should?”
“Aye,” she agreed, moving around the tub to retrieve a bucket of warm water to rinse him. “Tis all as it should be.”
“How can ye say that?” Griff wondered, opening his eyes as she approached with the bucket—but his gaze was on her body in her robe, the way it clung to her skin. “I mean… yer parents abandoned ye…”
“Mayhaps.” She lifted the bucket, looking pointedly at him. “Close yer eyes, wulver.”
He did, reluctantly, and she poured the bucket over his head, washing the suds away. She took a bit too much pleasure in the way he sputtered and rubbed his face with his hands at the onslaught of water.
“Mayhaps they no longer live,” Bridget mused. “Mayhaps they could’na care fer me. I do’na know. But Alaric’n’Aleesa’ve been t’best family I could’ve asked fer.”
“But livin’ here?” Griff rubbed his eyes with his thumbs and focused on her, frowning. “Ne’er leavin’?”
“Oh, I can leave,” she told him, smiling. “Before I take m’vows as priestess, I can come’n’go as I please. I go hunting. I trap small game. I fish. I jus’ do’na wander too far from t’temple.”
“But they cannot leave?” Griff pondered this, glancing at the closed bedroom door.
“Aleesa can’na.” She shook her head. “I do’na know what’d happen if she tried. And Alaric—he will ne’er leave her. The Temple of Ardis’n’Asher was meant always t’have both a guardian an’ a priestess. They complement one another. Male an’ female. Masculine an’ feminine. He protects an’ contains, and that allows ’er life force t’flow. He’s t’riverbank, and she’s t’water, ye ken?”
“Tis madness,” Griff murmured, frowning as she leaned her hands against the side of the tub. She realized, then, that he was looking at her body in her robe, and her breasts were eye-level to him.
“Tis love,” she countered softly. “An’ devotion.”
“I do’na understand. Help me understand,” he lifted his gaze to hers, real confusion on his face. “How could she jus’ leave?”
“Did ye n’leave?” Bridget asked, arching an eyebrow at him, seeing him startle a little. A flash of guilt crept into his eyes and she wondered who he was thinking about back home. Who had this man, this wulver, left behind? A mate? A child? The thought made her throat want to close up for some reason and she cleared it, standing and crossing her arms over her breasts to cover herself.
“Aye, I left,” he admitted, running a hand through his dark, wet hair. “But I left no one behind.”
“No one?” Bridget swallowed, waiting for his answer. She didn’t know why it suddenly mattered to her so much, but it did.
“M’mother…” He shrugged a shoulder, and there was that flash of guilt again. Then his face hardened. “M’father.”
She nodded, pursing her lips, eyes narrowed at him. “No one else?”
“Friends, kin…” He shrugged again, then a smile began at the corners of his mouth. “Why? What’re ye askin’, lass? Certainly no pups.”
No pups. Something in her chest loosened. That must mean, then…
“No mate?” She just asked him directly, giving up on trying to hide what she wanted to know.
“No, lass.” That bright, knowing look in his eyes made her want to smack him—or kiss him. She wasn’t sure which.
“So,” she mused. “You haven’t found your true—”
“I do’na b’lieve in true mates,” Griff growled, holding up his palm in protest, as if he could hold back the phrase “one true mate” from even being uttered. “I do’na b’lieve in magic. An’ I do’na b’lieve in prophecies.”
Bridget couldn’t help smiling at this. “What do ye b’lieve in?”
“M’self.” He crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring her.
“Why’m I n’surprised?” She laughed, and then did so again, even harder, when he scowled at her.
“What d’ye b’lieve in, then?”
“Magic.” She said this first, not that it wasn’t true. It was. But she also liked the way this fact seemed to irk him. “The divine. Love.”
“Tomfoolery.” He rolled his eyes, dismissing it all with the wave of his hand. “Nonsense.”
“Ye came ’ere ’cause of a prophecy, wulver,” she reminded him, delighting in the way his jaw hardened and his eyes flashed. They weren’t red, like they had been when they mirrored the dragon’s in the pool, but they were close.
“I came ’ere t’find m’kin,” he said through lips that barely moved.
“Aye, an’ ye succeeded.” She nodded toward the door, meaning A
leesa and Alaric.
“I came ’ere t’find’n’reunite t’lost packs,” he replied with a shake of his head. “If there’re more wulvers in t’world, I wanna find ’em.”
“Is that n’yer destiny?” she asked softly, remembering what her mother had said at dinner. “Is that n’what t’prophecy says t’red wulver’ll do? Reunite t’lost packs?”
“I do’na care a rat’s ass ’bout t’prophecy!” Griff’s eyes were definitely red now. She stared at them, fascinated. It was as if a fire had been lit inside of him. Did he know, she wondered, when his eyes did that? “I wanna lead a pack of wulvers. If I was born t’do anythin’, I was born t’do that.”
“Tis all as it should be, then.” She smiled at the way that stopped him—at least for the moment.
“Stop sayin’ that,” he finally snapped, asking, “D’ye ’ave any wine in this place?”
“Aye.” She nodded, doing her best to hide the smile that irked him so much, making her way over to the table near the fireplace. Her mother had left a bottle of their best wine, thinking the wulver might want to indulge. She’d tasted the stuff, but only ceremonially.
She poured a glass, bringing it to him.
“Why d’ye n’wanna hear ’bout yer destiny?” she asked, handing him the mug. He drank from it, meeting her questioning gaze over the rim.
“’Cause tis jus’ magical nonsense,” he protested, then he looked at the cup. “This is good.”
“More?” She glanced into the cup and brought the bottle back over, filling it again. “I’d think ye’d like knowin’ yer destiny. That ye had a place in t’world.”
“I’m bigger than m’destiny,” Griff said simply, a statement that served to stop her. Bridget’s breath caught as she looked at him, incredulous. Was he so arrogant, then, so full of himself?
“Ye think so?” She blinked at him.
“I know so.” He glowered at the fire, that red color back in his eyes as he drank his wine.