Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

I wake in the early dawn glow, lying on my face, naked and cold. Leaves and twigs and bits of forest debris cling to my beard and loose hair. I lift my head, give it a shake, and stare down at my man hands planted beneath me.

A pit of loathing opens in my gut—loathing of those hands, loathing of the lie they represent. Because I know the truth only too well. The truth is the monster that I was last night. The monster which had dared take Brielle in its arms. The monster which had frightened her, which had nearly torn her to pieces in a storm of lust and hunger.

I close my eyes, cursing softly. Even then, I can’t forget the taste of her lips against mine. That one, perfect, stolen kiss.

How I ache for her! Ache with a need that will surely destroy me from the inside out. I can only pray she’ll be wise. Perhaps she succeeded where I had not and found some word of her sister. Perhaps she is even now on her way to a gate and another world entirely.

A growl like a sob swells in my throat. I choke it back and push onto my knees, then to my feet. Morning chill ekes through my bare flesh into my bones. I look down at my naked body, at the little bit of remnant clothing still clinging in places. Not enough to make any difference. I’m almost entirely human now as the sun begins to rise. A few tufts of gray fur still cling to my elbows and shoulders, but they’ll soon be gone.

Gods above, how exhausted I am! I don’t know what I did after the beast overtook me so suddenly at midnight. Some form of mindless, nocturnal rampaging. Something bloody, something horrible.

Now I turn and make my way back home. I’m not sure why I do this. I’m like a dog, having wandered all night, returning at last to familiar surroundings. But I shouldn’t have stayed at Phaendar Hall as long as I have. It’s not safe for me to stay put. If it weren’t for Brielle and her need for recovery, I would have left it long ago.

But left for where? I’m still trapped within the boundaries of Elorata’s world. There’s only one escape for me now . . .

It doesn’t matter. Too tired to fight my own basic needs, I stagger through the trees until I reach the hall, push open the front door, and stare dully into the foyer. It looks even more overgrown than it did when I left last evening. I make my way to the stair, climb it step by heavy step, then proceed down the hall to my own former bedroom. I stop at the door, however, and look over my shoulder to a different door further down the hall.

I pause, consider.

Then, stumbling like a drunkard, I enter Brielle’s room. I open the door, stand on the threshold, and breathe in the scent of her—the scent of pine and leather and honey which is so intoxicating to my senses. When I open my eyes again, I see her boots stashed in one corner of the chamber, her bow and knife where I left them in a pile that first night I brought her here. Signs of her are everywhere.

Brielle . . . oh, Brielle . . .

Guilt stabs my heart. It’s been twenty years since Misery’s death. Twenty years that I’ve mourned her. And I mourn her still. I always will. Though her true name has been taken from me, I’ll never forget her; she’s a vital part of my heart, my soul, until the day I die.

But now there is Brielle.

Brielle who is so different from that sweet, gentle creature who once held my heart so completely. Where she was soft, Brielle is hard. Where she was mild, Brielle is prickly, aggressive. Where she was sunshine and light, Brielle is like a wild and exhilarating storm.

Why does the very scent of her call to me so? Why does my spirit yearn for hers, why do my very bones ache for her?

I know why. Because I’ve changed. I’m not the young man I once was, either the tender lover, or the callow youth. I’ve become this. More monster than man, full of animal drives and ferocity, sometimes so powerful they overwhelm every good thought or feeling inside me. I could not love that gentle, shy little creature now. I would only frighten her, break her.

But not Brielle. She is my equal. No, not my equal—my superior. Fierce and fearless, strong and true. Like a heroine from some old legend sprung suddenly to life.

Heavy on my feet, I cross the room and fall on the bed. The pillow smells of her, and I bury my face in it, breathing in the memories it calls to mind. However long or short my life may be from this moment on, at least I’ll have those memories. And one in particular—the memory of her arms around my neck, of her lips pressed against mine. That little slice of stolen joy.

The door creaks open.

My muscles tense. Every nerve comes alive, waiting. A strange sort of expectation that wasn’t there before hums in the atmosphere.

I hear a soft step. An even softer breath.

I lie still in the bed, feigning sleep. I won’t look. I won’t let myself hope that it’s her . . . Brielle, returned after the long night to join me. I keep my eyes firmly closed and don’t move a muscle.

Footsteps cross the room. There’s a sound like fabric rustling. Then the covers lift, and a weight gently lowers the side of the bed.

Warmth. Sudden warmth pressed against my naked flesh.

Growling, I roll over. Dream or not, disappointment or not, I have to see. I must know. So I turn, and I look and . . . and . . .

She’s there.

Impossibly, she’s there. Lying beside me.

She’s removed the outer blue gown, which lies in a pile on the floor. Now she wears only the corset and snowy chemise. Her hair flows free, framing her face with such vibrant color as she gazes at me from those incredible eyes of hers.

Slowly, she blinks.

We don’t speak. There are no words.

I ought to rise, slip from the bed. Flee this room. Flee this moment.

But she’s here. I thought I’d never see her again . . . but she’s here.

With a harsh exhalation of breath, I roll my body on top of hers, pressing her beneath me. Her breath is hot and fast against my face in the instant before my lips cover hers.

At first, she lies very still. I kiss her hungrily, desperately, but she does not respond. Am I wrong? Have I misunderstood something? I draw back, gazing down at her, gazing into those dangerous green eyes. She meets my gaze. So solemn, so serious. I don’t understand. There’s something . . . something almost lost about her. Something sad.

“I’m sorry!” I growl, shaking my head at my own foolishness as I start to pull away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Her hands dart out, catch the back of my head. She pulls me down to her, and her lips meet mine in a vicious crash of connection that’s almost painful. My body explodes in response, every inch of me ignited, burning, ready to consume.

I kiss her and kiss her again. I kiss her until she’s out of breath, gasping and arching her back, lifting her jaw so that she can draw air into her lungs. But I can’t wait, not now. My lips, having felt hers beneath them, are too greedy. I continue kissing along her jaw to her ear, my teeth toying with her lobe. I breathe in the honey and pine scent of her hair, and it makes me dizzy, delirious. With one hand, I support my body so that I do not crush her. With the other, I trace the line of her cheek down to her neck, to her shoulder, sliding the delicate chemise out of my way as I go. The swell of her breast is warm against my fingertips, but the corset boning stops me.

I sit upright, shaking hair out of my eyes. She props up onto her elbows, her eyes wide, her chest swelling with each fast breath she takes. She seems to understand my dilemma and, a shy smile curving her lips, begins to undo the front laces of her corset.

She’s not fast enough.

I push her hands aside, rip the laces apart and toss the little bit of fabric and boning to the floor. Now she lies beneath me, clad only in her thin chemise, already slipped down from one shoulder. I draw her to me, kissing that shoulder and the sweet dent of her collarbone. A moan escapes her lips, and my senses thrill at the sound. I twine my fingers through her long hair, pulling her head back until her throat is exposed to my mouth. I can hear the pulse of blood in her veins, and the throb nearly drives me mad.

Then she plants her hands on my chest, pressing hard. I withdraw immediately, but she’s not through with me yet. She catches hold of my shoulders, wraps herself around me and pushes me down on the bed. The next moment, she’s on top of me, her legs straddling my waist, the chemise half fallen from her bosom, exposing far more than it hides.

She plants her lips against my throat, my jaw, the shell of my ear. I pull apart the laces of the chemise and run my palms down her back, drinking in the feel of her skin. I breathe in deeply . . .

But this time, it’s not the perfume of pine and honey I smell.

It’s hyacinth.

My eyes widen. I grip her shoulders, yank her away from me, staring into Brielle’s face. She looks straight into my eyes and smiles.

It’s not Brielle’s smile.

“Elorata!” I gasp.

“Good morning, pretty boy,” the witch says through Brielle’s kiss-swollen lips. “Having a good time?”

Before I can react, she whips a knife out from under the pillow beside me. The blade flashes in the dawn light pouring through the nearest window as she plunges it straight for my eye.