When he would come in with fresh produce, or a newly wrapped package from the butcher, a blanket he’d brought home for Abigail or a new pair of stockings for Paulette.
He had become so much more than the arrangement she’d first made with him. And now she just had to figure out what that meant. And whether or not it was the same for him as well.
She filled a clay fired bowl with the stew, steam still rising from it, and placed it in front of him at the small scarred table. Old, she’d thought, when she’d first seen it. Like it had graced this house a long time, and others before then.
He pulled a chair out and sat down before the bowl. Paulette seated herself across from him.
She watched him eat in silence, wondering if she should ask how his day had gone.
But she knew it wouldn’t start a conversation.
Mostly he watched, seemed to absorb whatever information he needed, and that was alright with Paulette. There were a lot of things that could be learned about a man when he wasn’t talking — the things that caught his attention, the things that brought out that little tick in his jaw, that made his shoulders tense suddenly.
He was watching her now, she knew, in between the spoonfuls of his supper. But there was something new in his gaze. It seemed to spark the air between them.
Just as it had when their skin had brushed in the past. A little current that seemed to have no beginning or end and just looped between them, stronger every moment they didn’t step away from it. She could feel it now, even though they weren’t touching, drawing her closer to him.
She realized he’d stopped eating. Not that the food was gone, or cold, or even that he looked especially full. But that new spark she’d seen in his eyes was growing, he was alight with it.
She swallowed hard, suddenly feeling overheated. The chair’s feet scraped against the floor as she scooted back, standing up, one hand on the edge of the table, the other reaching forward for the bowl. She was going to put some distance between them until she cooled off. Until whatever was in his eyes had dulled.
That was her plan, but his hand reached out, catching her around the wrist, and she froze in place, her hand in his, the bowl beneath her fingertips.
He was surprisingly warm — warmer than she’d thought he would be. And that same heat was coursing through her, spreading outward from beneath his palm, all the way to the tips of her toes.
“Thank you for the stew,” he said, and his voice was rough, low in his throat, like he didn’t use it very often, like the words he said were few and far between, and somehow she had deserved to hear some of them.
“You’re welcome.” Her own voice was on the verge of breathless, and while she thought she should feel threatened by his touch, she felt anything but.
She thought he might let her go. Instead, he stood as well, pulling her toward him, until she was stepping around the edge of the table, moving nearer to him as though she were a marionette caught by his strings.
His other hand moved up to the collar of her dress, popping open the two pearl buttons at the top, peeling the eyeletted fabric away from her neck until it was exposed to his view. His touch.
He was drawing his finger along that space between her jaw and her shoulder, the skin smooth and silken beneath his fingers, her pulse quickening, drawing him close to her.
The hand that had been holding her wrist finally dropped it, but she didn’t move away from him. She stood as she had been, stock still in front of him, barely breathing as his hand skimmed up the length of her arm, over the curve of her shoulder, toward the back of her head.
His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they slipped into her hair and freed the mass from its confines, her hair falling down, loose around her shoulders and down her back.
“Like gold,” he said, his voice captivated and captivating at the same time, and she was stepping in toward him as though compelled, unable to stop herself and not wanting to.
This close she could see how thick his lashes were, the delicate shape of his ear. When he moved toward her mouth, she tipped her face up to his, and when their lips met there was another delicious shiver that seemed to move through them both.
He was gentle, unhurried, like he had just stopped in for a taste. His fingers in her hair and on her skin were trailing heat. She felt the fire spreading through her, barely contained.
Her own hands were moving along his chest, the material of his clothing the only thing between her hands and his flesh, and she was dying to know if his skin would be hot to the touch.
She had thought every man’s touch would be like Robert’s had been. Kind, clumsy, complacent.
But that wasn’t the case.
Zed’s touch was becoming laced with urgency, sweet and demanding and curious and sure, and she was caught up in it, her hands sliding into his hair as she kissed him back, her body pressed between his and the table.
She tasted sweet, like something he shouldn’t have, and when he pulled away from her and her pale skin was flushed, one hand in his hair, the other caught in her shirt, he was thinking he needed to get away from her before he made an even bigger mess of everything.
“I apologize,” he said, the words hard. “I oughtn’t to have done that.”
He pulled away from her, officially separating from her and was at the door before she’d caught her breath.
She didn’t even have time to tell him there was no need to apologize before he had gone.
And she was alone in the house again, the gentle crackle of the fire and the occasional quiet mew of the baby the only company.
5
Zed was back in the mountain.
He’d been spending as much time there as possible, on edge, denying himself the possibility of returning to Paulette. He kept revisiting their last encounter, every moment of it in vivid detail.
If he had to chain himself to the caverns, that was just going to be the way of it. There was no he could allow what had happened to happen again.
The kiss, gentle, sweet and provocative, had seared him to the core. Every fiber of his being had been raging, threatening to spill over that brink and into his other self.
He hadn’t been able to contain his dragon that night. He’d fled the little home, the warm lights, the tender, soft body of the woman he desired — the one who had looked shocked first by the kiss, then again by his departure.
Zed had melted into the blackness, and when he’d reached the flat, open western facing side of the mountain he thought of as his secret, sacred place, he’d shed his clothing and let his beast free.
With the darkness complete, he’d stretched his wings, let the cool air rush against his scales, his crest, and with a predatory scream he knew would only add fuel to the fire about the monster of the mountain, he took to the air, moving out toward the endless expanse of ocean, desperate to put time and space between him and Paulette, to exorcise some of that burning energy out of his being.
When he could smell dawn in the air, taste the incoming day, he’d forced himself to turn back to the mountain, to rein himself in.
That part was always difficult. The return. Where he gave up one half of who he was, forced to bury it beneath the human side in order to coexist in the world.
He’d been trying not to think about her. Trying not to remember.
And it was damned hard.
He was hunting more than he should and changing more than he should to escape the hell he had inadvertently created for himself. He was caught in a whirlpool, and he didn’t want to know what was waiting for him at the bottom.
Sometimes he would creep down to the town, slow and quiet, to watch from the shadows. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to do it. For hours he had studied the house, watched it move from the dim lights of evening into the darkness of sleep. He had watched the office, people stepping through the door, until Paulette stepped out, sometimes baby in arms, sometimes turning in the opposite direction of the house to retrieve Abigail from the woman Zed had hired to wa
tch the child.
He told himself it wasn’t strange. It wasn’t unsettling. It was normal to watch the things that belonged to him. The things he cared about. Just as normal as guarding his hoard.
Whether or not he should feel like that about Paulette wasn’t something he spent time considering.
When everyone had long been asleep, Zed would make his way back to the mountain, unwilling to stay the night in the office, knowing he wouldn’t be able to rest with Paulette so close.
The kiss kept running through his mind. How it was. What it could have led to. There was too much unexplored, begging to be revisited.
And that, he told himself, was why he kept returning, loitering on the edge of town like this, studying the door, willing it to open, for her to step out. For things to be different.
She was still in the office, the light burning brightly. Zed checked the sky. It wouldn’t be long now before she wrapped up for the evening, headed home for the night.
He recognized the man as soon as he saw him in his periphery. There was something familiar about the way he moved. The lumbering step, the way his shoulders rolled with each step.
A growl split the darkness, and he realized with some surprise it had come from him. The hair at the nape of his neck was on end, that sensation of danger sliding over his skin in forewarning
In the light of the storefront, the man’s face was lit clearly, the heavy beard, the sun-worn skin, the narrow eyes.
The man who’d attacked him at the base of the mountain. The one he’d caught just a glimpse of. The man who smelled damp and dark, and who’d made it a point to turn others against Zed.
And he was pulling open the door to the little shop where Zed’s woman sat, alone and unprotected.
He was moving quickly, resisting the urge to run, knowing the attention it would bring wouldn’t do anyone any favors.
He yanked the door open, every bad thing that could possibly be happening to Paulette and Abigail running through his mind.
So, when he saw the man seated across from the desk and Paulette flipping through a stack of papers, her lip caught between her teeth, Zed felt his breath catch, and realized he’d been holding it. He exhaled, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal.
Paulette looked up from what Zed could only assume were the miner’s claim papers. She had been smiling at the man when Zed had walked through the door. He had seen the gentle curve of her mouth, the angle of her chin. She was the Paulette he spent countless hours thinking about. Those eyes. That openness.
Then she had seen him, a crease appearing in her brow, confusion moving over her features, and that smile had evaporated, and she was just looking at him with detached curiosity.
Of course, he thought. It wasn’t as though he’d made it a point to stop in and see her lately. He’d spent so much time trying to protect himself, protect her, from everything he was feeling that he’d failed to think about how that might make her feel as well.
“Zed,” she said, “how nice of you to stop in.”
There wasn’t anything else she could have said that would have shamed him more, except, possibly, “how sweet of you to take advantage of me in my own home and then not spare me a second glance.”
“Of course,” he managed between gritted teeth. “Just wanted to see how your day was progressing, my dear,” he stressed the words, hoping to remind everyone in the room that Paulette was his wife — for all intents and purposes — and he had no intention of sharing her with anyone else. Ever. “I thought I might accompany you on the walk home.”
“Oh. Well, that sounds quite lovely. Let me just finish up here with Mr. Copeland.”
“I’ll wait,” Zed said darkly, unconcerned with whether or not he was coming off as rude.
Zed stalked to the other side of the room, suddenly very interested in the books he kept there, running his finger over the spines as he continued to listen to Mr. Copeland and Paulette chatter about whatever it was he’d needed. Paulette’s voice was low, and soft, barely carrying over to his side of the room. His voice was bawdy, loud, into being heard.
Just listening to him talk was putting Zed on edge. That night kept running through his mind. The ambush. The rustling. The day after. His damned watch.
Zed was contemplating how hard he would have to throw one of the books at the miner to do any sort of serious, long-term damage when the man finally stood and prepared to leave. “Good day, then, Miss. Maybe I’ll be back to call on you. We could always go for a walk or share in a meal.”
Zed missed whatever Paulette might have said in response, the ringing of disbelief in his ears was too loud.
As though he weren’t even in the room.
He made a point of holding the man’s eyes as he left the office. He was itching for a fight, his dragon close to the surface, that ache in his shoulders settling back in, his body desperate for the freedom that came with the change.
The door closed, leaving Paulette and Zed alone again once more. There was a tentative edge to the atmosphere, like Paulette wasn’t sure what to expect, how to move forward.
“I just have a few more things to put away, and then I’ll be ready to go,” Paulette said, interrupting the litany of ways Zed was envisioning ruining the miner.
“I don’t want you to see him again,” Zed said as way of response, his voice hard and low, little more than an animal’s warning growl. “He is not to be trusted.”
“Well, he seemed perfectly pleasant to me, Zed.” She was making a point to not make eye contact with him. “He’s been by several times, and is always very cordial. You shouldn’t make judgements about people you’ve barely met.”
He remembered the dull ache in the back of his head, the one that had lingered for days after the attack. “Just, take my word on this one, Paulette, and don’t be alone with him. Don’t have the baby near him.” The anger was boiling up inside of him, sitting just below the surface, doing nothing to alleviate the dragon’s insistence.
“Really, Zed, I think you’re making this into something much bigger than it actually is.”
He growled.
“Fine. I heard you. I am just saying I think you’ve unfairly categorized him.” She was glaring at him, her hands on her hips, and Zed was thinking he should find her less attractive, determine she was nothing but another hassle in his life he did not need.
And that wasn’t the only thing he was thinking, which was only serving to make him more frustrated.
“You may think what you wish, as long as you respect the fact that I do not want you to see him again. And I certainly do not want to hear from someone else that you’ve been seen with him.”
He wanted to remind her that she was his, the way she had melted against him when he had kissed her, the way she had surrendered to him and the power that had surged between them. Instead, he said, “You will recall our arrangement.”
“I recall it,” she snapped, sliding the papers she’d been discussing with Copeland back into their place in the files. “You needn’t remind me.”
She stood abruptly, running her hands down the front of her skirt as though to shake out imaginary dust or wrinkles.
“Abigail is with the nursemaid, and I would retrieve her now, if that works for you, Sir.”
“Do not call me Sir,” he rumbled, distaste rising in his throat. “I will go with you.”
He did not add that afterward he would walk them home. He would see the bolt of the door slide into place. He would walk the perimeter of the building. He would account for any and every sound, and then he would settle into the woods across the street and he would watch.
He would watch all night, and not blink. He would watch them because they were his.
6
Paulette flounced through her evening rituals, awash in irritation. Of all the asinine things for Zed to dictate to her, telling her she was not allowed — as though she were a child! — to engage in conversation with another human being, a client, no less, was utterly ridiculou
s.
She soothed the infant the best she could, knowing Abigail was feeding into the very heat of frustration Paulette was feeling, was fussing in response to the aggravation that had set her on edge. But there was no curbing it, not even for the peace a sleeping child would bring her.
Honestly! The way men felt they could boss around the people who were close to them. As though she and Abigail were little more than another one of his many possessions. To be owned and controlled. Disgusting.
Once she’d managed to set Abigail down for the night, Paulette lit into the laundry necessities that had to happen. The stockings. The underwear. The baby bibs.
She scrubbed them until they had been beaten into cleanliness and submission, until her hands were raw, and the floor was splattered with sudsy water. And when she had finally worn away the edge of her anger, she collapsed into an exhausted sleep.
The night had been endless.
Zed had kept his vigil until daybreak lit the sky, and then retreated to his cave, the fatigue catching up with him. He hadn’t realized how on edge the miner’s arrival had made him, how little he could protect Abigail and Paulette from within the parameters of their current arrangement.
It wasn’t sufficient, anymore, he determined as he’d made his way up the mountain. This no longer suited their needs. This back and forth. The pretense of it all.
He needed to be with them. Every night, to guard them, his precious things.
The thought caught him off guard, surprised him. His precious things had always been in the cave, his monies and gems and jewels, the things he had spent human lifetimes collecting.
And now, suddenly, his precious things were warm and breathing and vulnerable. Much too vulnerable.
He was going to need to prove to Paulette that was the way it needed to be — the only way their arrangement could possibly work.
He was going to win her approval — in the only way he knew how.
Zed started making more frequent appearances.
Bear Outlaw (She-Shifters of Hell's Corner Book 4) Page 28
