“Do you think he’d mind if I took a book from time to time?” she asked hopefully.
“I can’t see why he would,” Anya replied. “He rarely goes in there anymore. And you’re free to go anyplace you like within the castle grounds. Except for the cellar, that is.”
“Why? What’s in the cellar?”
Anya made a point of hurrying up the stairs without answering her question. “It’s late, dear. You’ll need to get some rest,” she said, opening the door to her bedchamber and gesturing for her to enter.
The old woman followed her inside and began flitting around the room, stoking the fire and lighting the bedside lamp. Sascha stood beside the bed, staring out the balcony doors that were still half-open, letting in the cool night air. From somewhere through the forest, she could hear the ocean waves crashing violently against the rocky cliffs. A low rumbling of thunder in the distance made her gasp lightly. Though she was brave in most situations, the violence and unpredictability of the storm made her near paralyzed with fear. She could think of nothing other than Lord Marek that scared her so. As if to taunt her dread, lightning streaked across the night sky.
“Storm’s coming,” Anya commented. “Good sleeping weather.”
“How do you mean?” Sascha replied nervously. “I won’t likely sleep a wink.”
Anya smiled. “Afraid of storms, are you?”
“Very.”
“Then you’d best get to sleep before it arrives, love.” She opened the wardrobe and pulled out a simple, white dressing gown. “Here you are. This should do for the night.” Sascha allowed the woman to help her into the gown and tuck her into the enormous bed. “Don’t worry with the fire. It’ll burn down on its own. See you in the morning,” she said, snuffing out the oil lamp beside the bed. As she exited the room, her smile was so sorrowful that Sascha couldn’t help the heaviness in her chest that returned.
Thunder crashed closer, making the balcony doors rattle with their force. Sascha bolted upright, blinded momentarily by the lightning flashes. She burrowed farther down in the covers, only her eyes protruding from the top of the coverlet. Shadows danced along the walls in the dying firelight, putting Sascha in mind of Sera’s stories of goblins under the bed and wolves that walked through the forest on two legs, devouring everything in their paths. Thunder boomed again and Sascha cried out. It was as if the gods were mocking her, taking away her last shreds of security. As the rumble died down and the wind howled around the turrets, she could feel tears, warm and wet, dripping down her cheeks again.
****
Cianan Marek had never been so confused. He was not a person who lived in a state of confusion. He was always sure and confident. It was what made him such a formidable warrior. He’d always known what to do and how to do it efficiently. But not this time. This new feeling of uncertainty left a distasteful bitterness on his tongue. He just couldn’t seem to think his way around Sascha. He’d been waiting so long to find her again. Bella had promised that she would return to him and now, after twenty years, her promise had come to fruition, yet he had no idea what to do. He sighed and took another long dram of the glassful of whiskey he held. Though his curse had granted him immortality and eternal youth, he felt very old tonight. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, from worry. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. That she would see him and instantly remember her past existence? He’d thought of so many ways to try and convince her of the soul she carried.
He shook his head and looked down at his empty glass. He let it fall from his fingertips and roll across the stone floor before taking up the bottle from the table at his side. He leaned back in his chair, bringing the bottle to his lips, staring up at her portrait that hung over his fireplace. In the painting, Isabella stood nude, her cascades of hair falling over her shoulder to hide one breast. In her hand she held a single, red rose, pressed to her lips of similar color. She’d commissioned that portrait herself to give him as a wedding gift. It was quite scandalous, and at first, he’d been angry with her for posing so suggestively in front of another man. It seemed so silly now. “Lady Isabella Caoimhe Marek,” he slurred, raising the bottle in reverence to her. Her blue-eyed countenance seemed to stare down at him in judgment. She’d hated it when he drank. But as he’d told her so many times, some occasions just called for it. Thinking of her was still so painful. She’d been the one thing on this earth that he’d loved above all other things, and she was gone, destroyed by the very person who’d sworn to protect her. He closed his eyes, remembering that horrible day…
He was so tired. His body ached from the exertions of war and the pain of his wounds. If only he could reach Monkshood by nightfall, he could sleep for days if he liked. But not before finding his beloved Isabella. He would find her and likely take her no matter where she stood. He’d thought of nothing but her skin over the last two years of his absence. Many of his men had given in to their lust and indulged with whores or naive peasant girls to sate their appetites, but not him. After having such a goddess as Bella lying beneath him, no other woman could be a worthy substitute. Just thinking of her pale skin, her wild raven locks tumbling over her shoulders, and full crimson lips was enough to make him spur his steed faster.
He looked into the sky, letting the wind blow across his sweaty brow, cooling him. The sky had gone purplish with streaks of fire cutting through it. He sighed in exasperation, praying that he could reach the castle before the storm broke.
The deep gashes on his shoulder suddenly burned, nearly making him tumble from the saddle. He pulled the stallion to a stop and grasped his shoulder, groaning with a pain that burrowed deeper and deeper into the muscle as he slid down from the saddle. He pulled off his shirt, wanting to see what was causing the horrible burning sensation. He tore at the bloodied dressing and exposed the wound, sighing with some relief as the cool air hit it. It had been a month since the beast had attacked him, and still the wound was open and throbbing. The pain radiated down his arm and across his shoulders. He breathed deeply, his heart pounding with the panic of not knowing what was happening. His skin tingled and burned, the burning deepening to intense pain as the flesh stretched over his spine, tearing in a line down his back. The horse could smell the wolf inside of him and reared back before running off through the wood. With a howl of agony, he stretched once more, his body changing utterly. Where once lay the war-worn musculature of a man, an enormous black wolf stood roaring in the clearing. His stared up at the full moon that had just risen over the trees and howled.
He remembered the pain. He remembered the confusion. Most of all, he remembered the quicksilver blind rage that raced through his veins. As soon as he regained his focus, his vision sharp in the failing light, he began to run. The sheer exhilaration of stretching his new muscles was as real in his mind now as it had been all those years ago. He remembered the feel of new tendons stretching to their limits as he settled into a pace that was inhumanly fast. Bounding over the ground and bursting through the underbrush, he ran until he came to the crest of a hill that overlooked the castle grounds. He panted with the exertion, saliva dripping from his tongue and teeth. His mouth watered with the rage and hunger, an urgency that was almost painful in its intensity. He lifted his muzzle to the sky, sniffing the air. Isabella, he thought to himself, letting the scent of jasmine and ash envelope his senses. Pausing, almost ceasing to breathe, he heard her voice in the forest some distance off. He bolted down the hill toward the castle.
When he came upon her, she knelt by a tree, clipping wild roses from their hidden home beneath a towering oak tree. She hummed softly to herself, bringing the flowers to her nose and inhaling deeply. His eyes followed the lines of her body, and they ignited a hunger deep within. He roared triumphantly, startling her. She stood up quick, dropping her basket of flowers to scatter at her feet. He had her in his sights and circled her slowly. She shivered as she began to weep. He could smell fear rolling off of her body in waves, and it made her scent all that more intoxicating. She bac
ked up against the oak tree, and he could tell that she didn’t know whether to run or be still. If she ran, he would surely give chase. If she stayed still, she was dead.
“God help me,” she wept, putting out a hand as if to offer friendship. He roared again, making her scream. The sound aroused him further, and he could feel rage and hunger rise again. Without another thought, he leapt upon her.
They struggled mightily, her screams ringing out over the forest, but she was no match for him. His teeth tore into the flesh of her throat and sweet relief flowed over him. Her blood was more intoxicating than any spirit ever could have been. So warm and thick, like a soothing honeyed tea.
“Cianan!” she called out in her near-death delirium.
It was that sound that pulled him from the murderous rage. She called out his name, and he suddenly recognized her face and realized what he’d done. His mind screamed out for his body to stop and after several agonizing moments, it obeyed. When his human form was restored, naked and bleeding beside her, he looked down at her body on the murky ground.
“Bella!” he shouted, crawling to his knees and pulling her against him. “Bella...oh my God...I’m so sorry...”
“Cianan.” She sighed. “Cianan, what happened to you?” She bled profusely from the wound in her throat, giving her voice a watery quality that would haunt his dreams forever.
“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “I don’t know what happened…please forgive me.”
“Ssshhhh...” she whispered, reaching up to stroke the length of hair that fell across his brow. “You know I would forgive you anything, my love.”
He tore a bit of her skirt, using it to stay the precious blood pouring from the gash. “Just hold on, Bella. I’ll get you to the castle and everything will be all right.”
She chuckled and touched his lips with her fingertips. “Your face is all the comfort I could ever need.” She began to shiver with the shock and cold. “Cianan, I’m so cold.”
“Please stay with me, Bella. I’m so sorry…I’ll never forgive myself.” He was blinded by tears, and he pressed her broken body to his chest, rocking her gently. “I don’t know what’s happened to me.”
“I love you, Cianan.” She sighed with labored breath. “Nothing in this world could ever part us…”
“Shut up,” he sobbed, almost angrily. “Don’t talk that way! I’m going to save you…”
“I will return to you, my love…”
Marek stood, angrily throwing the empty bottle at the fireplace. He should let Sascha go now before he destroyed her again. That night, he’d vowed to not become a slave to this monster. To never again allow himself to lose control. Over the years, he’d learned to control it somewhat. He could change at will, and hunted animals in the forest to satisfy the wolf’s appetite. He’d watched his temper become more violent, his body become stronger, his face remaining blessed with youth’s glow. He knew he would live forever, but be condemned to loneliness. But even with all his self-control, Bella’s death would have been inevitable. During the wolf moon, when the moon was at its fullest, not even God himself could stop the rage then. Every twenty-eight days, Anya would lock him up down here, keeping everyone safe from his wrath until the moon abated.
He started up the stairs. He wasn’t completely blind drunk. His kind was nearly impervious to the effects of alcohol and it would take a great deal to affect him. He was merely exhaustedly intoxicated. He could hear the wind of an approaching storm whistling through the cracks in the stone walls and the angry grumbling of the thunder still several leagues off. When he reached the heavy door to the main hall, he was practically dragging himself to his room.
The house was completely quiet as he ascended the stairs, making for his bedchamber. He’d almost reached his door when he heard the soft whimpering. He stopped and listened again, his wolfish senses trying to follow any murmur. There was only silence, so he continued into his room, closing the doors behind him. He smiled contentedly upon looking around the room. Apparently, Anya’s anger hadn’t deterred her from turning down his bed and putting a couple of fresh logs on his fire. She was a fine servant. More than that, even. He’d learned to respect her wisdom even when her insolence angered him.
He’d no sooner discarded his boots and tunic when he heard the noise again. It sounded almost like a child, or the whimpering of a frightened puppy. Thunder boomed outside his window, shaking the glass with its ferocity. The cry became a shriek from somewhere nearby. He went to the window, looking out for any source of the noise, but seeing nothing in the courtyard. He paused another second, listening intently. He heard the small whimper again, accompanied by the word, “Father.”
“Sascha,” he said, rushing to the small door hidden behind the tapestry near the bath. Not bothering with his state of undress, he bolted into the narrow corridor behind it. The corridor ran between his room and hers, a secret passage meant for the lord of the castle to enter the bedchamber of his wife or mistress at any time. Sadly, he’d never had the pleasure of stealing away to Bella’s room while residing in this house.
When he reached the little door that would lead to her room, he could hear that she was now sobbing in earnest. His frozen heart went out to her as he heard her whimpering in the dark. It suddenly occurred to him that she might not find his sudden entrance a comfort. After all, he had instructed Anya not to tell her of the passageway, lest she think him less than honorable in his intentions. Should he knock? No, she wouldn’t let him in, even if she could hear him over the storm. Just burst in? No, that would frighten her further. After standing there for a near eternity, he realized that he had no choice and opened the door slowly. “Sascha?”
The girl sat up in bed, searching for the source of the voice. “Who’s there?” she cried fearfully.
Marek stepped out of the doorway and was instantly illuminated by a flash of lightning, bright as day. “Lord Marek,” he replied, trying to curb the roughness of his voice. “I thought I heard—”
His words were cut short by another booming of thunder so loud it echoed off the stone walls, throwing the oil lamp to the floor at his feet. Without care for who he was or how he frightened her, Sascha leapt from the bed and threw herself into his arms. At first, he was paralyzed with shock, having no idea how to react to this sudden change. After a few moments of her sobbing into his shoulder, he found himself wrapping his arms around her protectively.
“It’s all right,” he soothed. “You’re safe.”
“No, I’m not,” she cried. “I’m as unsafe as any one girl could possibly be. Locked up in this castle without a soul that I know. A slave that has no idea what to do or say!” She burst into another torrent of sobs that left her shuddering against him. In a swift movement, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the chaise by the fire.
The embers had burned low, but still offered some illumination and warmth. He cradled her body against his, tucking her head under his chin. “You’ve nothing to fear, little one,” he purred into her ear softly. “No harm will come to you here.”
“I wish I could believe you, my lord.” She sniffled.
“Why can’t you?”
She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. How could she tell him how he frightened her? How the slightest glance from him brought terror and arousal in one crushing wave. It was too humiliating and shameful to admit. “I just...I mean...you…”
“Are you afraid of me, Sascha?” He asked this question so matter-of-factly that she nodded before she could stop herself. She blushed deeply and he chuckled. “Put your mind at ease, girl. I promise that it’s not my intention to hurt you.”
They sat on the chaise for several minutes, neither one speaking. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the storm raging beyond the walls. Finally, Sascha stared up at her new master and realized the absurdity of their situation. “My lord?”
“Cianan.”
“What?” She raised her eyebrow, clearly confused.
“My name. Cian
an. Anyone who awakens me in the middle of the night should call me by my given name.” He smiled warmly then tensed again. “But only here.”
Sascha nodded. “Cianan,” she began, her voice still trembling. “Why are you suddenly being so kind to me?”
“You thought me unkind before?” She could only stare at him. “Perhaps I can be a little rough around the edges,” he admitted. “I never meant to be unkind. I beg your pardon if it seemed so.” She accepted this, and their silence resumed. She relaxed into his embrace and he sighed, relieved she wasn’t going to run. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her, committing it to memory. Every breath made him believe in her more and more. She was his mate, and he would do everything he could to convince her of that fact. “I can feel more questions burning on your tongue, little one.”
Sascha blushed again. “Well...I was wondering...the library…”
“What about it?” His jaw tensed.
“Might I borrow a book? I like to read,” she asked nervously. She kept her eyes trained on the flames before her, not wanting to see any anger on his face. “And I noticed you had a beautiful library.”
“As I’ve told you, you may go anywhere within the castle grounds you like…”
“Except for the cellar,” she finished. “But why not there?” This was the real question that burned on her tongue. The greatest mystery that had grown in her mind.
“It is none of your affair,” he answered stiffly, moving her carefully aside and standing by the fireplace. “It’s my place and you are never to enter. Do you understand?” His eyes flashed with a sudden fury, and Sascha cowered.
“Of course, my lord,” she replied, her eyes cast downward. “I will respect your wishes.”
He looked down at her, trying to smile in reassurance. “Of course you will.” The clock on the other side of the room struck the hour, and Sascha yawned. “We should get you into bed lest you be exhausted in the morning.”
Beast of Burden Page 5
