by Rae Monet
* * * *
Serena jerked her head back up when she felt it falling to her chest, pulling from her dream state to the present. She would not lose consciousness. She needed to slow the racing of her blood, and for that she had to stay alert and in control. Answering that warrior distress call had caused her nothing but trouble.
She groaned as pain assaulted her body.
She couldn't believe she had even allowed that arrow to fly in the first place. Her senses had been distracted, her link completely severed when she had felt the emotions of the dark-haired man. It was almost as if his emotions had plowed through her ability to concentrate and disabled her. She shook her head in disgust. The possessiveness and desire that radiated from that man had stopped her directly and frozen her.
I made a near-deadly mistake.
Yet the man had not identified himself as a Wolf Warrior, and Serena could not afford to trust anyone beyond her brother. Their quest was her priority right now, and she did not have the luxury to explore that man's identity. And now this nuisance of an injury would cost her time she did not have to spare. She cursed both men and herself as she settled back against the rock.
I must remain conscious, she thought.
* * * *
Roan waited so the woman would think him gone, then circled around to the other side of her horse. Her head was resting back against the rock, her breathing shallow and her face pale. One leg was laid down while the other still braced her against the wall of the rock. The bow that had rested so comfortably in her hand was now lying tip down, propped against the dirt. Roan cautiously approached her, his steps light and quiet. Her head pulled upward off the rock, and the bow came swinging around, battle ready.
"Why have you not followed my instructions?” she asked haughtily.
He smiled at her arrogance. She sat there bleeding to death and still had the audacity to question him. He admired her spirit.
"I found your instructions were not to my liking.” He saw her eyebrows rise at his statement. “Serena?"
The woman appeared uncomfortable at his question, her alarm showing at his use of her name.
"That is your name, is it not?” When she didn't answer he pressed on. “Serena, let me help you.” He walked forward, closing in on her.
"Remain,” she commanded, raising the bow.
"Serena, please,” he beseeched, and took another step. The weapon that had remained trained on him was now wavering.
"How is it you know my name?"
As if the bow was suddenly too heavy, she lowered it to the ground.
Roan moved closer. She didn't seem to have the energy to fight him anymore. The bow lay dormant at her side. He knelt down before her, concerned about her lack of color, the strain of her breathing, the weakness of her limbs. She was losing too much blood from her poorly assembled bandage.
"I heard your name,” he tapped his head, “in here, when you cried to Richard and Caine for help."
Roan heard her suck in her breath as she stared at him. He reached for her shoulder as she closed her eyes. Roan stopped cold. His hand immediately went to his head when he felt a pain similar to the one earlier. This time however, it was not as intense, as if his body was adjusting to the invasion.
Can you hear me?
She opened her eyes and studied him, looking obviously, for his reaction.
Roan lowered his hand and stared at her, nodding his head as he gazed into those compelling green eyes. They reminded him of the lush, emerald colored rolling hills, rising above his castle.
He was startled when she laid her hand on his bare arm. He felt the heat from her touch radiate down his arm to his fingers. She pulled his arm around so she could see his right shoulder. Saw his mark—a wolf overlapping a sword surrounded by two interlinking circles.
She let out a cry, “You are a Solarian Wolf Warrior! I heeded your cry for help—this is why I am here. Why did you not tell me?” Her hand remained on his arm.
Roan watched the greeting on her face, confused.
Was she becoming muddled from her loss of blood?
He began to unwrap her shoulder. She seemed docile now, and let him tend her. He removed the bandage, then reached over to take off her leather vest. Roan paused. What if she wasn't wearing anything underneath? Would she be displeased if he bared her? Somehow that thought overrode his excitement at the possibilities—his primitive male craving to see her. He didn't want her to feel discontent.
How odd, why do her feelings matter so much to me? I barely know her, he thought.
Roan was relieved to see that she wore a leather jerkin covering her breasts. He pulled off her swords and other various weapons hidden amongst her clothes, setting them gently aside. Her wound was deep, but the bleeding had slowed and it looked clean. Yet he still needed to wash it before binding it. She had leaned back against the rock again, her eyes closed. His concern for her grew.
"Serena?"
She opened pain-filled eyes, responding to the fear in his call. Her eyes were glazed, and Roan sensed she was fighting for consciousness.
"I am going to carry you to the river to wash the wound,” he said. She struggled a bit as if to fight his commands, then closed her eyes again.
"Stay with me,” he whispered, as he lifted her into his arms. She was lighter than he would have guessed. With her arm wrapped around his neck, Roan stood for a moment, feeling her in his arms. She felt so good, so right. She was so much smaller than she'd originally seemed, almost delicate next to his large frame.
A feeling of intense protectiveness welled up in him. How someone so little could fight with such fierceness amazed him. Carrying her to his makeshift camp beside the river, Roan pulled a blanket from his saddle and tossed it down on the hard ground. Slowly, he lowered his legs, gently placing her on the blanket.
She roused when he positioned her and handed him the small bundle she had used to wrap her wound. “Here, use these herbs and bandages. They are from Richard, my brother, our healer."
Roan took the offering from her, barely hearing her words. He was more concerned with stopping the bleeding from her shoulder. He leaned over to the river and dipped in his hands, then gently poured water over her wound. She moaned in response. The arrow had penetrated all the way through her shoulder. Luckily it had only stuck the fleshy part of her frame, missing any major arteries, bones or tendons. He tenderly turned her over to examine the wound from the rear. He poured more water over the back of the wound but stopped when he saw the marking on her right shoulder.
Dazed, he ran his fingers over the marking. It was an exact replica of his, the wolf, the sword and the interlocking circles. Running his fingers over the mark, Roan felt her shiver under his touch.
What was the likelihood they carried the same wolf body markings?
He had some questions that needed answers, however, first he needed to pack her wound and stop the bleeding. The immediacy of her need far exceeded his selfish search for answers.
He placed some of the recommended herbs on a bandage, pulled her back over to repeat the process in the front, and tightly bound the wound with several layers of bandages. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and even. He bundled up his discarded shirt and gently laid it under her head to let her sleep. She needed sleep to recover from the loss of blood. He'd have to wait a little longer before all of his questions could be answered.
While Roan re-built the fire and retrieved her weapons, he pondered Serena's words.
Solarian Wolf Warrior. What does that mean? Does she know what she is saying?
He peered over his shoulder at his own wolf marking. He had always wondered about its origin. At age six, he had been found in the Forest of the Dean. He had no memory of why he had been left or how he had gotten there. He had been cut, bruised and burned, and had a large bump on his scalp. Soot, dirt, and blood had covered his body as if he had been in a battle.
Unfortunately, he could remember nothing about his life prior to that time. An E
nglish Duke, Aston III of Kingsmore, had found him in a semi-unconscious state, a large gray wolf dead next to him. Aston took him in and raised him. Eventually, he had called Roan son, having had none of his own.
Roan was known as one of the fiercest knights in England, always battling to win, yet giving mercy when needed. His wolf marking was the primary reason for the name, Wolf.
For his dedicated service, he was granted a title and a castle built along the stormy border between England and Scotland. He gathered out-of-work mercenaries like Ian, loyal to the bone to Roan and the castle they called home, appropriately named Wolfsmoor.
Today he and Ian had been traveling on a scouting mission in an endless struggle to protect what was his. There was a constant threat of attack from across the border. When they felt an itch to discover if the Scots planned an attack against the castle, they went scouting. The trip was always lucrative with information about upcoming clan movements. This allowed Roan to be ready for anything.
The soldiers they had come upon today were a typical breed of English soldier, ripe for Scottish blood. It would have done no good for Roan to identify himself; they were simply in search of someone to kill. Soldiers like those were one of the reasons Roan had chosen to stop fighting for the English.
After dressing his own wounds, Roan pulled on a fresh tunic, then eased down onto the blanket next to Serena. It was twilight, and the sun was, inch by inch, lowering beneath the horizon. The night rapidly descended upon the heavily wooded forest.
In the flickering firelight, Roan's gaze drifted over Serena's slumbering face. He leaned over her to check her bandages and was satisfied to see that no additional blood has seeped through. In an impulsive act he brushed a stray lock of dark hair off of her cheek, his fingers lingering on her face.
She is incredible.
He let his finger stray down her cheek to her slim neck. So much beauty, yet so much courage. She had saved his life this day. He, the great Wolf of England, saved by a mere slip of a woman. It was difficult for him to comprehend.
Roan still had a vision of the two of them sweaty and naked embedded in his mind. An erotic coupling beyond any he had ever imagined, their bare limbs entwined, him sliding in and out of her, wet and slick. The smell of her would be smeared on his hands as he rubbed them along her slit. The image seized him by the throat and nearly cut off his air.
His hand continued its leisurely exploration down her bare arm, her skin soft and creamy against his dark, war-callused hand.
His heartbeat began to accelerate, his breath becoming rapid, and the hunger for her returned and mounted, his cock hardened. He took a deep, penetrating breath and removed his hand.
Unexpectedly, she sat straight up, instinctively reaching for the sword that wasn't there. He placed a calming hand on her uninjured shoulder to stop her.
"Easy,” he whispered. “Easy. There is no danger here."
* * * *
Serena settled back down, reassured, but her senses were on alert. She wondered if it was the man in front of her or the rapidly approaching Richard who had awakened her. She felt his hand on her shoulder and her stomach clenched. Her pulse began to flutter, causing her blood to pump faster through her system. The desire she sensed from him deepened the feeling. Her senses had never been so out of control before. This man, who sat so easily beside her, was dangerous to her.
Serena felt her blood begin to fill the wound that she had worked so hard to slow. With this new surge of blood, pain was quick to follow. She groaned, not sure if it was from her need to feel more of this man, to pull him closer, to feel his hands run down her body, or from the pain.
Roan pressed her gently back down onto the blanket. He saw her wound was bleeding again.
"Richard is near.” She said, licking her dry lips when he bent over her to check her bandage.
"Who is Richard?"
Serena ignored his question. She was too intent on discovering who he was.
"What are you called?” She was staring at his black hair, fighting the urge to run her hands through it.
Roan raised his head, and her unique fragrance wafted over him. He wanted her—wanted to devour her.
"Lord Roan Aston, my friends call me the Wolf,” he said, his gaze lingering on her face, on her lips.
"Roan.” His name sounded like a caress coming from her lips. Strange that she had chosen to recite his first name rather than his formal title and surname.
"A strange name for a Solarian warrior. Why are you here? I do not understand. We were the only ones charged with this quest. I was not told another was sent. Leaving the Realm without consent is forbidden.” She cocked her head to the side and studied him.
"Why do you call me that? I am not sure I understand what you are asking. I know not of these Solarian warriors of whom you speak. I am an English knight. I live in a keep nearby, here in England.” He answered.
She frowned and stiffened at his words. “But you carry the warrior mark. You have the mind sense. What are you saying? You cannot be English."
Roan scowled in irritation. “I do not know where this mark comes from. I was found at the age of six in the Forest of the Dean, unconscious and alone. I have no memory of my previous life. I do not know why I hear you in my mind. I cannot explain it. But, I am English."
"English!” Serena gasped at his words.
He was English? What was amiss here? How could he be an English knight?
The English were enemies of her people. Serena attempted to back away, but his hand locked on her shoulder stopped her.
The English had killed her people, driven the Solarians to the Highlands.
Wait.
Some of what he had said dropped into place.
Found at the age of six in the Forest of the Dean. Facts clicked in Serena's mind, and the pieces rapidly fell together. His unpracticed cries for help, his strange familiarity to her with those unusual bright blue eyes, his confusion over his mark and her words. But he said he was English.
"You are the one!” She exclaimed.
"What one, may I ask?” His brows furrowed.
Serena realized he had no idea why she was confused. He did not know that they were sworn enemies, what a contradiction he was, Solarian—yet English!
Was his origin something she could ignore?
Her people bore such a deep hatred for the English, a learned emotion brought about by betrayal, one that passed from generation to generation, that she could never imagine herself ignoring his origin. She tried to relax and explain herself.
"There is a myth amongst our people, of a lost Wolf Warrior. He was lost in the battle brought upon us by the English King, Edward. This lost boy was the first son of our greatest Solarian Wolf Warrior named Jarod. The boy strayed from his mother against her warnings. Although young, he was recognized as a gifted warrior and had already begun his training. He launched himself into the battle."
"You think I am this son, I take it?"
She had stopped trying to fight him and he released her shoulder.
Serena immediately felt the loss of his touch. She had such a deep attraction to this man; one touch had her mind muddled.
"It makes sense, Roan.” Serena tried to explain. “Jarod is one of our finest warriors. He has a most unusual mixture of bright blue eyes and jet-black hair. You look like him, Roan. I recognized a likeness from the first minute I saw you."
Serena took a deep breath. “Roan, we are sworn enemies, you and I.” Serena saw his eyes widen at her remark. He immediately began shaking his head. She nodded her head in affirmation. “We are enemies of all English, Roan. They slaughtered our people, caused us great pain and suffering."
"No.” Roan's statement was strong and sure.
A small part of Serena could not help but feel pride in his denial of what she was saying. She did not feel like this man's enemy, quite the opposite, but the hatred of the English was, without question, ingrained in each Solarian's mind at the youngest of age. They were committed to
assisting the Scottish in their fight against the English. No Solarian would ever accept a union with an Englishman. Never.
"Yes,” Serena said softly. “I cannot believe you were raised English, Roan. How can it be? How can it?"
Roan leaned back, stunned.
What was she saying?
First she was trying to convince him that he was one of her people; then she was telling him that they were raised enemies.
Is what she's saying true? he wondered.
Was he one of these Solarian Wolf Warriors she talked about?
Many of Roan's friends had teased him about his unusual looks. His knights frequently taunted him, telling him that the ladies were only attracted to him for his combination of ice blue eyes and contrasting black hair.
He watched Serena; it seemed as if she was awaiting him to acknowledge what she was so convinced of.
"Roan, this lost warrior was marked with the wolf, as all other warriors are at his age. As I am.” As if this was not enough to convince him, she continued. “It is said that Jarod sent his faithful gray wolf, Karma, to find his son during the battle while he moved his wife, who was heavy with child, to safety. Do you remember a wolf at all?"
Roan sucked in a breath, how could she know about the wolf? How could she? “I was found with a gray wolf next to me. He was dead.” Roan confessed.
Could it be possible? Was this far-fetched tale the reason why he always felt so disconnected with the people of his father's castle?
If it was true, then he could understand why the Solarians hated the English.
"Your father returned and searched for you for over five summers. Your family was certain you had not perished. They sensed you were alive, but they could not find you."
"Further searching was eventually forbidden by the council. The risk was too high. They declared you dead. Your family always dreamed they would find you, and so did I—we all did."
Roan nodded, finally deciding that her wild story had to be authentic. There was no other way she could know the details she had told him unless what she had said was true.
What was the likelihood that something like this would happen to him after all this time?
