The idea provides no comfort. Instead, anxiety racks through me. My lips quiver and my head begins to shake back and forth with denial. I meant to stop him. I meant to show him I could fight back, that I was strong too. I never meant to…to kill him. Did I?
I bite my lip as my heart skips a beat.
Am I a murderer?
"No!" I gasp.
And then I'm running across the small space, falling on my knees beside his motionless limbs. The bear is gone. And with the cloak pulled away, I finally see the beast for who he really is instead of the creature my fear turned him into.
Not a monster.
Not a king.
A man.
Young, just like me.
I drop my ear to his chest, listening desperately, sighing when I hear the gentle thump of his heartbeat.
Not dead.
Knocked out, but not dead. At least not yet.
Relief floods through me. I'm not a killer. Not a monster. And looking down at him, I'm beginning to wonder if maybe the beast isn't either. With eyes closed in sleep, he looks so gentle and innocent. Before I realize what I'm doing, my palm reaches down to cup his cheek. His skin is soft. The heat of it warms my frigid fingers. But it's not smooth. His face is laced with delicate scars, some deeper than others. But he is so pale the lines are almost translucent. Except for three severe cuts on either side of his forehead, healed-over gashes slicing deeply through his temples. They're nearly symmetrical, cutting into his hairline just above both of his ears. My fingers drift up, tracing his mutilated skin, before drifting higher to run through his coarse onyx hair. It feels like velvety fur.
A soft purr distracts me.
I look over my shoulder into a set of bright golden eyes. They look human. They look woefully concerned. But it's the body of a snow leopard that slinks toward me, nearly camouflaged by the falling snow. For the first time, I'm not afraid. Its thick paw nudges the beast, but he doesn't stir.
"He's alive," I assure the animal.
Those golden eyes find mine again, filled with understanding—far more understanding than any animal's should be. But before I have time to process, howls reach my ears, mournful cries that pierce the air and echo toward me. Over my shoulder, gray shadows appear in the distance, growing larger and more distinct, until a pack of wolves emerges from the shadows, running closer. They don't stop until they surround us, all eyes on the beast.
An undeniable sense of love permeates the space.
I'm the outsider once again.
But more than that, I'm the cause of all their worry.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so very sorry. He frightened me. I got scared, and I just acted out of instinct. I didn't mean…"
They're wild animals, but they don’t lash out for vengeance, they don't let their gut reactions control them. In fact, they hardly notice me.
The lead wolf steps beside me, nuzzling the beast's neck, so close I could reach out and pet the fluffy white fur on the underside of its belly. Steam escapes its parted lips as the wolf licks the beast's cheek, trying to wake him. It whines a sad, screechy sound when the beast doesn't move. And then it looks over its shoulder to the rest of the pack. Without needing to speak, they march forward, determined. While the leader watches, the rest of the wolves dig into the snow, deep enough so they can crawl beneath the beast's body. They wriggle under, matting their coats with dirt and frost, and then stand with his heavy weight stretched across them. His hands fall to either side, leaving his fingertips to brush against the ice while they walk away. I follow the red traces of blood dripping from his skin, unable to look away.
When they disappear into the depths of the storm, I finally remember how cold I am. My skin trembles. But I can't move. I stare into the emptiness, utterly torn, remembering the beast's last words to me.
I don't want to hurt you.
On a night like this, you'll never survive.
I was too blinded by fear to realize it, but he was out here to save me. To bring me back to the warmth of the castle, not to hunt me down and hurt me. Only after I attacked did he unleash the beast within.
But before, the way he laughed so harshly at my silent dance.
The way he slammed his fist into my door when I wouldn’t let him in.
The way he attacked me for touching that glowing woman.
No, I don't trust him.
But, I realize confidently, I no longer fear him.
And I can't ignore the fact that I'm intrigued. By him. By the mysteries of his kingdom. By the whisper in the back of my mind telling me that maybe it was the beast who found me in that field a few days ago, who held me in his strong, sturdy arms, whose touch whispered that I'd finally found a place I might belong.
A soft downy head presses into my palm, and I realize I had forgotten about the leopard with the golden eyes. It nudges my leg, but I don’t understand. It nudges again. But I don't move. Then it growls, looking up at me with a hint of frustration, and starts to walk away.
I try to follow, but my feet are frozen. My body has no strength. The shivers grow unbearable. And with nothing to distract me, the weariness mounts. Between the escape, the cold, the storm, the battle, and the toll of my magic, my body shuts down. I slink slowly toward the ground, utterly fatigued.
In one leap, the giant cat is beneath me, catching me before I fall. I'm not very large or very heavy, so it waits patiently for me to crawl onto its back before carrying me away. I breathe in the warmth of its fur, letting the heat of its body course through me. And together we travel through the storm.
I must have passed out during the journey home, because when I wake, I am curled against the leopard's side, resting before the fire in my room in the castle. Two large golden eyes watch me curiously as I sit up.
My whole body aches.
Every inch of me yearns for a hot bath.
For warm food.
For more sleep.
But when I open my mouth, unexpected words pop out. "Where is he?"
The leopard yawns, stretching its jaws fully wide while its tongue extends out. I catch a quick glance of sharp canines. And then it shakes its head and rolls smoothly to its feet, pausing for a moment to kneel down in a long back-extending stretch.
Envying its feline grace, I push awkwardly to my feet, wincing as my muscles scream that I should not be standing, should not be moving.
As the leopard struts out the door, not waiting for me to follow, I eye the armoire wistfully. But there's no time for me to try on dresses, to find one that might hopefully fit. My impatience wins out. The last time I saw the beast he was barely breathing, and I won't be calm until I know he's awake.
Quickly, I grab the wool blanket resting on the chair and wrap it comfortably around my shoulders. Let the beast laugh at my funny outfit again if he wants. The more he's laughing, the more he'll hopefully forget that I almost killed him.
I enter the hallway just in time to see an ivory tail disappear around the corner and I hurry to follow. The leopard leads me through familiar corridors, to the central staircase I first made my way up the day before. When we reach this far wing of the castle, the halls still hum with an ominous, foreboding sort of air. The curtains are all closed, cloaking the space in shadows. But we turn down new corridors. I don't see the glowing door or the beautiful woman slumbering behind it. We walk farther and farther, to what I can only imagine is the complete other end of the castle, and then we stop beside a closed door. The leopard leans onto its hind legs, reaching a paw up to turn the knob. And from the light shining through a narrow crack in the curtains, I see the beast.
His eyes are still closed.
My heart sinks.
The pack of wolves from yesterday lie scattered across the floor, and I step between them to the windows, throwing the curtains wide.
They all whine, growling softly.
"Hush!" I order, then pause.
When did I become confident enough to chide wolves?
But they remain quiet, listening to me, so I bolster
the newfound assurance and give them each a pointed stare as I continue to adjust the rest of the curtains, not stopping until the entire room is bathed in sunlight.
Finally able to see clearly, I glance around, realizing something. The beast is a total mess. A slob, I mean. Clothes lay in disarray all over the place. Chairs are knocked over on their sides. Pillows rest scattered across the floor. The only thing in the entire room that seems to be in its perfect spot is a painting hanging over the fireplace, a young boy with his parents. A young boy with ebony hair, ivory skin, and eyes the color of a rainstorm.
Before I can take a closer look, a soft moan draws my attention to the bed.
The beast is wriggling in his skin, showing signs of life. But his eyes are still closed. I put a hand to his brow. It feels warm. But he's not sweating or mumbling. He doesn't seem feverish. Yet he flinches in his sleep, shaking his head, almost as though in the middle of a terrible dream.
"Shh."
I lift myself beside him on the soft mattress, leaning over to stroke the line of his cheekbones until the creases leave his face. He leans into my palm as though sensing my touch, as though it pulls him from the nightmare. He sighs and a small smile settles onto his lips.
My heart twinges tenderly.
I'm so startled by the reaction that I pull away.
But not far.
My eyes continue to roam, and it's only then that I notice the angry scratches covering his arms and the gashes along his fingertips. Painful cuts from the extra sharp thorns I used to attack him. They're still red and raw.
I turn to the wolves, knowing they'll somehow understand me. "I need a bowl and a rock. Water if you can find it. Fresh towels. And most importantly, a potted plant. A flower. Anything with soil. It doesn’t matter."
They leave quickly, returning one by one with all the items I need, dropping them at my feet. The lessons my mother taught me a decade ago come flooding back. Magic burns my fingertips as I breathe medicinal herbs to life, the kind my mother showed me how to use to help heal wounds. Using the rock, I crush the leaves against the side of the bowl, adding water and a little dirt, until I have a dark evergreen salve. The work is easy and comes naturally to me. After all, this is the beauty my magic was created for, to give life, to save it. Not to end it. Using the towel, I wash the cuts clean and cake the mud all over the beast's exposed skin, trying not to focus on the fact that he's not wearing a shirt…and might not be wearing any clothes for that matter.
My cheeks burn at the thought.
I can't stop the blush as it comes.
But I could stop looking. I could give myself more breathing room.
I don't.
If anything, I grow more and more intrigued. Scars decorate his skin like tattoos, various shapes and shades. Some are deep and dark. Others are pale and only brush over the surface. The marks of different sets of claws, a strange sort of artwork. But the more I look, the more I touch, and the more I can't help but notice how sturdy the muscles beneath those scars are. My fingers trace the curve of his hard bicep, the slope of his wide shoulder, the strong edge of his masculine jaw. The only part of him that looks soft is his lips.
"Enjoying the view?"
It takes a second for the words to register. And another for me to realize they came from the plush mouth I'd just been admiring.
I snap up.
I'm staring into tumultuous clouds, about to get swept away in the dark storm churning in his eyes. Or maybe I'm already there.
"You can stop," he growls, narrowing his gaze.
He tries to sit up, but I press on his shoulders. "Stay put," I demand. And it takes every ounce of my strength to keep him down. "I'm trying to help you."
His nostrils flare. "Why?"
"Relax, okay?" I mumble. For some reason, it's become easy for me to boss him around. "You never would have gotten these cuts yesterday if you hadn't followed me into the storm. If you hadn't come to save me."
He lifts his brows, eyeing me pointedly. "I think you mean I never would have gotten these cuts if you hadn’t tried to kill me."
I swallow, dropping my gaze, and then shrug, getting back to the work of rubbing the salve over his wounds. I'm very conscious of putting my fingers on the green mud and only the green mud, keeping the urge to let my hands wander in check. "That’s beside the point."
"You're right," he says and reaches out to grasp my arms, halting my movements. Without meaning to, my gaze finds his again. "The point is I'm fine. As you've no doubt noticed, it's not the first time I've been injured, and it definitely won't be the last."
"Well," I say, drawing the word out as I try to whip my arms out of his hold. But his grip is a vice I can't shake. The more I try, the more futile I realize it is. Huffing, I look back to him, annoyed by the smirk that's suddenly sprouted to life on his lips. There's something about him that just makes me want to wipe that grin right off his face. Something that makes me want to fight rather than back down. Something that pushes all of my normal wallflower urges to the far corners of my mind. "This is the first time you've been injured by me. So will you just let go of me and let me help?"
"No," he says smoothly, still smiling.
And before I know what's happening, his hold shifts to my waist as he sits up and easily places me back on the ground. By the time I blink, he's already rolled off the bed to a standing position, moving with all the stealth of a silent predator.
"You should really lie down," I murmur.
He just glares at me.
But a moment later, my point is proven when he takes two wobbly, uneven steps. His eyes go wide and he rapidly blinks, and I know all the blood is rushing toward his head, stealing his sight. By the time I dive to catch him, he's already on the ground.
The wolves start barking.
For a moment, my breath catches as a little trickle of fear stirs in the back of my mind. But when I meet their angry eyes, I realize the wolves aren't mad at me. They're mad at him.
The beast bares his teeth, pulling his lips back, emitting a low growl. Though he still looks like a man, down on all fours with that deep rumble, he seems more animal than human. The pack leader who licked his face with such concern the night before steps forward and snarls harshly. All the wolves creep closer, surrounding him, jaws open.
The beast watches them all.
Then he relaxes, rolling his eyes, and is back in bed in a heartbeat.
"You can finish whatever you were doing," he drawls, holding out the bowl of green salve to me. "It seems I'm outnumbered."
And when he says that last part, he glances at the pack leader with a wry brow raise. The wolf promptly releases an apologetic whine and leaps onto the bed, curling into the beast's side. He raises his brows at the animal, but the wolf responds by opening its mouth wide and letting its tongue roll to the side. I almost think it's smiling. And then the beast grins, reaching a hand out to scratch between the wolf's ears.
Hesitantly, I reach for the bowl the beast is holding out for me, careful not to touch his fingers. This time, I don't kneel over him on the bed. I remain on my feet, keeping a little more distance.
"They seem concerned about you," I mutter, trying to understand the interactions I've been witnessing.
"They are," he replies offhandedly.
"Why?"
He flicks his eyes toward me quickly and then looks away, but not before I see into the haunted depths of his smoky irises. He keeps his focus on the wolf as he softly replies, "Because I'm their king."
He doesn't say anymore.
And I can tell from the softly whispered tone not to press any further. The beast has secrets. So do I. So does everyone.
Instead, I focus on my work, dipping my fingers into the healing mud and spreading it over the angry red cuts covering his skin. But the more I touch him, the more aware I am of the intimacy of the situation. My skin on his skin. The heat that starts to fill the air. How our breath mingles in the somewhat small space between us. And the more I try to take my
mind off the beast and focus on the salve, the more awkward I become. My fingers begin to shake nervously.
"What's your name?" I ask suddenly, a little too loudly. I meant to sound absently curious, but I don't think it came out that way. Swallowing, I keep my gaze focused intensely on my fingers, not giving in to the urge to take a quick glance at the beast.
I'm desperate for a distraction.
"Cole," he murmurs, voice vibrating with the purr of a jungle cat.
For some reason, the sound of it sends a delightful shiver down my spine. Stay focused, I try to tell myself.
Still, I can't help it when his name rolls off my tongue.
"Cole," I repeat quietly. Something about saying it out loud seems dangerous, like I'm breaking a rule. His name holds that same delicious wildness that buzzes beneath his skin.
I shake my head a little.
When did that wildness become delicious? Not scary or fearful or terrifying, but delicious?
"Why'd you come here, Omorose?" he asks.
I don't respond right away. My fingers have found their way to the bottom of his arm, to the strong hand coiled into a fist. One by one, I unlatch his fingers, forcing my breath to remain even as I examine his palm, noticing that it takes both of my hands just to hold one of his. I know somewhere underneath his skin there are claws and fur, but right now, all I see are callouses and scratches that are utterly human.
As I hold his hand, gently applying the salve, I find myself telling him my story, telling him the truth, a truth I've never told anyone in my entire life. "I came from your world," I begin. "My parents were the King and Queen of Roanoe. People used to call our kingdom the most beautiful in the world, and it was. Gardens lined each street. Every day was like spring, warm with the promise of new life. Our people were happy and loyal and had everything they would ever need. And I did too. My mother, my father, my sister. And then everything changed. On the day of the earthquake, I was traveling with my father to visit another ruling family, and when the ground finally settled we found ourselves at the entrance to another world. People grabbed us, stole everything we had and locked us away. My father agreed to give them information in exchange for our safety, and we've been living with the people of Earth ever since."
Withering Rose (Once Upon a Curse Book 2) Page 7
