“Abby!” she called back.
Broden blinked at this, still lost in a haze of his own thoughts. “Eh?” was all he could manage as a response.
She laughed at this. “My name,” she clarified, beaming her addictive smile as she did. “It’s Abby. Just thought ye should know that.”
The name seemed to slam the breath from Broden’s chest, and, fighting the urge to gasp for breath, he stammered out, “Ye can call me Broden.”
Abby smiled at that. “Well it’s a pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Broden. Thanks again.”
Abby…
Once again his thoughts steered towards his parents’ stories of love at first sight. He remembered enjoying the stories, but thinking of them as only that: just stories; fairy tales. Even the story of his mother and father and their family’s curse had felt like a fairy tale. This one featuring his father as the “big, bad wolf” and, in an ironic twist, the role of “Red” being occupied by a jealous witch. Their father, however, though big, was more arrogant than bad, and it was this arrogance in the face of the witch’s declaration of her love for him that started their family’s troubles. Choosing another, their mother, over the witch, she cursed the two of them and any that their union might create to never again know the freedom of their race. The blood of beasts ran through their veins, the drive—the need—to transform and bask in the freedom that entailed, was what defined them. But the witch’s curse stole that from their parents, and Broden and his brothers had never even gotten to know it. They only knew that there was an emptiness there; a part of them that was caged beyond their reach. It was a twisted and horrible fairy tale, and one that they were all stuck living.
All his life Broden had been told that the means to break their family’s curse rested in he and his brothers finding their mates—the soul that perfectly complimented their own; the lone key that fit what was locked away from them—and, when they’d all found this perfect love, they’d be free. Unrequited love birthed the spell, his parents had explained, so a life condemned to tracking and obtaining such a specific love seemed the perfect punishment. It fit the fairy tale perfectly, he thought, but it all still rang just as a fairy tale; life didn’t really work that way, though, and the curse, like a crippling injury, wasn’t something that magic would just wisp away.
Except that it just had.
Standing before Abby—gazing upon her—had freed Broden! All the emptiness, all the things that his father had described that had been locked away from him and his family, everything that the curse had robbed from them had, in that instant, been lifted.
Excitement flooded him all at once as a whole new world of possibilities opened themselves up to him. Then, just as quickly, Abby’s distance grew too great—as though the night was swallowing her away from him—and the emptiness he’d known his entire life came back. For a long time he stood, hand clutched over his chest, unsure how to explain the dying howls and withering elation that seemed to react to the growing distance between him and her…
Between him and Abby.
* * *
Broden chose to give up his search for Grant. It was strange and uncharacteristic of him, but he figured that was already the tone the night had set for him and resigned to letting his encounter with Abby be the only memory—the only thought—that would carry him back up the mountain. Lyle and Kade, still perched over the mouth of their cave, were the first to see him as he made his return. The twins, as would be expected, shared the same shaggy black hair and bright green eyes—“two pines hiding under a night sky,” their mother would say as she worked to brush the bangs from one or both of their faces—but it was there that their similarities ended. Though one would believe they were seeing double to look upon them, the reality was that they were total opposites. Kade was, by far, the most brash and vocal of the siblings—not just the twins, but among the entire group—while Lyle preferred to say as little as possible, letting his loyalty speak for itself. In many ways, the two relied on one another to maintain a balance that could otherwise cast the extremes of their personalities out like a wayward ship. This was why one was never too far from the other, and why they were so good at keeping a lookout—caution and skepticism paired with an aggressive defensiveness was a sure way to prevent an attack without the risk of false alarms. As he had before leaving, Broden gave the two a nod. They returned the gesture, Kade offering a knowing scowl as he jabbed one of his dangling feet back towards the cave while Lyle wore something more apologetic across his features.
Broden had a good idea what it meant, and, sighing, he passed under the two pairs of legs and headed past the mouth of the cave.
Time and a great deal of work had transformed the cave. A network of tunnels had allowed their family to construct makeshift rooms for themselves, and it was, though just a cave in outward appearance, a lovely home for them. And while the labor it took to turn the layers of rock and earth into something livable belonged to the males of the family, much of the credit was owed to their mother, who managed to turn the otherwise dark and gray interior into something else entirely with colorful tapestries and thrifty, homemade furnishings. They even got to boast artwork on the walls, though these were mostly of wolves and bears and large cats and had a tendency to make the emptiness in Broden’s heart feel that much emptier.
A short distance away, trembling from obvious nightmares, Callum was curled up in a corner where the “room” funneled into a small, tight pocket. Though it wasn’t the “room” that held his things—that part of the cave was empty more often than not—it was where the youngest chose to sleep.
Nobody blamed him.
But it wasn’t Callum that concerned Broden then. True to the twins’ “warning,” he was greeted by a nearly naked Grant, sprawled across the floor in the main “room,” what otherwise served as the family’s communal area, and clutching a frilly pillow that had no doubt been gifted to him by his most recent conquest. He reeked of liquor and the fairer sex. Narrowing his eyes at the sight, he heard Kade and Lyle step in behind him.
“He stumbled in shortly before ye returned,” Kade grumbled. “Didn’t take him long to find his way onto his back again.”
Broden sneered and asked, “Was he at least wearing pants this time.”
“He had pants on,” Lyle offered in a low voice, “but I wouldn’t say he was wearing them.”
Kade gave a grunt and nodded in agreement before patting Broden’s shoulder, an act that stung of both understanding and sympathy, before the two turned away and headed towards the tunnel that led to the room they shared.
Growling—more to himself than anyone else—Broden stepped inside, letting the pelt fall shut behind him, and jabbed his drunken brother in the side with his toe. “Grant!” he barked, earning a startled yelp from his brother, whose mismatched green and blue eyes lazily worked to focus on him. “Ye canna keep going about the village as ye are!”
Grant regarded him through a hooded gaze. “Och! Why the hell no’?” he demanded, but, obviously not caring about the answer, worked to turn away. “Doona be such a downer, Broden? Git yerself laid!”
“Yer gettin’ laid enough for our whole pack!” Broden snarled, grabbing his brother by the shoulder and yanking him back around to face him, “An’ at great risk, too—the villagers are startin’ to tell tales of the beasts as bein’ dangerous! They’re liable to come huntin’ fer us soon!”
“Oh, aye?” Grant scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I can see ‘em now: charging up on drunken, wobbly legs and brandishing whisky bottles that they keep eyein’ for one last drop.”
“An’ ye’d think it a great joke until one of those wobbly drunks got the drop on ye and bashed yer dense skull in with one of those bottles, ye daft twit!” Broden shot. “Now get up! Food’s gone scarce and we need to hunt.”
“Again?” Grant whimpered.
“Aye,” Broden forced a tone of mocking sympathy, “it seems ye and the others have this nasty habit of eating!”
“And ye d
oona?” Grant growled back before catching sight of Broden’s face and, suddenly remembering how many meals he’d been skipping for the others’ sake, looked away, ashamed. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he offered.
“Ye sure are,” Broden pulled him to his feet. “Now let’s go!”
“But…” Grant pouted as he worked to steady himself, then paused as he took Broden in. A blue and green gaze that was suddenly much clearer—more sober and infinitely wiser—regarded him, and Broden’s breath caught at the sudden change in his brother’s poise. It unnerved the hell out of him.
“Ye met someone…” Grant said, his words slow and careful, as though he were handling a new sort of creature for the first time. Then, seeming satisfied by the claim, he leaned in to sniff Broden and gave a wide grin. “A female.”
Before Broden had a chance to respond to that, he heard a faint rustling and a low, empty growl.
The sound was like a cold wind carrying hopes of death.
“Can ye two find another place to hold this discussion? I’m trying to sleep,” Callum’s voice was as emotionless as his expression as he gazed up from his dim corner. Once excitable, blue eyes now regarded them like spent bricks of coal beneath a scattered patchwork of hair, which, once thick and proud, was now laced with streaks of ghostly white, as though his own hair couldn’t shake the haunting memories of what had happened to him.
So young and so frail; the damage sank much deeper than the skin. They’d gotten Cullen back from the hunters who’d captured him a few years earlier, but, in many ways, they’d also lost him. Whatever the female who’d been in charge of those who’d captured him had done in the time they’d had him was enough to send him back broken. The subject of women—any woman with the exception of their mother, who seemed to be the only person who brought even a glimmer of who he’d once been back to his eyes—was not one that Callum took kindly to. Being woken up to talk of being laid and encountering women out there was likely worse than the hell that tormented him in his sleep.
Broden and Grant both regarded him with sympathy, and, seeing this, he looked away, tucking his face into the fold of his arm and shivering, though this time it couldn’t be blamed on nightmares.
Not the sleeping kind, anyway.
“Damn…” Grant sighed. “I think now’s the perfect time to go on a hunt.”
Broden nodded and ushered Grant towards the mouth of the cave.
“But,” Grant kept his voice low so as to not disturb Callum as he slowed his pace, threatening to stop, “ye have to promise me we’ll talk about whatever happened.”
Glancing back at Callum, knowing that his younger brother deserved a peaceful rest—or, rather, as peaceful as his rests could be—and admitting that Grant was probably the best one to talk to about his encounter with Abby, he nodded.
Chapter Three
Abigail couldn't get the mysterious highlander out of her head, and as she dazedly stepped through the door, the evening’s events buzzing through her mind, she almost missed the stern gazes awaiting her on the other side.
Almost.
Broken out of her stupor, she turned her attention towards the two figures standing in her path. Her parents, had already been, as they’d put it, “overly generous” in allowing her to work. As they’d illustrated in the past, both at every possible moment and at great length, they’re being one of the wealthiest and influential families in the village—hell, in all of Scotland, it seemed—made working something of a “petty indulgence.” Again, their words. Money was easy to come by in that household, so Abby’s employment was seen as more of a hobby; a hobby that already had her standing on thin ice regarding the hours she kept and the risks tied to them. Coming face-to-face with them after the evening she’d had, knowing what sort of lecture she was already in for, she readied herself for the inevitable wave of guilt that always struck her in those instances.
But none came.
Even in the condemning face—faces—of her tardiness and the myriad of risks that tardiness represented, she couldn’t bring herself to regret any of it. Even the part where she’d nearly died. Especially the part where she’d nearly died! Because, without that perilous moment, she would never have—
“Where have ye been?” her father asked calmly. Too calmly.
“I was at Ross’”—she knew better than to call it “work” with them—“and then I happened across Tarah on my way home. We got to talking, an’ I guess I lost track of the time,” she shrugged, trying to act as noncommittal as she could. Then, knowing better than to let it hang in the air like that, she added, “I’m sorry for being so late.”
She wasn’t sorry, though. Not one little bit. Why should she be? Why should she feel guilty for a mere curiosity? They may have been her parents, but she was an adult and she was allowed to do whatever she damn well pleased!
Right?
Abigail found herself stunned by her own mind as what would normally have been a guilt-and-nerve riddled moment was shaping into one of blatant lies and defiance. Where was all that coming from? And why did it feel so good?
And why did it seem to be working? Studying her father, Abigail realized that, though his brow was furrowed in its usual skepticism, he didn’t seem to be doubting a word of it. Usually he could sniff out one of her lies as easily as a bloodhound tracking a juicy steak, but now… now he actually seemed stumped. She could see that he wanted to call her out on the lie, but he didn’t.
Which meant he couldn’t.
And that meant that the strange confidence the highlander had instilled her with was more than just boastful thoughts and defiant plans.
“I see,” he sighed and shrugged, finally accepting the story and nodding to Abigail’s mother that the matter was resolved. Seeing this, she let out a heavy breath, obviously already braced for a greater lecture from her husband. Clearing his throat, he added, “Just be sure to check in at home before getting carried away with Tarah, alright? We can always send someone out to pick ye up so that ye’re no’ wandering the streets alone so late.”
Abigail felt a flare of anger at that—at the idea of not even being able to walk home at night without having the threat of a carriage rattling through the streets in her name—but decided to stifle the urge to argue. Her newfound confidence, effective as it had been so far, would likely only go so far, and she was certain that her father was still eager for an excuse to reawaken the argument. And if he decided that Abigail’s “phase” of working for Ross had run its course then she wouldn’t have an excuse to leave the house. Certainly not for as long as she’d need to go back; as long as she’d need to see Broden again.
Brash or not, confident or not, Abigail couldn’t risk her new plans like that. She had to take the victory she’d earned and know when to accept defeat to keep the war at bay. Besides, it was more than likely an unwinnable battle, that one. There was no convincing them of her safety—just being their daughter was risk enough without the threat of great beasts out there—and there was no way to make them understand that not all things could be solved by throwing money and servants at them.
So, much as Abigail wanted to tell them to let her be and leave her to her own decisions, she only nodded and agreed to be more considerate next time.
It was all she could do to not vomit around the word “considerate,” but if the strain showed on her face her parents’ were too content to notice.
Turning away from them, she made her way towards the stairs and promptly ran up them. When she got to her room, she grabbed the brass doorknob, startling herself at how chilled it felt in her palm, and realized that the heat in her belly had consumed her. Between the intensity of the interaction with her parents, the anger (and subsequent stifling of) from their concern, and, of course, her time in those hills, however, she wasn't surprised. Any one of those things would be enough to light a fire in a girl.
Deciding, for now at least, not to dwell on her actions or her parents’ strict rules, she shifted her focus to the only remaining source o
f the warmth coursing through her: the highlander. Slipping into her bedroom and letting herself fall into the plush comfort of her bed, she giggled at the notion—a big, strong, carnal man wearing all the signs of masculinity and burring like a great and powerful storm after saving her from certain death. She wasn't necessarily a romantic, but, she supposed, it was hard to not harbor some sort of fantasy of just that sort of thing. She certainly knew that Tarah, who would otherwise not seem the sort to harbor any fantasies, had her fair share. Granted, it took a few pints to get her to confess that fact, but it was confessed all the same. Afterwards, whenever Abigail brought it up, she’d see her friend’s face first go ghostly pale before going redder than the devil’s arse. Then, following a bout of stammering, Tarah would typically find a way to change the subject.
Wouldn’t she be jealous to know how I spent my evening? she mused to herself, grinning at the thought that her chance encounter with Broden was exactly like something from one of Tarah’s closeted fantasies. Considering this, she wondered how Tarah would react if she met him for herself—would it be enough to tear her from her obsessive working and finally take an interest in someone?—and, flinching at the thought, felt an immediate pang of jealousy. This, more than anything else that night, stole the breath from Abigail’s lungs. The idea of her friend—of anybody, for that matter—wanting to make Broden theirs bothered Abigail immensely. Shaking her head at this—at herself—she turned around onto her back and stared at the ceiling, whispering that, no, she wouldn’t let such a thing happen.
Broden was her highlander, after all.
She nearly threw herself into a coughing fit with the sudden inhale she took at that thought.
“Hers”?
“HERS”?
Shite, Abby, get a grip!
Not once—not once!—had Abigail genuinely looked upon any of the men in the village with a sense of attraction. Sure, when she and Tarah had a bit of the creature in them and their words were a bit too eager to be spoken, she’d admitted that so-and-so was handsome or that on-and-on might make a suitable husband, but never had the thoughts been anything more than a wandering possibility. No more dedicated or committed than the passing fancies one of them might have expressed towards a pretty dress or a particularly well made set of shoes. Did that mean that Abigail stopped her life and hurried to buy whatever momentary trinket caught her eye? No—no, that was more something one of her parents might do. But not Abigail; she was no more committed to the men she mentioned in passing than she was to the things she lingered on in shop windows. It was never enough to make her buy, though; never enough to make her commit. It was why, despite all the offers and prospective suitors, she’d never known a man’s touch; why she’d never even wanted to.
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