Sorcha's Wolf

by Billi Jean

  The witch began murmuring and Sorcha leaned closer, making sure the witch spoke each word so she could hear, he assumed. The mirror began to swirl, the edges growing darker and darker until the entire surface shown like polished ebony. A loud snap sounded and Sorcha jerked him so the person in the mirror wouldn’t see him. She motioned him closer and he moved an inch to where she directed him. Instantly he saw, reflected in the mirror, the image of a man covered in red and black tattoos from the top of his shaved head to his chin.

  He glanced at Sorcha, and quickly realised by her pale features and tight expression, she knew Zith—Rage she’d called him.

  “What is your report?” Zith’s voice, after so long without hearing it, brought his attention back on the glass in the witch’s hand.

  “I have seen her, my lord. She is powerless as the wolf claimed.”

  “Did you give him the coordinates for his next test?” Zith demanded in a bored sounding tone.

  Test?

  “Yes, master. He has no idea of what you plan.”

  But he would. Sorcha met his eyes and hers seemed to remind him of all she’d called him for daring to face a mage by himself.

  “Good, you have done well. I will prepare your reward myself once I have her.”

  “You are most generous, master.”

  Zith’s eyes shone with something that drove a wedge of dread down Alex’s spine. The man had been mad before, but now he appeared lost to his insanity.

  “Good, good, the plans, they are coming together. When they do, the rewards will be without limits. Go, do my bidding.”

  The witch bowed her head. “Yes, master.”

  The mirror slowly dimmed, hiding the face of his enemy, but not Alex’s determination to kill him. Now he had even more reasons to end the bastard. He sought Sorcha, and until now, Alex had never considered why. Now, he stared at Sorcha’s pale, tight face and dread tightened his gut.

  “It is done,” the hag said, falling back to the ground, as if the magic had drained her. The visage of her youth melted away, and her scraggly hair and wrinkled face once again appeared.

  “It is.” Sorcha sounded oddly subdued.

  “You cannot defeat him. Too many have tried,” the witch murmured. Her hair faded to white as he watched, then drew back and fell from her scalp.

  “Many have, but none were me,” Alex told her.

  Sorcha crouched back on her heels when he met her eyes.

  “She is done. End her,” she murmured.

  The hag gasped for air, nearly gone, he knew, but he ran her through with his sword. Sorcha bent and whispered a spell that made goosebumps rise on his arms, but immediately she tried to pull him by the back of his shirt to his feet. He stood and let her move him away from the ancient thing. Right before his eyes the hag crumbled inward, turning to bluish grey ash, then blew away leaving behind a light dusting on the rocky ground. Sorcha glanced around as if they were still not safe. He snatched the mirror up and followed Sorcha’s searching look.

  From the battlefield—for that’s what the clearing resembled now under the light of the moon—the child broke free from where she’d been hiding behind a fallen spruce. She reached them within seconds and dived into Sorcha’s arms.

  Without a glance at him, Sorcha lifted the child, and surprised him when she tore off running. “Come hurry. Hurry,” she called back over her shoulder.

  He took off after her. “Why do we run, witch?”

  “Stop calling me that, Alex!”

  “Tell me!”

  “Her death might signal Rage. No way are we staying if he arrives.”

  He dragged her to a halt or tried to, but she broke his hold with a whispered word that made his hand burn as if he’d touched fire.

  She grinned at him and backed away, glancing at the child before meeting his gaze again. “You can stay then, but I’m taking Merry home.” With that, she stepped backward.

  He saw it then, the fairy circle.

  “Damn it, Sorcha! Don’t you dare.” He caught her around the waist, but at the same time, he stepped into the circle of white flowers. The child giggled and he felt a tiny arm circle his neck, and he realised the child hugged him and Sorcha at the same time.

  “See? You can be a good guy once in a while,” she said with a slow, but brilliant smile directed right at him.

  The light spilling on them was unexpectedly too bright. The ground rushed upwards and too late, he caught on that he was seconds away from passing out. The last thing he heard was Sorcha’s snort and he thought he heard her say ‘yeah, he falls over himself for me all the time’ then a child giggled.

  He did. Did she know that?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alex was slow to wake, but when he felt the soft caress of cool fingers on his skin, shifting his hair off his brow, he struggled to open his eyes. Sorcha perched over him, her beautiful face inches from his own. She looked concerned. He blinked, trying to recall the events of the night before. Carefully, he touched his chest, where he remembered taking two blows.

  “You were wounded.” Sorcha arched both of her delicate crimson eyebrows. “And lost a lot of blood.”

  “Aye, and you always knew you could break the potion, eh?”

  When she jerked upright and left his bed, he regretted his accusing tone. She’d been caring for him, he could feel the warmth of her now that it was missing. Hell, he was as grumpy as she was when first waking. She’d nearly bitten his head off when she’d woken from her ordeal with the poison. He’d just done the same. He lay back and sighed heavily. Perhaps she was as unused to having someone there when she woke as he was. The thought was tantalising. He didn’t want anyone else waking in her bed.

  She poured a glass of water then walked back over, handing it to him warily. “No, as a matter of fact I didn’t.”

  He struggled to sit up, weaker than he liked, but took the glass and drank thirstily. As soon as he finished it, he handed it back and demanded, “Then how do you explain yourself?”

  “Do I need to?” She tossed her fiery curls over her shoulder and set the glass on the table next to the bed. They were in the Fay realm. He could feel the difference—an almost softening of the air. Heavy floral scents, possibly rose, mingled with the heavy aroma of ancient forests and Sorcha’s own lighter, fresh sunshine and heather fragrance he knew he’d always recognise.

  She folded her arms under her breasts and tilted her head, inspecting his face as if she could read something there. He didn’t think she had that power, but the thought disturbed him, if only for a moment. Sorcha was too forthcoming with her opinions and thoughts to read minds.

  The soft material of her gown stretched over her generous bosom and he felt his tired, aching body grow stiff and hard so quickly he shifted the blankets on his lap to hide the reaction. Right now, he needed information, not a distraction from his ever-eager body.

  “Aye, you need to explain, dinna ye think?”

  She quirked her lips into a teasing smile, one he’d not seen before, and before he could gather his wits from that, she mimicked his accent. “Oh, aye, I think.”

  “Lass, I’m merely asking—” He paused when she rolled her eyes, then continued, “and only because you claimed to be unable to before then, remember?”

  She settled for giving him a curious look, but told him, “Once you gave me the antidote a few times, I pieced it together. Or, more exactly, when the witch laughed I remembered something from my past, which reminded me of an herb that only grew in the high hills surrounding my home. That herb was the one I needed to break your potion,” she whispered, sounding oddly subdued. She didn’t look at him when she spoke, instead her focus seemed pinned on the floor.

  “So you broke the poison knowing what the ingredients were?” She was brilliant. Obviously stronger than that other witch, as well.

  She lifted her head to frown at him. “And this pleases you?”

  “Of course.”

  He watched her tilt her head and examine him, as if
she saw something she hadn’t before. “Why?” she asked.

  The way she said, your potion, didn’t sit well with him, but it was his damn potion wasn’t it?

  When he didn’t speak, she asked, “Why does that make you happy?”

  He shrugged and examined his hands. “You’re strong. I’m merely glad you weren’t harmed,” he hedged.

  Instead of pleasing her, this time his answer made her snort, sounding frustrated with him. “True I am strong. I use my gifts to protect myself. And you were wounded by humans with a blow you shouldn’t have suffered if you would just talk to your wolf.”

  He stiffened. She’d accused him of being weak. Of being weak because he didn’t communicate with his wolf. How would she know such a thing? “I defeated those men if you recall.”

  “Sammie is only a half Lykae and she could defeat them and do a jig on their heads after,” she snapped, giving him an icy green-eyed glare before she swung away from him.

  Sonofabitch, she was tough on a man’s ego. Oddly enough, he fought a smile at Sorcha’s words. She sounded miffed at him for getting hurt. But, did this mean she thought him too weak to protect her?

  “I beat them, did I not? And the jackals. What more do you want, witch? I aided you in saving the child.”

  “And I saved you from that nasty witch, remember?” She tapped her finger against her lush lips then suddenly snapped them. “And pulled you out of a fire.”

  “You did.” He growled under his breath and shifted his legs off the bed. Someone had taken his clothes and dressed him in some long, white nightshirt of all the fucking things. He felt like a fool arguing with her wearing a dress. New clothing, Fay by design, sat next to him on a carved chair. The entire room was elegant, the detail they added to every inch of the room, whether furniture, floor or wall amazed him. His cabin seemed shabby by comparison, but he preferred it to this realm.

  Sorcha turned to glance at him and headed for the door.

  “No, don’t leave this room. We will discuss this first,” he said

  She stopped near the door, but sighed heavily and simply nodded.

  Shit, he couldn’t seem to stop snapping at her, could he? Ignoring the heat hitting his neck at his rough treatment of her, he pulled on the soft, woollen trousers, adjusting his cock to the side and laced the front to keep the damn thing down. He took off the nightshirt and folded it neatly before shrugging into the lightweight cream shirt. The Fay clothing fit. He wasn’t surprised. They did everything perfectly.

  Sorcha remained quiet, her fingers tapping out a quick rhythm against her arm reminding him of all the pent up energy and passion the woman possessed.

  He forced his mind off the idea of her touching him. Instead, he went to the pitcher of water, and poured himself another glass. She turned immediately and leaned against the wall. “Why are you here then? Why not go home, to your coven, now that you have fully regained your power?”

  At first, she didn’t say a word. He turned to face her and she released a curl she’d been toying with. “I healed you.”

  He drank thirstily and watched her avoiding his gaze. Did he make her nervous? She had her powers back, he should be of no concern to her now. But she’d healed him. He could feel it in his chest—the wounds had completely vanished, not healing and tender, but gone. He examined her stiff posture and delicate profile.

  “Why?” he asked quietly.

  She stiffened but didn’t respond other than to shake her head as if he were dense. She looked like a princess dressed in the Fay silver-green gown. The colour reminded him of the seashells he’d gathered as a lad along the coast. She’d pulled the bright curls at her temples back from her face with two slim braids she’d anchored at the back of her head and left the rest of her hair free to flow down her back. The style looked gorgeous on her and allowed him a clear view of her face.

  He examined her sombre expression, adding it to the hundreds of glimpses he’d had of this woman. He’d never seen her look more beautiful—except for every other time he’d been with her—but now she appeared as if she gathered her thoughts, as if unsure where to begin with him.

  The fight came back with a flash of her impish smile when he’d confronted her on having her powers. She’d stayed and fought with him, though. Even after he’d gagged her not minutes before Helga and her jackals had arrived.

  He’d lost his temper with her, when he should have listened to her thoughts without losing his head. She had been frightened hearing his enemy—the man he called Zith was also known as Rage. Worse, she’d not simply been frightened, she’d been terrified, and in her eyes he’d seen she knew exactly what Zith was capable of. That could only mean one thing. She knew Zith—the man she called Rage—from experience.

  Experience with Zith could only mean pain. He’d caught the way she’d rubbed her fingers over her inner arm and he knew there on the inside of her left wrist, she had a scar running in a band around it.

  So, the question was why was she still with him?

  Sorcha was like a matryoshka, each facet of her like a new doll nestled inside the other. Only with Sorcha, he sensed the longer they remained in Scotland the more of her outer shell would disappear to reveal the woman sealed so tightly behind her icy walls. His wolf, silent until now, stirred at the thought. A sudden yearning to shake her calm and force her to show him who lay beneath the ice and calm rose up. Not from his beast, but from deep within himself.

  She turned from him, as if he’d been silent long enough and paced to the other side of the room, the corkscrew waves of her hair flowing to the small of her back. He’d grown up with women with such hair, but never as striking as Sorcha’s. Her curls fit her, wild—and unruly—like her. She hid that part of herself well, but here, in their homeland, and aye, even here among the Fay, her wildness shown free. Was this the true Sorcha? The woman he saw lurking beneath the ice?

  “It’s not as if I wanted you harmed,” she whispered.

  And he had wanted her harmed? The accusation was there, simmering between them, he thought. Yet when he stopped himself from angrily responding, he examined what she had said instead of what he thought she’d said. She didn’t sound accusing she sounded…defeated, as if his questions merely proved something to her. Something she thought he believed about her. He’d asked her a simple question, but had he?

  He’d questioned her honour, in a way, he realised. What person would leave someone hurt if they could heal them? Not Sorcha.

  She had begun to believe he didn’t want her to come to harm—he’d sensed that when she’d responded to his kiss after her bout with the poison. There was no way this woman would respond to him without having come to terms with all he’d done to her so far, and forgiven him at least a little. There was no faceless mailman—he knew that to the bottom of his soul. Sorcha had thrown that at him to get away from what was simmering between them. Why? And why now did she believe he never meant her harm, when he’d not shown her much more than cruelty? She’d even let him kiss her in the middle of the battle with the witch.

  “Aye, and I have said I don’t wish you harmed, but you have been.”

  She shrugged a slender shoulder at that. “I’ve not been harmed, not intentionally by you. If I had I wouldn’t be here.”

  That made him grin. “True and neither would I, eh?”

  “Mmm, chances are very slim you’d be in one piece.”

  “Aye, instead, I’m sound and whole. You healed me even.”

  As he watched, her gaze locked on the gardens outside his room. Standing to the side like that, she gave him little doubt that her curves would be anything but perfect. He rubbed a hand across his lower face, unable to take his eyes off her. Her bosom rose and fell, lush and creamy above the low cut neckline, displaying more of her than he ever wanted another man to see. The criss-cross laces of the corset gave her heavy curves a lift that made his jaw ache from grinding his teeth. What would such bounty feel like bouncing beneath him, caressing his chest with each firm thrust of
his hips?

  Did Agni know?

  The thought sent a shard of anger through his body. When he saw the demon again, he’d gladly bash the bastard’s head in.

  Sorcha turned to face him, then just as quickly paced to the mantel and rested a hand on the carved wooden leaves and vines etched into each side of the huge hearth. She traced a path along the carvings and he swallowed hard thinking of how hot her caress would feel on his heated skin.

  Eying her closely, he asked, “Why?”

  His question startled her he saw, but she immediately cleared her voice and turned to him with an expectant look. “Why what?”

  “Why heal me?”

  She avoided his eyes and he sensed he was near to finding out something important from her. She’d not lied to him, he realised, watching her. She’d never lied to him. Not even from the start. Her emerald eyes had held his easily, even when she’d accused him of being a bastard. Would she be as honest now?

  “I would have healed on my own.”

  Sorcha contemplated Alex’s expression, abruptly feeling as if he’d opened a huge chasm beneath her feet. What to say? That she didn’t like to see him wounded, that he’d looked like some avenging angel come to her rescue, that she’d felt her heart nearly burst when he’d disappeared behind that wall of fire?

  “I heal. It’s what I do.” She turned away and fiddled with the velvet gown the Fay had given her.

  “Aye, I know that, but after kidnapping you, can you see where you healing me would be curious?”

  She smiled. “Yes, I can. But I…” She paused and took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean for you to fall off the side of that mountain.”

  Behind her, she sensed she’d surprised Alex, how she knew that she wasn’t certain, but his silence went on a bit too long.

  “Aye, I know that as well. But you did and aye, you should have for what I said to you, eh?”

  She turned to face him when he laughed abruptly.

  “Lass, you have a temper, eh?”

  “I have a temper?” If that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black.