Chapter 6
Of course they had to keep all the books in English that she might actually want to read on a shelf out of her reach. Gwen stretched her fingers as far as they would go trying to nab the binding of an old copy of Wuthering Heights, which, by the look of it, was probably a first edition. Most of the books in the library were first editions.
Gwen scrunched her face, straining on her toes as she leaned off the ladder. Her fingers grazed the edge. Almost there.
A ripple of chill flushed her skin, and she shuddered. That’s all it took for her precarious balance to give way. With a half-spoken curse, she went hurtling helplessly toward the floor, bracing herself for the impact. There was a blur beneath her, and instead of smashing into solid wood, she smashed into solid, warm muscle, the scent of Sirus wrapping around her even more tightly than his arms. With heavy breaths, her eyes shot up, and she found herself staring into his dark, beautiful face. His black curls were damp and tousled around his ears.
There was a rawness in his expression that sent a little flutter through her stomach. Only then did Gwen recognize that the entire front of her body was pressed firmly into his. She tried to speak, but her head was blank. All she could think was how good it felt to be pressed against him. How warm he was.
She hadn’t even realized he was holding her up until he leaned forward slightly and her bare toes touched the cool surface of the hardwood. “Thanks,” she managed to say, finally collecting herself. Or at least, she thought she’d said it. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d said anything, actually.
He nodded, releasing his grip slowly, as if he were afraid she might topple over again. She felt the absence of his touch and had to keep herself from leaning back into him.
Sirus was oddly still and silent, even for him, as his eyes locked on hers. Like he was trying very hard to not look elsewhere. Heat flooded her cheeks when she remembered what she was wearing. A skimpy silk nightgown Levian had given her. She’d given her several others too, but this one was her favorite. The color was a deep gray that brought out the green in her eyes. Gwen reached down and cinched together her open robe. Sirus blinked the moment she was covered, and she could have sworn a flicker of disappointment flashed over him. It made her skin burn that much more.
“What are you doing here?” she questioned him, her voice husky and harsh.
He leaned back on his heel. Gwen couldn’t help noticing that his entire body was tensed. Even his neck was strained. She shifted away from him, needing to clear her head. Needing air to breathe, since it seemed like all the oxygen had been sucked out of their immediate vicinity.
“I came to speak with Levian,” he replied. His voice was cool, but there was rasp in it that sent a skitter of electricity over her skin.
“She’s not here,” Gwen half stuttered.
He cocked one of his thick black brows. Obviously the mage wasn’t there. The library was giant, but it wasn’t so large that he wouldn’t have noticed her absence. That, and the fact that Levian wasn’t tucked into her usual spot between a giant pile of books stacked on the table nearby.
“Why are you here?” he countered with much less bite than she’d delivered. “It’s late.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Gwen stammered, barely controlling the rise of heat in her cheeks. It was the truth, but she didn’t have to share all the details. Particularly the part about how she’d woken up all sweaty and panting from a dream where Sirus had the shadows wrapped around them, her back pressed against a tree, and his tongue working over her like she was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. She’d finished her last book this morning and thought maybe a bit of reading would help distract her sex-crazed mind. “I came to find a book,” she added.
He glanced up at the shelf where she’d been stretched out, trying to snag that copy of Wuthering Heights. Without a word, Sirus climbed the steps of the ladder, his shirt stretched over his muscled back, his pants showcasing his gloriously tight ass. Gwen licked her lips. Good heavens, what she would give to run her hands over his bare skin. To dig her nails into…
At first, Gwen had tried to keep her distance from Sirus to purge her stupid crush from her system. He’d walk into a room, and she’d walk out. He’d come up the other end of the hallway, and she’d power past him with nothing more than a mumbled “Hey.” It wasn’t until both Levian and Barith had separately mentioned her clear avoidance of Sirus that she’d realized how ridiculous she was being. They had both assumed she was upset after everything that had happened in the Hall of Mirrors. That she was avoiding Sirus because he’d drank from her. Their assumptions had made her even more mad, and afterward she’d made a point of not avoiding him. More so, she’d made a point of talking to him anytime anyone else was around.
It’d been a terrible idea. Those little chats had morphed into longer conversations, which on occasion had morphed into him offering to show her bits of the castle or the grounds. In turn, Gwen had started to grow comfortable here at Volkov. She’d grown even more comfortable around Sirus. Too comfortable.
“Wuthering Heights,” he observed, his tone placid and cool.
Gwen tilted her head away, embarrassed at herself for ogling. She swallowed, willing her rising pulse to steady and her voice to remain even. “I haven’t read it in years,” she replied, sounding much calmer than she felt, hoping if he sensed her discomfort he’d read it as nothing more than an aftereffect of nearly breaking her neck.
He stepped down and presented her with the book. “I have.”
Gwen’s brows shot up in surprise as she took it from him. “You read Bront??”
He relaxed a little, that twinkle she was growing to recognize shifting over his cool blue gaze. “Am I not allowed?” he posed.
She smirked and softly shook her head. “It’s just surprising, is all.” And it was. She could hardly imagine Sirus, of all people, sitting before a fire reading gothic romances. Actually, there was something weirdly poetic about it.
“Is that so?” he drawled.
She cocked a brow and looked up into his face, her lips straining as she fought the urge to laugh. Gwen knew he was negging her.
He looked down to the book in her hands and spoke from memory. “He is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. If all else perished and he remained, I should still continue to be, and if all else remained, and we were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger. He’s always, always in my mind; not as a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”
Gwen’s mouth fell open slightly. He was quoting Wuthering Heights to her. Sirus…was quoting one of the most iconic lines in all of romantic literature…to her.
That rare, faint twitch of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips at her clear shock. Her eyes immediately fell to that little dimple. Gwen blinked, unable to perform any other function. He’d spoken the words, but there was a depth to them that startled her. As if he’d read them a hundred times. As if he’d felt them and knew them in an intimate way.
Has he felt that way about someone before? In all their conversations, Sirus had never mentioned a lover or a partner, but Gwen knew he must have had them, considering how many lifetimes he’d lived. She wasn’t jealous, exactly, but envious in a different way. She wondered what it would be like to be loved by him, even if it was just for a fleeting moment. Her skin rose with a shiver of goosebumps at the thought.
Gwen knew it was one thing to lust after Sirus, but to know him—to really want to know him—was something else entirely. If she got to know him, she might start to like him. And there was no way in hell she was going to let herself do that. Getting attached to Sirus would be beyond stupid.
“Spoken like a man who’s known love,” she taunted. What possessed her, she had no idea—except that maybe a demonic force had shut off her brain and had taken control of her mouth.
That faint whisper of a smile vanished, and his gaze darkened. A tension slipped over his face in a raw expression that struck her. There was pain there. Subtle but present. She knew she should leave. She knew she should thank him for getting the book, say goodnight, and go back to her room. Her feet didn’t budge.
Ice coursed through Sirus’s veins; a deep pang pierced between his ribs. The comment was teasing but curious on Gwendolyn’s lips.
Spoken like a man who’s known love.
Love.
Sirus had not known love. Not romantic love. At best, he’d been tempted by the idea of it. He had cared for a woman, but romantic love…that was something beyond him.
He swallowed, his mouth as dry as the Sahara, his tongue like sand. For a moment he said nothing, too transfixed on her tender face to form words. When he did speak, he surprised even himself. “I did care for someone once,” he confessed, “but it was a long time ago.”
Gwendolyn’s eyes darkened with a whisper of some emotion he could not entirely place but made his guts wrench. “What happened?” she asked. The moment the words fell from her lips, she blinked wildly, her eyes dropping as she held the book tighter to her chest. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, catching herself. “I shouldn’t have asked that. It’s none of my?—”
“She did not want me,” he replied, cutting her off. He was surprised he’d said it. More surprised at how easily the confession had come to him.
Her eyes darted back to his with clear disbelief. He gave a little shrug, tensing at himself and the path of this conversation. He’d not thought about Damara much in nearly a hundred years—at least, not until he’d met Gwendolyn. Now she seemed to plague his thoughts like a deep scar.
“There are not very many who open themselves up to my kind,” he told her. “For good reason.”
Gwendolyn scowled, a fire burning behind her eyes at his self-deprecation. It made his chest tighten, even if he knew she was wrong to think what he’d said was anything but the truth.
Sirus turned and added several new logs to the dwindling fire at the edge of the room. When it was burning brightly again, he turned back to find Gwendolyn pensively standing behind a tall wingback chair nearby, her eyes lost in thought.
“She was stupid,” she declared flatly, as if she’d been trying to think of something else to say and that’s all she’d been able to come up with. There was a stern simpleness to the statement, and it made some primal corner of his chest swell over her protectiveness.
“She was far from it,” he replied, coming to stand at the chair opposite her. Damara was actually one of the cleverest creatures he’d ever known.
Gwendolyn’s gaze followed him, her face scrunched defiantly. “You told me Nathan was a fool for not wanting me,” she reminded him. “Why can’t she be a fool for not wanting you?”
The words cut deep, through the ice and shadow that made up his heart.
Nathan. That was the name of the man she’d told him about in Abigail’s garden. The lover she’d had who was getting married. The lover who had hurt her and chosen another. His blood quickened. What he would do to this Nathan if he could. The thought riled him. Reminded him of the truth that Gwendolyn somehow struggled to see. That he was a monster. Worse, he was a monster who did not regret what he was. If she asked it of him, Sirus would happily hunt down that little shit Nathan, drag him back here, and make him beg her for forgiveness on his hands and knees until they bled.
Damara had known the truth of him, even if she’d never witnessed it firsthand. Sirus had not blamed her for her choice. He’d not blamed her for ending their liaison. Even if it had stung. The truth was, she’d given him a glimmer of something more. A glimmer of what it was to have something beyond the physical. He’s the one who had been the fool. He was the one being a fool now.
“It is not the same,” Sirus told her, his tone icier than he’d desired it to be.
Her irritation grew, her lips pursing as she glared at him. “Bullshit,” she bit back, coming around her chair to stand in front of him. “Nathan was an asshole, and I didn’t want him anyway,” she clipped. “He hurt me because he was a dick, but he didn’t break my heart. He didn’t have any of my heart to break.”
Sirus felt that statement reverberate through him. A possessiveness struck him. This other man had not held her heart. Hearing it was like a salve to the heat of his frustration, stroking over him in slow waves.
She’d not loved him.
“She hurt you,” Gwendolyn added, her tone softening. “You…” Her eyes fell as she tensed, unable to say it.
Sirus’s teeth ground. “I did not love her,” he said because, despite himself, he felt it needed to be said.
She looked up. “You…didn’t?” Something lurked there. Something he would not let himself unravel. Something that threatened to shatter the icy walls of his foundation into a thousand pieces. He wanted to be shattered.
No.
Yes.
Fuck.
Sirus took a half-step back and cleared the tightness building in his throat. He turned to face the fire before explaining, “No. I cared for her, but she was meant for another.”
It was the easiest explanation. Far easier than the details of the truth. Sirus had initially taken Lady Damara as any other lover because she’d made her interest in him clear, and he’d found her attractive. When she’d expressed a desire to continue their affair beyond just a few encounters, he’d agreed. Not many women ever wanted him more than once, let alone with regularity. Their dalliance had not been consuming but it was consistent over the two years they were lovers. He’d been shocked when she’d begun to converse with him about her life and her troubles. She’d told him of her reluctance to marry the fae to whom she was betrothed. It was why he’d come to her that night of feasting before her wedding. He’d thought perhaps she’d want something more. She’d opened herself up to him in a way no other woman had and he’d gotten swept up in it. So swept up he’d lost sight of the truth. She may have wanted him in her bed, but she never slept near him or lingered after their lovemaking, never asked him about himself. She was never tender or caring or kind or thoughtful. That final night, he’d come to her like a dog on a lead, and all she’d wanted was one last tryst before rutting with a vampire would be too beneath her dignity as a married Lady of the fae gentry. After she’d had Sirus there in that darkened hallway she’d left him without a second glance, in the shadows where he belonged, and had gone back to her party. To her life.
He’d felt disgusted in a way he’d not known possible. Damara had never considered him anything more than a plaything, and it wasn’t until the moment she’d left him standing there in the darkness that he’d realized how much of a fool he’d been. A fool for letting himself be tempted. A fool because he’d understood no woman could ever want him as more than a tool to slick her dark desires. He was a monster. A dog. Not someone to care for. Not a creature to love.
It was the cold wash he needed. Sirus was being that fool again. The last several days had been as close to blissful as he’d ever known. He was not entirely sure what had changed in Gwendolyn, but she’d gone from avoiding him to purposely seeking him out in the turn of an afternoon. Sirus hadn’t had the will to rebuff her. In fact, he’d found himself anxiously avoiding her so as not to overwhelm her. He’d realized a few days ago that if he could, he would be in her presence always. Gwendolyn was temptation itself in many ways, but this conversation was the stark reminder he required.
She was not for him. He was not for her. Sirus was not for anyone.
It was clear she was going to say something more. That she wanted to continue down this path of defending him and proving herself right. So he cut her off before she could begin anew.
“How’s your training with Niah?” he asked, changing the subject.
Her nose crinkled in that way he found utterly adorable, and his chest tightened. It was clear that Gwendolyn knew what he was doing, but with a huff she replied, “She makes me feel like I’m a two-ton sloth, the way she moves.”
Sirus crossed his arms over his chest and looked her over. He’d noticed her small grimace when she’d yanked the robe tighter. She was sore. “She can be unrelenting,” he commented with a touch of concern. He knew Niah wouldn’t push Gwendolyn beyond what she could handle. He was more concerned that Gwendolyn would push herself further than was reasonable.
She shrugged. “I like it. I’m learning a lot.”
Sirus knew as much. Niah had consulted him on her training. He’d advised her to start with stamina and basic defense. Barith had let it slip that Gwendolyn was a fast learner, and intuitive—neither of which had surprised him in the slightest. Apparently, she’d progressed quickly enough that Niah had already moved on to some offensive hand-to-hand maneuvers.
“Has she started with weapons?” he asked.
Gwendolyn tensed, her bright green eyes widening. Clearly they hadn’t. “No,” she confirmed a moment later. “We haven’t talked about that. I don’t think?—”
“You’d do well with knives or a short blade,” he stated in absolute seriousness.
Her face went a touch slack. She obviously did not agree. She braced a hand on her stomach to steady herself, and Sirus watched a range of emotions wash over her pretty face. At first, she seemed terrified at the prospect. Then, a touch of intrigue lit her green eyes. She let out a little stuttered breath that he recognized held anticipation. She was excited by the idea. At least slightly. Slightly was enough.
“I’ll tell Niah to begin with the basics,” he told her.
Gwendolyn blanched. “What?”
“You want to learn,” he pointed out. “You should.”
Her mouth fell open further, and she simply stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Sirus dropped his hands, clasping them at his back, and cocked a brow, waiting patiently for her to find her words. He’d learned her well enough to know she was about to argue with him. “I-I can’t learn how to use weapons,” she sputtered eventually.
“I don’t see why not,” he countered coolly.
A little squeaking sound fell from her open mouth. “Because it’s nuts!” she snapped, flailing her arms out to expose the front of her silken gray nightgown. “I can’t fight like—like?—”
Like he did? Or Niah, perhaps? “You can,” he refuted without a shadow of doubt, trying his best to keep his gaze from drifting down to her very becoming nightgown. “If Niah will not teach you, I will. I’m the one who taught her.”
He’d not intended to offer her lessons but the moment he said it his body flooded with anticipation. Gwendolyn was strong and quick and sharp and instinctual. He had no doubt she’d be good with a blade. The image of her standing with a sword in her hand sent a shiver up his spine, and he reluctantly forced the vision away.
“You taught Niah?” she clarified, her voice a bit shaky.
He nodded curtly. “I did.”
She swallowed, her neck tensing under the action. “And you really think I could learn?”
Something in his chest tightened in response to the insecurity in her voice. At the trust in her eyes. If he told her she could, he knew she would believe it, because she trusted him. In this, at least. “I’ve no doubt you can learn. What’s more, I think you will excel.”
Gwendolyn took in a slow breath, her glistening green eyes locked on his. He could tell her mind was racing behind those emerald pools. “I’m supposed to train with Niah again in the morning,” she told him, her voice weak and strong at the same time.
“We can begin then,” he replied. There was a moment of silence in which the reality of it seemed to settle on them both. “I thought you would take more convincing,” he admitted. The fact that she hadn’t encouraged him that much more.
From the shift in her expression, he gathered that she’d also thought it would have taken more convincing. She’d surprised them both, it seemed. “You can take it back if you want,” she offered.
The corner of his mouth twitched. He felt the challenge laced underneath her words. “You may be the one who wishes to recant,” he countered. “Especially if you think Niah is tough.”
Sirus expected a wash of reluctance to spread over her features. Instead, he found himself holding in a breath at the raw look of anticipation that skittered over her.
“Bring it,” she challenged.
He took a few steps closer, so that he towered over her. He caught the little catch of her breath as he did. The scent of lilies filled his lungs and fogged his senses like a fever dream. When she mindlessly bit at her bottom lip, his blood quickened. The attraction between them still lingered, and he’d only grown more and more aware of it over the last several days.
Sirus had been tempted by her since the beginning. Like she were some siren luring him in. He’d reasoned it had to have been the magick in her blood. That his preternatural self had been drawn to it. Perhaps that’s all it had been then, but he was not so obtuse not to realize it wasn’t mere lust that had driven him to embrace her in Abigail’s garden.
He’d lied when he told her he’d come for Levian. Sirus had stepped into the hall after his bath knowing full well Levian was in the den with Barith on the lower floor. The soft scent of lilies had been unmistakable. He’d traced it here. Then he’d watched her from the doorway, transfixed by her lithe figure stretched out as far as she could to acquire the book just out of reach. He knew she’d fall. He knew he’d catch her. His body still hummed from where she’d been pressed against him.
There was a second he found himself unwilling to move, but in the next he leaned back on his heel and put distance between them, his eyes staying fixed on hers. For nearly a week, he’d skulked around the castle, chasing her shadows, scolding himself for his childishness. Now here she stood. Facing him head on. Boldly challenging him as if she held no fear of what he was at all. Not even after everything she’d seen of him. He knew he was a fool, but he could not help himself from wanting to be near her at every opportunity.
“We will begin in the morning, then,” he confirmed, not tearing his eyes from hers. She didn’t flinch. “I suggest you get some rest. You’ll need it.”
“I’ll be fine,” she threw back at him as she slid past, holding the book tightly against her chest, the scent of lilies falling behind her. Her soft, padded steps sent his blood into a frenzy. “You’re the one who might need a nap.”
He caught the feral growl that threatened to slip out of him and tamped it down. Sirus watched her go, transfixed on each step, forcing himself to stay rooted to the spot and not follow her.
She stopped short at the threshold and spun to face him, her brows furrowed. “You’re no Heathcliff, you know,” she said, as if it were abject truth. “You’re not a monster. Neither is Niah, nor Rath. If she didn’t want you just because you’re a vampire, then she was more than stupid—she was an ignorant bigot. She didn’t deserve you.”
Gwendolyn had taken him by surprise more than nearly anyone he’d ever met, but it was rare for Sirus to ever be truly stunned. Her eyes dazzled, full of fire. All he could do was stare into them. Satisfied she’d said her piece, she left him, the soft sound of her bare feet echoing along the hall.
A harsh breath escaped him some moments later as the words played over and over in his head. Sirus ran his hand through his damp hair and over his trimmed beard. Gwendolyn thought Lady Damara, a high fae of the Autumn Faerie Court, had not deserved him. Him, a creature snatched from the clutches of death, reborn of dark magicks and bred for nothing but bloodshed and pain.
You’re not a monster. If he’d been capable, he might have laughed at the idea of it. Gwendolyn had to be the only creature on this plane or any other who would think such a thing. Sirus had no doubt of what he was. He was a monster. He was a reaper of souls. The Hound of Hell. The creature who lurked in the shadows and sent a shiver up your spine. A bloodthirsty killer covered in the scars to prove it. Blood and pain he knew, but there was a dark desire in him to know something more. To be something more.
Sirus stared into the dark hallway beyond the library. A realization struck him like a snake, one he’d watched slowly coil yet now found himself surprised by the inevitable strike. He was not sure he could ever feel love the way most creatures did, but he knew what he felt for Gwendolyn was beyond what he’d ever felt for Damara. The sudden strike of understanding cut into him, and Sirus had to turn away from the door to keep from chasing after her. He didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to see her.
He heard Levian coming before she entered. The mage looked harried, dressed in a flowing mauve-and-purple wrap dress, her white braids haphazardly knotted up and falling into her face and neck. A pencil was lodged between a few on top. Another was stuck behind her ear, and she was nibbling on the end of a third as she pored over a stack of papers in her hand. When she glanced up and caught sight of him, she stopped short.
“Sirus,” she blurted. “I expected you downstairs hours ago,” she added with a scathing frown, quickly recovering from her start. “I saw Gwen down the hall,” she added suspiciously when he said nothing. “You two alright?”
“I startled her,” he confessed, hoping to end this line of questioning before it began. “She’d come to find a book.”
Levian’s brow kicked up, and she let out a little scoff. “You really must stop prowling around the way you do,” she scolded him, gliding into the library. “I know this is your home, but you’re going to scare the poor thing to death one of these days, creeping up on her like that.”
Sirus took one last errant glance back into the shadows of the hall where Gwendolyn had disappeared. There was a time not long ago when he might have thought the same, but more and more he’d begun to think Gwendolyn was growing to enjoy him sneaking up on her. He could sense the little rush of adrenaline that would pulse through her. The little hitch of her breath. The rise of color in her cheeks.
Levian sat in the middle of her stack of books at the table, that charred skull she so adored perched on top of one of the piles. She glanced up at him and scowled slightly. “Honestly, even I don’t want you sneaking up on me,” she admitted with unease. “And I’ve known you for centuries.”
Monster. Devil. Hound. Predator. Killer. Vampire. All the truth of what he was.
The others knew to keep their distance. Felt wary of him instinctively, as they should. Why couldn’t she?