Chapter Nine #2
“Still.” Aidan opened the trunk, rifling through its contents.
“Wolves must go through a prodigious amount of clothing.” Did he often find himself naked? In an alley outside the Library, in a bakery in Haven? In the middle of the road? In an assembly room while dancing a quadrille?
“It can be a problem,” he admitted wryly.
Sorcha paused. “Wait a moment, is that the reason I keep finding clothes all wrapped up inside of trees?”
“Very likely. We tend to stash them randomly throughout our territories, and as Lyonesse is shared territory, it stands to reason.”
She thought of the basket of boots at Nettlestone, also stolen from various trees and caves in the area. There were several wolf shifters on the island currently naked, thanks to her. In her defense, she often had people of various shapes and sizes to clothe. “Oops.”
“Oops?” He shook his head. “The blood curdles to hear you say that.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s only that I’ve been taking all those coats and blankets and clothing that I find.”
“Thief.” He sounded amused.
He had no idea.
“And why exactly have you been pilfering the frock coats of wolves?”
“I…” She was not sure how much to admit to just yet. “You never know what you might need.”
“Hmm.” He did not sound as though he believed her. He was too clever for that.
“I like to be prepared.” Her cheeks felt red for no good reason. Watching a man choose a shirt was hardly salacious. Tell that to the tingling in her belly when he ambled past her to change behind the wooden screen.
The length of plaid draped over the top. He was naked again.
She should be escaping, shouldn’t she? Was she still a prisoner?
She did not feel like one.
He re-emerged clad in the white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He wore rough trousers, again very unlike what she thought she knew of him.
But she could see how they would be easier than fussing with breeches and stockings under the circumstances.
Her own stockings were strewn across the moors somewhere.
And they would not be inexpensive to replace.
She wondered if she could send Brutus the bill from the modiste.
And then she stopped wondering about anything altogether, because Aidan was stalking toward her, eyes fixed hotly on her.
He did not say a word. She held her breath, as though this moment was a sparrow too easily frightened from the branch.
Speaking too loudly might break the spell between them.
Because it felt like a spell: shimmering, expectant. Mysterious.
He stopped in front of her, eyes glittering. “As to that apology,” he said softly but firmly, “I Marked you.”
She touched the side of her throat. He watched her, nostrils flaring slightly. “A wolf thing?” she asked, just as softly.
“I’m afraid so,” Aidan replied. “And mitigating circumstances.”
Mitigating circumstances.
Her hand dropped away from the spot where he had pressed his teeth to her flesh.
She did not know what she had expected. Aidan certainly had not been overwhelmed with her presence, with the need to bite her specifically.
She had not thought so in the first place, and so it was utterly ridiculous to feel a bit…
bereft about it. She stepped back, shoulders hitting one of the tent posts.
Tea. She clearly needed tea. A bucket of tea. Enough to float away, comprised entirely of tea.
Better than this squirming, confusing wanting that made no sense.
A horrifying thought pinned her in place. Bad enough to dream about a kiss, to want to kiss Aidan again. And again. When he did not feel the same—but could his wolf sense her desire? She was trying to be so rational and unaffected. But what if wolves saw through all of that?
Mortifying.
Aidan frowned at her hand, now at her side, which she tried valiantly not to clench into a fist. She smiled.
At least, she hoped she smiled. It did feel more like a grimace, truth be told.
“Apology accepted,” she said. She knew how to sound calm when a unicorn tried to gore her or a kelpie snapped at her while swimming.
This was nothing. Simply a gentleman in mitigating circumstances.
“Just like that?” he asked.
She shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. She had never been so nonchalant in her life. Behold her nonchalance. “Of course, Lord Coventry. You didn’t tie me up and throw me over your horse.”
“If only it were that easy.”
She tilted her head. “Even I know that bite wasn’t enough to turn me into a wolf. You didn’t even break the skin.”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then? I assure you, the suspense is killing me. And it’s been a trying afternoon. I am rather in need of a cup of tea.”
He winced. “I’m making a hash of this.” He jerked his hand through his hair. “That cut on your arm?”
“Yes?”
“I believe someone did that on purpose.”
Sorcha frowned at it. “This little thing? It’s nearly healed. And why would they bother?” Was it because of the Red Cloak? Was someone trying to find out her identity with blood magic? Blast. “So you marked me to cover another mark?”
“For your protection, aye. And I offer my most sincere apologies, Lady Sorcha, that I did so without explanation.”
“Let me guess—mitigating circumstances?”
“Aye.”
“Oh.” Blast and botheration. She did not want his apologies. She had wanted an explanation, but now she found she did not much care for that either. “Is that why Brutus abducted me?
“No, I don’t know why he did that, but I can assure you, I will find out.”
“He said something about his daughter?”
Aidan sighed. “Of course. Orla has been missing.”
“I haven’t abducted anyone.”
“Of course you haven’t.”
Why was he still standing there, lawn shirt parted to reveal his chest and his dark-blue tattoo, and near enough that she could smell sweet amber and frankincense of his hair wash? He smelled like the forest. She wanted to bury her nose in his throat, make a mark of her own.
Not now, Sorcha. Not ever.
Aidan frowned. “Are you frightened of me?”
Her gaze flew to his. “No!” She sounded a little insulted, even to her own ears. She did not frighten easily.
“You’re not scared of the wolves? Even after today?”
She huffed out a sigh. “No,” she repeated. Why did he have to smell so good? “Honestly.”
“It’s a fair question.”
“It’s a ridiculous question.”
“Why? You were abducted,” he reminded her, punctuating the last word with a snarl.
“Not by you. I’ve never met a more honorable man. A good man.”
“I am trying to figure out if that is an insult or not,” he said wryly, eyes still holding hers without mercy. The soft lilt of a voice, the hint of a growl, the primal eyes—he was lethal.
“It’s not an insult,” she said. “And, by the way, I sleep two doors away from a vampire, and a Minotaur is in charge of my kitchen. And I feed a unicorn on a daily basis. A little wolf is hardly enough to bother me.” Not when there were ogres and fighting pits.
Did Aidan really think she would for one moment fear he would hurt her? Absurd.
“And where were they when you were taken?” he asked quietly.
“Busy.” Thank the stars. “And anyway, it’s not the wolves you have to watch out for. It’s the teacup poodles every dowager in Haven seems to drag about on a diamond leash.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
“So you see—”
Aidan snarled again, and Sorcha startled. She froze at his predatory stillness, the primal way a sharp, piercing intensity seized him.
“Aidan?”
Stepping away from Sorcha was physically painful.
Which made it all the more necessary.
For so many reasons. Good reasons. Reasons that were difficult to grasp when light touched the column of her neck, the scatter of freckles. The suggestion of a pout on her wide mouth. He just knew that she would taste like raspberries. Again. Still. Just as she had that night among the roses.
The fact that he was not touching her now was a crime.
The fact that she was not touching him was a fucking travesty.
Aidan knew how to excavate a spell bottle from a three-thousand-year-old ziggurat without angering any guardian spirits.
He knew how to reclaim a family heirloom from a taciturn ghost, how to track a hex, undo a love potion.
He knew the protocol for exhibiting curses, for disarming ancient wards, for dealing with the endless bureaucracy of the governing body of the museum.
But he did not, even after years of being a wolf, know the protocol for putting his teeth to a lady’s throat.
Or wanting to do it again.
Namely, because he had never done so. Had never even been tempted.
He had fought for his self-control earlier, outside the Library, trying not to bare his teeth, fists clenching with the effort. He had done what was necessary. A gentleman would have asked, would have stayed to explain himself. But he hadn’t been able to.
Not while keeping her safe.
He had to get out of here. He was too recognizable in Hallow—too many curators and professors with questions about their collections, wanting funding from the museum, wanting dozens of things from him that had nothing to do with the magic coursing through his veins at present.
He was good at finding things. It was his magic, the one he had grown up with.
Not this new power that swept through him like a river swelling its banks in spring.
This one was all teeth and hunger and a certain physical knowing that spoke of the moon and the forest and long silver nights.
He was more accustomed to neat shelves of artifacts, faded journals, spells to trace an object’s provenance.
He knew this provenance. But it still did not help.
The least he could do was stay away from Sorcha until he had some kind of control. Understanding.