Chapter Twenty-Three
Sorcha spent the evening resurrecting her neglected calligraphy for betrothal invitations.
Simon was cornered by the kittens until red splotches grew on his cheeks. “I don’t know why they hate me,” he said miserably as three little mouths attacked his shin and bad ankle. Aesop had to rescue him, after which they curled up in his arms and purred like furry little angels.
Hecuba wandered past the drawing room but did not stay to mock him.
Granny popped in and out with increasing agitation over the state of Sorcha’s penmanship, until the ice snapped Sorcha’s quill and muddled the ink. She vanished to the bakehouse after that, grumbling.
And then proceeded to send one of the bakehouse lads with her advice on the guest list until Sorcha threatened to host the ball in the barn. With pigeons as her footmen. Anyone who managed to survive five minutes with Nimue would get a canapé. The goat could scream instead of an orchestra.
Granny sulked after that, but she relented. A little.
Aidan excused himself just as the moon began its slow climb over the horizon. Sorcha did not think it was a coincidence.
She was proven right when, an hour later, a pigeon tapped at her bedroom window.
At first she assumed it was an ordinary tap, just to say goodnight. But when she pushed the curtain aside, there was one pigeon and seven crows lined up in a row. Seven for a secret never to be told.
Tap, tap, tap.
There were no paper birds, so she did not think anyone was in trouble.
A flash of the courtyard silvered by the moon, the forest—Aidan.
Tap, tap, tap.
He had snuck away again.
She thought of their conversation on the beach. Was he afraid of his wolf as the moon grew? Was that why he was hiding? The fear of moon madness? Of the one who had bitten him?
Of himself?
Tap, tap, tap.
The birds did not like him alone in the woods.
Neither did Sorcha. She grabbed her plaid shawl, which she kept even closer than her red cloak. “Thank you,” she said to the birds.
She was not particularly surprised to find Tavish lurking by the garden wall. She clambered over, landing in the wet grass. “Where is he?”
“Can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” she asked.
“Can’t. Alpha’s orders.”
Her gaze narrowed. A crow cawed from the silvery hills. “I thought Aidan had no Pack?”
Tavish grunted. “I decided it wasn’t his decision anymore.”
Sorcha smiled. “Good.” She might not understand the intricacies of Pack law or wolf customs, but she knew Aidan should have someone strong and trustworthy at his back. Someone like Tavish.
Even if he still hadn’t told her where he was.
“Don’t try to stop me, Tavish,” she warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, lass,” he returned easily, leaning against the stones. “But mind you don’t stray from the path.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not safe. And you won’t find what you’re looking for that way, will you?”
Sorcha was not sure what to expect as she followed a crow into the woods behind the Hall.
But it wasn’t finding Aidan tied to a tree.
She halted, scanning the area for anyone else.
She did not think Tavish would have tied his Alpha to a tree, nor let her wander in alone if he sensed danger.
She whistled, and the sparrow who answered assured her that they were alone.
If one did not count the beetle that the sparrow was having a difficult time chasing out of her nest. No paper birds moved through the forest. Sorcha’s witch knot tingled, but not in a way that was concerning.
But the fact remained: Aidan was tied to a tree.
He did not seem injured in any way, though the tendons of his neck were pronounced. The muscles in his arms strained when she rushed toward him, his tattoos moving like rivers. “Who did this to you?” she demanded, outraged.
“I did,” he replied. “Sorcha, don’t come any closer.”
She halted again, this time out of confusion. Certainly not because she had any intention of following that ridiculous command. “Whyever not?”
“It’s not safe,” he ground out. His voice sounded different, rougher. And the air crackled, the way it did before a storm. Like it knew something she did not. When the breeze rustled the leaves and tugged at her hair, Aidan’s nostrils flared. “Sorcha, go.”
She folded her arms and did not go. “Certainly not. If I’m not safe, then you’re not safe either.”
“You’re not safe from me,” he growled.
He was pushing against the ropes and she did not think he even realized he was doing it. His eyes glittered gold, sharp, predatory.
Sorcha was not frightened. Not for one moment.
She was intrigued.
Because this was not moon madness. This was something else.
“Aidan, I am always safe with you.” She said it with certainty. Even a touch of disdain for his worry.
He growled again, very softly, teeth flashing. “Safe from me. But what about my wolf?”
Here was a side of Aidan she had never seen before.
She had wondered about the pull between the well-mannered curator and the gray wolf who had severed the Achilles tendon of an ogre to save her.
Who had marked her throat with his teeth in a cobblestoned alley.
Who wore spectacles to hide the golden sheen of his eyes.
Who had taken down a mad, murdering wolf, whatever the consequences.
Who looked at her now as if he wanted to devour her.
And as if that shamed him.
Scared him.
Something softened in her chest just as something else heated. “Aidan—”
“Sorcha, please.”
She stepped closer, despite the frantic plea. The ropes went taut. They dug into his forearms, scraped against his warm skin. She knew he was warm. He was always warm. “And this is your solution? To have yourself lashed to a tree?”
“Yes.”
“To make yourself vulnerable in this manner when the Collector is out there taking wolves?” Idiot. Beautiful, honorable idiot.
“I don’t matter. My wolf…” He inhaled deeply. “Sorcha, go.”
“What if I had tied myself to a tree in the middle of nowhere and hadn’t told you?”
He paled. “Don’t.”
“I might, actually. Just to show you how wrong you are. Because you do matter.” Incensed, she poked him hard in the chest. A soft rumble went through him.
His eyes flashed gold again and stayed that way.
“And I don’t actually want safe, you idiot man.
I never did. I want you. As you are. A good man, and also a wolf.
Honestly, I am beginning to think your wolf is the smart one. ”
“My wolf is not as civilized as I am. He…wants things.”
“Such as?”
His jaw clenched, unclenched. Clenched again.
Sorcha lifted her chin stubbornly. “You made me tell you I wanted to kiss you that day in the library. So you’ll tell me this now.” She folded her arms. “I am not going anywhere. And apparently, neither are you.”
A beat of silence. Then the silent sawing of ropes against tree bark, the rumble of a sigh in Aidan’s chest. That ever-present hint of growl. “He wants…the chase. The hunt.”
“To chase me?” she asked quietly. “To hunt me.” A shiver went through her. Not fear, exactly. More of a thrill. Her nipples pebbled, tight and hard under her dress.
Apparently, being chased was not something she was opposed to when it came to Aidan.
“Interesting,” she murmured.
He groaned. “Sorcha, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do whatever you’re contemplating right now. It’s not a game. I wasn’t born a wolf; I was turned. I told you that.”
“Why does that make a difference?”
“Those who are born wolves are better at controlling the wolf.”
She snorted, thoroughly unconvinced. “Are you telling me you think that Lorcan has better self-control than you? Or Brutus?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “You don’t trust your wolf.” She stepped closer, pressing against him, her breasts flattened against his chest, his breath on her cheek. She reached around to tug at the knots. “But I do. I trust you both.”
The rope fell away.
Aidan surged away from the tree, nose dragging against her throat, breath turning ragged and desperate, hands gripping her hard. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” he muttered.
“Don’t I?”
“I can smell you everywhere, on me, in the air. Fire and salt and raspberries and fresh bread. Your taste is still in my mouth. Sometimes I think I could come from just one lick of you, one bite.” His teeth were sharp under her jaw, along the line of her shoulder.
It made her whimper. It made her want. “My wolf could eat you up.”
“And if I said stop?”
Aidan released her, staggering back, every muscle, every tendon, every bone in his body responding. His eyes burned gold; his breath was more wolf than man. Power surged under his skin.
And yet he stopped.
“Exactly as I thought,” she said. “Your wolf protects me.”
“Yes. But—”
“Aidan?”
“Aye?”
She smiled, slow and smug. A dare. “Come and get me.”
Sorcha was used to running over the hills and through the forest chasing paper birds and wounded monsters.
She wasn’t used to running just for the sheer thrill of it. Of being chased, because someone wanted her so deeply that it was an instinct.
Her. With her wild red hair and her inappropriate chatter and her vengeful, unladylike heart.
She ran faster, ducking under branches, leaping over exposed roots.
And then she giggled.
There was a growl behind her, much closer than she would have thought. It made her heart race faster. “You still think this is a game, don’t you, songbird?”
“I think you’re all talk, Aidan Carnahan,” she tossed back.
She knew it was reckless. Taunting a wolf was not generally a wise decision.
But it was delicious. Thrilling. Fun.
Whatever else this might be, it was fun. And Aidan needed a bit of levity in his life.
And clarity. She could prove to him that he wasn’t a monster.
Or better yet, that he might be, and she liked it.
She pushed her legs to move faster, twigs cracking under her shoes. There was only a whisper of sound behind her, and she only heard that much because he had allowed it. The back of her neck prickled.
He was close. She could sense it, even if she could not see him.