Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
F innar watched Scarlett move about the den, her movements graceful and purposeful, her scent filling the space. He’d intended to leave her to her own devices as soon as she started cleaning, but his feet seemed glued to the spot, his eyes drawn to her delicate form. This wasn’t what he’d imagined when he’d brought her here. Where was the terror? The begging? The satisfaction he’d expected to feel at having a human at his mercy?
Instead, she hummed while she worked, her small hands moving with practiced efficiency as she restored order to his chaos. The table gleamed now, and she’d moved on to sweeping, raising little clouds of dust that caught the sunlight streaming through the windows she’d opened.
His beast paced restlessly, drawn not only to her beauty, but the quiet strength in the way she held herself. She acted like she owned the place, not like someone who’d been captured against their will. The thought should have angered him, but instead he found himself fighting back a reluctant admiration. His beast rumbled its approval, and the word ‘mate’ echoed through his mind again.
A strand of that vibrant hair fell across her face and she pushed it back with the back of her wrist, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheek. His fingers twitched with the urge to wipe it away.
“You know, this really is a lovely space.” She paused in her sweeping to study the curved ceiling. “Though I’d suggest some curtains for these windows. Something to soften the light rather than?—”
“I didn’t bring you here for decorating advice,” he growled, but his words lacked their intended bite.
She just shrugged and resumed sweeping.
“No, you brought me here for revenge. But since I’m here anyway…”
The calm acceptance in her voice twisted something in his chest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wanted to make a human suffer the way he had suffered.
But is that what I want?
When he’d decided to bring her here instead of showing her the way across the river, he’d convinced himself it was because he wanted to punish her, make her pay for her species’ crimes. Now he wondered uneasily if he’d also been swayed by his reluctance to let her go, by the fact that he’d be alone otherwise.
Alone. Always alone.
The sound of her humming filled the air, drawing his attention back to her. Her hips swayed slightly as she swept, and he felt another reluctant surge of arousal. No . He didn’t feel desire. Not for anyone. Certainly not for a human.
He forced himself to look away, grateful when she finished the task and glanced around the room. Her dark eyes settled on the empty hearth.
“Where’s your woodpile?” The question came out casual, matter-of-fact, like she asked him such things every day.
Still irritated by his reaction to her, his first impulse was to snap at her—he wasn’t her servant. But something in her practical tone stopped him. She hadn’t demanded he fetch wood. Hadn’t even asked him to get it. Just wanted to know where it was kept.
“Next to the den,” he said stiffly, then shifted his weight, torn between his instinct to maintain his distance and an unfamiliar urge to help. “I’ll get some.”
Her smile hit him like a ray of sunlight, and he turned away before she could see how it affected him.
The path to the woodshed was worn smooth from years of use. Inside, split logs were stacked nearly to the ceiling—one of the few tasks he’d maintained through the dark winter months. The physical labor had helped quiet his mind when memories threatened to overwhelm him.
He gathered an armload of logs, breathing in the fresh scent of split wood. Such a simple thing, bringing in firewood. Yet as he walked back to the house, the weight felt good in his arms. Purposeful. When was the last time he’d done something so… normal?
His beast, usually so restless, settled into an almost peaceful state, content to be providing for their mate. Mate. The word whispered through his mind before he could stop it. He shoved the thought aside, but couldn’t quite suppress the warm feeling in his chest as he shouldered his way through the door.
He looked over and found her teetering under the weight of his bed furs, her small body nearly disappearing beneath the mass of pelts. Her face glowed pink with exertion as she attempted to maneuver them down from the platform.
“They need fresh air,” she panted, struggling to keep her balance. “When was the last time you?—”
He dropped the wood into the woodbox with a loud clatter and crossed the room in two strides. “Give me those.”
His hands closed around the furs, accidentally brushing against her breasts as he took them from her. Her soft gasp shot straight through him, and he jerked back.
“I’ll handle it,” he growled.
He couldn’t meet her eyes, didn’t want to see her reaction to his touch. Instead he focused on the furs, shame creeping through him as he caught the musty scent clinging to them. How long had he lived like this? He’d stopped caring about such things, but now with her here…
“You shouldn’t have to deal with these.” The admission slipped out before he could stop it.
“I don’t mind.” Her voice sounded a little breathless. “I was going to hang them on the clothesline and shake out the dust.”
He scowled. “You’re not here to deal with my bedding.”
“I’m here because you want me to serve you,” she said softly.
“Not in this.”
He stalked outside, the furs bundled in his arms, trying to escape the lingering memory of those soft curves brushing against his hands. The image of her flushed face and disheveled appearance haunted him. Would she look like that if he took her to his bed?
He shook his head sharply. These thoughts were dangerous. Unacceptable. He’d brought her here for revenge. Justice. Not whatever this was becoming.
The old clothesline had rotted away months ago. He’d never bothered to replace it—what use did he have for such things? Now he yanked down the frayed remains and strung up a new rope between two sturdy posts, his movements jerky with suppressed emotion.
The first fur hit the line with enough force to make the post creak. Dust exploded outward as he swung his fist into the thick pelt. Again. Again. Each impact matched the rhythm of his troubled thoughts.
She was human. The enemy. He should hate her.
Another blow landed. The fur shuddered.
But her skin had felt like satin against his rough hands. So delicate. So alive.
He snarled and struck harder, raising clouds of debris that made his eyes water. The physical effort did nothing to dispel the memory of those wide brown eyes looking up at him, or the way her body felt beneath his hands—warm and soft and…
His claws threatened to emerge. He forced them back, channeling his frustration into beating the furs until his arms ached. But even that couldn’t drive away the maddening sweetness of her scent or the sound of her voice.
Leaving the furs to air in the sunshine, he returned to his den. It already felt different—brighter, fresher. She’d thrown open all the shutters, letting sunlight pour across the newly cleaned surfaces.
“What should I do next?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.
She glanced up through dark lashes, a small smile playing at her lips. “The dish cupboard could use a good wipe down.”
He crossed to the cupboard, pulling out a clean cloth. The familiar scents of soap and water mixed with her sweet fragrance as they worked side by side. The simple domesticity of the moment felt natural, right. When was the last time he’d shared space like this with anyone? His chest tightened at the thought.
She hummed softly while she worked, an oddly soothing melody. Their movements fell into an easy rhythm—him washing down the shelves, her drying them, both of them carefully navigating the small space. But not carefully enough. Her hip bumped his thigh as she turned, and heat blazed through him at the brief contact.
He gripped the edge of the counter, struggling to control his reaction.
“Sorry,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing a becoming pink.
He grunted an acknowledgement, unwilling to trust his voice, then stepped away, putting space between them.
“What next?”
They worked together until he noticed the light beginning to fade, shadows lengthening across the newly cleaned floor. He retrieved one of the oil lamps he rarely used from a shelf, brushing off a layer of dust before lighting it. The lamp cast a warm glow as he set it in the center of the gleaming table.
“I should start on supper,” she said lightly. “Do you have any meat?”
His first impulse was to go out into the forest and hunt for her, to bring down fresh prey and impress her with his ability to provide for her.
Then reality crashed in. She was still his captive, even if his easy domesticity had lulled him into a false sense of security. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. Was this part of some plan? Get him to leave so she could escape?
Her scent still held no trace of fear, which only confused him further. She simply stood there, hands on her hips, waiting for his answer about the meat. The lamplight caught the red highlights in her hair, making them dance like flames. He forced himself to look away, unsettled by how much he wanted to reach out and touch those silken strands.
“I’m not leaving you alone,” he growled, his voice rough with suspicion. But underneath lay a hint of disappointment that surprised him. His beast whined, wanting to prove their worth as a provider. “You’ll have to make do with what we have.”