Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
F innar watched Scarlett bustle around his den, her energy and enthusiasm undiminished despite what he was sure was a failed escape attempt. The sight of her in her own clothes sparked an odd mix of disappointment and relief. His beast grumbled at the loss of seeing her in his shirt, but he pushed the thought aside.
She attacked the remaining chaos with determination, sorting through the clutter that had accumulated over the winter. His muscles tensed each time she discovered another forgotten item, but instead of mockery, she met each discovery with genuine interest. When she found an old carved box, she held it up with reverent hands, admiring the intricate designs before carefully placing it on a newly cleaned shelf.
The morning light streamed through the spotless windows, highlighting the growing order. His den had been transformed under her touch, becoming something he barely recognized—warm, inviting, alive. He found himself following her lead just as he had yesterday, moving furniture at her direction and reaching the high shelves she couldn’t manage.
But his skin prickled with awareness every time she passed close by. Her sweet scent filled his nose, making his claws prick his fingertips, desperate to emerge. His beast prowled restlessly beneath his skin, desperate to reach for her, to pull her against him and bury his face in her hair. The urge to touch her grew stronger with each passing moment until he could barely keep his hands to himself.
She glanced up at him, those dark eyes seeing too much.
“Why don’t you work in the garden for a while? See if you can find it beneath the weeds.”
The suggestion surprised him—both that she would make it and that he found himself nodding. He needed the escape, needed distance from the overwhelming temptation she presented. Without a word, he strode outside into the overgrown courtyard, grateful for a task that would occupy his hands and hopefully quiet his beast’s demands.
The remnants of the garden had been there when he arrived, but he’d never paid any attention to it and she was right, it needed work. Vines curled around the stone well and a tangle of weeds choked the herb beds. Dead leaves rustled as he moved, the once carefully pruned bushes now wild and overgrown. His hands flexed at his sides, eager for a distraction, and he set to work, hacking back the worst of the growth.
As he yanked another weed from the soil, its roots clinging stubbornly before finally releasing their hold, the familiar motion triggered an unexpected memory—his younger brother Marcus laughing as they raced to clear their rows in their family’s garden, competing to see who could pull the most weeds.
He found himself smiling at the memory. Marcus had always made everything into a game, even the most mundane chores. He’d dance between the neat rows of vegetables, singing made-up songs about the plants while their mother pretended to scold him for disturbing them.
His hands stilled in the dirt as more memories surfaced. His mother showing him how to identify healing herbs. He and Marcus sneaking fresh peas straight from the pod. Teaching his sister to dance. Their father showing them how to prepare the soil each spring, his strong hands gentle as they planted tiny seeds.
For the first time in years, the memories came without the usual accompanying surge of rage. Instead the garden around him blurred as tears pricked his eyes. He’d forgotten how bright Marcus’s smile had been, How his sister had loved to paint, how their mother’s eyes crinkled when she laughed, how their father’s voice deepened with pride when speaking of his sons.
The shadow of their loss hovered at the edges of his mind, threatening to overwhelm these precious recovered moments, and for a moment grief threatened to choke him. His claws dug into the earth as he wrestled for control but despite his sorrow he realized he didn’t want to lose this. For the first time in a long time, he welcomed these memories of his family. It felt good to remember them as they had been, before their lives were shattered.
It was all because of her, he realized. Scarlett. She’d brought warmth and light back into his home. She’d reminded him there was more to life than his quest for revenge.
The kitchen door swung open, interrupting his reverie. She emerged, an empty basket balanced on her hip, and his breath caught. She looked so right standing in his doorway, her face flushed and her eyes bright. The morning light caught the copper highlights in her hair, turning them to liquid fire. She was so fucking beautiful, and he ached with the need to touch her.
Instead he forced himself to focus on the task at hand, methodically attacking the weeds that had claimed the abandoned garden. The physical labor helped ground him, keeping his beast from surging forward and doing something foolish. But his eyes kept drifting back to her, watching her face as she began to help, gathering up the weeds he’d cleared.
She stumbled over a half concealed paving stone. He automatically reached out to steady her and she gave him a rueful smile.
“I guess it’s obvious that Grace is not my middle name.”
Her hand lingered in his a moment longer than necessary, her delicate fingers dwarfed by his rough palm. He could feel her pulse racing beneath his thumb, her soft skin warming beneath his touch. The urge to pull her closer, to drag her into his arms and claim her mouth nearly overwhelmed him, and he had to force himself to release her before his claws emerged.
“Maybe I should start on dinner instead,” she said, her voice low and breathless.
“I’ll help you.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’ll help.”
He followed her back inside and they both paused for a moment to study the results of their work. His den had been transformed under her touch. Sunlight streamed through clean windows, dancing across polished surfaces. The musty darkness that had matched his mood for so long had vanished.
“We should cover those cushions with some fabric,” she said, gesturing to the worn cushions on his chair. “I wove some cloth which would be perfect?—”
She stopped abruptly, color flooding her cheeks. The words hung between them, heavy with possibility. For a moment, he let himself imagine it—coming home to find her at her loom, working together to make this space truly theirs, falling asleep with her scent surrounding him. His beast rumbled in approval.
He wanted that future with an intensity that scared him. But she was human. His enemy. The very thing he’d sworn to hate.
She seemed to sense his confusion, resting her fingers lightly on his arm before heading to the kitchen area. He took a few deep, calming breaths and followed her. Without discussion, they fell into the same rhythm as the previous evening—him chopping while she stirred the pot, their bodies moving in an effortless dance around the small kitchen space.
The domesticity of it all should have grated on him. Instead, warmth spread through his chest each time she brushed past him or their fingers touched as she took ingredients from his hands.
At the table, she tried to draw him out about his past again.
“Did you plant that garden?”
“No.” He kept his voice flat, unwilling to discuss it, but she pursued the question.
“Did your grandmother?”
“I assume so,” he said reluctantly. “I grew up far to the north of here. I didn’t come here until… after.”
After he’d lost everything else.
Her eyes softened with understanding, and she changed the topic.
“The red-leafed vine you were pulling up—you don’t have any use for it?”
“No. Why?”
“I was wondering if it would make a good dye. I don’t spin my own yarn but I like experimenting with different dyes.”
Ignoring the wave of guilt that washed over him at the knowledge that he’d taken that from her, he said gruffly, “You’re welcome to use whatever you want.”
Her cheeks colored at the simple words, a reaction he didn’t understand, but he liked the sight. He liked it far too much.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him, her expression warm and open.
“Tell me more about your weaving,” he said before he could think better of it.
She happily complied, her hands dancing through the air as she illustrated the movement of threads on the loom. Her eyes lit up as she explained how changing the order of lifted threads could create entirely different patterns. He found himself entranced not just by her words, but by the passion in her voice, the way her whole face came alive.
He could imagine her at her loom, creating beauty from simple threads. The thought of more evenings like this, filled with her voice and her smile, tugged at something deep inside him. His beast purred with contentment, and for once, he didn’t try to silence it, even though she gave him a curious look.
She described more of the process and he found himself wondering if he could build her a loom, if he could find the right wood, and how difficult it would be to get the materials for her dyes…
The realization that he was actually thinking of keeping her here hit him like a physical blow.
He pushed back his chair, rising to his feet so quickly that she started, her eyes going wide. He couldn’t do this. This was wrong—she was a human and he was a Vultor. It was impossible.
“You should prepare for bed,” he said gruffly. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”
She opened her mouth as if to say something, then simply nodded and rose.
He finished the dishes far too quickly, then had to listen to the tantalizing sounds of her shower. His enhanced hearing picked up every splash, every shift of her body. Steam curled under the bathroom door, carrying her scent—soap mixed with her natural sweetness.
His claws threatened to emerge as he imagined water flowing down her curves, of joining her under the water and running his hands over her wet naked body. Would she be afraid, or would she welcome him? How easy it would be just to open that door and find out.
He paced the den, straightening items that didn’t need straightening. His beast prowled beneath his skin, urging him to go to her. To claim her.
Growling, he snatched up the blankets and furs, arranging them on the bench with more force than necessary. The memory of her sleeping there the previous night, wearing his shirt, haunted him. He’d wanted to gather her into his arms then. Now the urge was even stronger.
The water stopped. His hands clenched into fists as he waited for her to emerge, every muscle taut with tension. When she finally came out, she was only wrapped in a towel and the sight nearly broke his control. Droplets traced paths down her neck, disappearing beneath the towel. Her skin glowed pink from the heat.
“Would… would it be all right if I wore your shirt again?”
Fuck yes .
He tossed it to her, turning away before he did something foolish like follow the path of those water droplets with his tongue. The sweet scent of her clean skin filled his nose, making his beast howl with frustrated desire.
She murmured a quiet thanks, and he heard the rustle of fabric as she pulled on the shirt. His imagination provided vivid images of her sliding his shirt over her naked body, and he had to bite back another growl.
“Time for bed,” he snapped, and stalked over to the bed alcove without looking back. Afraid to look back and give in to temptation.
Not looking at her didn’t help. He found himself burying his head in her dress again, letting her scent wrap around him like a blanket. His beast rumbled in contentment, but his mind took a long time to quiet.
Sleep crept up on him between one breath and the next. The peaceful darkness shattered as flames erupted behind his eyes. Heat scorched his skin as he watched his family’s den burn. His mother’s screams pierced the air. His father’s body lay broken on blood-stained ground.
The smoke choked him, thick and acrid. He couldn’t reach them. His legs wouldn’t move.
Then Scarlett appeared in the midst of the inferno, her red hair blazing like the flames around her, her dark eyes reflecting the fire. She reached for him, but the flames consumed her.
“No!” The word tore from his throat as he tried to reach her, the stench of smoke filling his head.