Chapter 25
My fingers move the paintbrush with rushed strokes, as if my life depends on the paint in my hands. Each swipe feels like the ticking of a clock, and with each tick, I paint faster.
I haven’t slept much in the last two days and dinner with Alistair has been unbearable. Every evening, I can feel him watching me, imploring me to talk to him. But I keep my eyes on my food, refusing to give in. The worst part is that I don’t really know why.
Or at least I didn’t. Until now.
As I step back from the wall, studying my handiwork, I’m grieved by my own creation. When Alistair asked me to paint something honest, I started painting without fully knowing how it would turn out. And now that it’s finished, I’m having a hard time facing the truth on the wall.
The painting is honest, it’s me who’s not.
Uncomfortable acknowledging the truth, I move over to our usual table and begin cleaning my brushes with the bowl and towel I’d set aside earlier. Narcissus follows, hopping up and knocking over one of Alistair’s quills.
The table is cleaner than normal, but part of me wonders if it’s because Alistair has decided to continue his search alone. I couldn’t blame him if he did. I ran away the moment he showed me any vulnerability. I wouldn’t trust me either.
“I didn’t expect to see you.” Startled, I turn to see Alistair standing in the doorway, his eyes scanning me desperately. My body screams at me to run to him, but I’m not sure if he would welcome it or not.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I explain lamely, aware that I’m a mess with half of my hair falling out of its braid and dried paint on my cheeks.
“Me neither.” He smiles sadly. “I see Narcissus is keeping you company.”
The cat meows at him and Alistair comes forward, scratching Narcissus on the top of the head. Narcissus purrs at the attention and Alistair looks at me with wide eyes.
“Did you hear that?” he asks, smiling. “He just purred.”
“What’s gotten into you, little man?” I croon. “Are you done being hot and cold with your master now?”
Narcissus keeps purring, standing and rubbing himself against my arm while Alistair continues to scratch his head. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Al says, cocking his eyebrow. “I don’t know what I did to get in your good graces, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
The cat hisses and swipes a paw at Alistair. “Ow! What was that for?”
“I don’t think he likes being compared to a horse,” I shrug, barely holding back a smile.
“Is that funny to you?” Alistair demands, smiling. Then he picks up a dirty brush and plops a bit of paint on my chin. “How about that—is that funny?”
My jaw drops and I grab a brush of my own, dabbing green paint on his cheek. A spark lights in his eyes and he picks up a brush covered in blue paint.
He darts toward my cheek with the brush raised, but I dodge out of the way. I make it halfway around the table before he snatches hold of my arm and maneuvers the paint onto my skin.
I reward him with a bit of red paint on his chin, and he retaliates with yellow on my forehead. We chase each other around the room for a few minutes, wielding paintbrushes like swords. After a while, our faces are dotted with paint smudges, bright and messy.
“I surrender,” I finally gasp, holding my brush up in a truce. “No more paint.”
Alistair squints at me, but the playful scrutiny on his face morphs into shock when his eyes drift to the completed mural behind me.
Suddenly self-conscious, I step back, seeking refuge behind the sofa. Alistair moves almost unconsciously closer, tossing his brush on the table without looking at it. His eyes rove desperately over the mural, his face not giving anything away and therefore magnifying my anxiety.
Unsure what he’s thinking, I turn and look at the wall too. On the left side is a handsome portrait of Alistair from the shoulders up. There’s an arrogance in his smirk, he looks selfish and thoughtless, the way he was when I first met him.
On the right side of the wall is a self-portrait of me, my eyes hollow with fear and my expression set in stubbornness. It grieves me to see my own face look so lost and lonely. And afraid.
What angers me though is that I’ve seen that look in the mirror. Recently.
When I put it on the wall, I thought of it as metaphor for all the cages I’ve lived in—my past life. But when I completed the mural earlier and studied my self-portrait, I realized that I can no longer claim that Orrin and Paul were the only ones who caged me.
Because I’ve caged myself. That lonely, sad look on my face still exists and it’s of my own making.
My eyes drift to the tall pine trees that reach between our portraits, books floating through the air as if flying and a lake shimmering off in the distance. There’s even a little orange tabby cat reclining on a book as it soars through the trees.
And in the middle of the wall, above the fireplace, is another portrait of Alistair and me. This time, we’re looking at each other. His arms are around me and my hands rest against his chest as we stare at one another. There’s joy shining in my eyes and wild affection in his.
It hurts to see how easy it would be for me to be happy. Just one sentence to Alistair, and this cage of mine could be unlocked. But I still hesitate.
In seven years of cages and masters, my only constant has been what control I could find over my emotions. I couldn’t control my surroundings or what happened to me, but if I kept moving, kept running, I could control myself. At least I used to.
Since Alistair, my usual practices have felt all but useless. There was a time when all I wanted was to be free of Orrin—free and alone. The idea of spending my life on the run didn’t scare me because if I was busy running, I wouldn’t have time to think about my pain. But now that I’ve met Alistair and Milly and Brutus, I don’t think a life of running is going to be enough for me.
And that’s all I see when I look at this mural. I wonder if Alistair sees it too.
He seems stuck on the middle part of the painting, studying the way our portraits hold each other. His expression is still inscrutable, but his eyes are awestruck, and I can see his fingers trembling.
Then his gaze turns to me.
Hunger takes on a whole new meaning as my entire being is consumed by the intensity of his attention. Before I can speak or so much as take a breath, he’s closed the gap between us, rounding the sofa.
Though he doesn’t touch me, I can feel the heat of his body. His eyes travel everywhere, my face, my hair, my hands. And every place goes warm with a burn that I’m desperate to draw out. I almost whimper at the few inches between us, but then his finger brushes against my hand.
His eyes widen at my gasp, and I love the way his lips twitch, drawing my attention.
“Don’t run,” he whispers, his fingers trailing up my forearm, over the inside of my elbow and up to my shoulder.
It takes me a few tries to speak, my mouth is so dry. “I won’t.”
His hand cups my face, his thumb skating across my cheekbone, trailing over the half-dried paint.
Feeling brave, I grab a fistful of his shirt, pulling myself closer as I revel in the feel of his strong chest under my fingers.
“Like what you feel, Tigress?” he murmurs, smirking.
“So far,” I tease.
A growl rumbles through him, vibrating against my knuckles. His free hand slides around my waist and suddenly there’s no space left between us. His eyes are out of focus, they’re so close. Yet he’s still too far away.
I’m about to voice my protest when the tip of his nose slides across my cheek, my eyes fluttering shut. He tenderly rubs his nose against mine and I lean forward, ready for the kiss of my life, but he keeps his lips just out of reach.
I’m about to complain, but then I feel a soft kiss against my cheek and I sigh contentedly. There’s another gentle press, this one against my forehead as his fingers flex on my back.
And when I don’t think I can take it anymore, his lips brush against mine.
It’s the barest touch, not even a kiss, just a test. He does it again, there and gone. Gentle and cautious. But the third time, he stays.
I press against him, not wanting to give him any reason to leave. His hand slides back into my hair and mine splay across his chest.
His every move is so sweet that it makes my heart ache for all the tenderness I’ve missed out on in life. If this is what love feels like, I’m angry with everyone who ever withheld it from me. Feeling this secure, wanted, cherished, and protected must be more life sustaining than water.
I’m convinced it’s all I’ll ever need.
When I smile against his mouth, Alistair chuckles and pulls back just far enough to look at me. “What?”
“If I’d known that kissing you would satisfy me this much, I would have had a bite of you after dinner every night instead of scones,” I tease, wrapping my arms around his neck.
His chest rumbles again and he swoops down, kissing me once, twice, three times. His touch is slow and adoring, and I can tell that he’s holding back for me. Trying not to overwhelm me or scare me off.
Although I don’t ever plan to run away from him again, I’m grateful for his restraint. The desire I’m feeling for him now is almost enough to make me question the sanity of being in his arms when we’re alone in the dark.
But when he kisses me again, I dismiss it.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” he rasps, leaning his forehead against mine.
“About a week. You hated me before that,” I quip.
His arms squeeze my sides and I laugh. He leans back, studying me with a prideful smile.
“I’ve never heard you laugh like that,” he says, his thumbs rubbing against my spine.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re happy. Really happy.”
I grin and sneak in one more peck before hiding my face in the crook of his neck. “I am really happy. I think for the first time since my mother died.”
He holds me tighter, sighing like he hasn’t fully relaxed in a decade. “Me too.” There’s a pause and then, “I need to tell you something.”
Worry snakes into my gut as I lift my head to look at him. “Okay.”
“I want you to know that I’m not looking for a way around the curse anymore,” he says, pushing a lock of hair from my face.
“What, why?”
He tilts his head as if I should know the answer. “Because, Little Wolf, you’re more important. Instead of spending hours looking for a way around the curse, we’re going to spend our time looking for a way to protect you from the man who calls himself your master.”
“Alistair, no.” I shake my head, trying to pull away, but he refuses to release me.
“It’s not up for discussion, Howler,” he smiles, both dimples appearing. “I’m choosing you. And before you try to argue with me, the entire staff is on my side. We’re your pack whether you like it or not, and I’m not letting you go through life in a cage—mental or physical. You deserve more.”
I want to fight with him, but I’m too busy fighting off tears to bother with it. His fingers rub my back and I can’t decide if I’m mad or touched.
Both. Definitely both.
“And if you want to leave once your three months are up,” he continues softly, “I’ll keep looking for a way to free you while you run. Just let me know where you are so I know you’re safe, and I’ll send word the moment I figure it out.”
My heart squeezes at his offer of sacrifice. He cares about me enough to set aside his own goals and put my safety first. Oh no, I’m falling in love, the words chant in my head. But this time, they only make me smile.
“Even if it’s handcuffed, I’m leaving here with you, Wilding,” I insist, kissing him softly. “We’re a pack now. If we run, we run together. If we fight, we fight together. Deal?”
His eyes fill with tears and he nods. “Deal.”
As his tears begin to fall, I pull him close, holding him tight. He lets himself cry, clutching me to him. Moments pass as I stroke his hair, and once he’s done, we collapse on the sofa, not an inch of space between us.
Narcissus sits on our laps, demanding attention as morning fades to afternoon. For hours, the three of us sit there, my feet in Alistair’s lap and his hands on my calves as we trade stories.
He tells me about his early years with Orrin, about the pranks they pulled and the innocent trouble they got into. I laugh and smile, but a part of me mourns on his behalf, wishing I could bring back the brother he knew instead of the one he has now.
I tell him about the years when my mother was alive. How she baked constantly and instigated most of the trouble the kids in the neighborhood got into. Alistair smiles, asking questions.
But fluffy memories turn into gritty ones, and we each share some of our harder moments.
I tell him about a few of my missions, keeping them vague. The family that I stole important documents from, resulting in the failure of their business and the suicide of the father. Weeks later, I snuck into the magistrate”s office and planted documents that helped the son get the business back. But it didn”t erase my sin.
I tell him about the first time I tried to refuse a job and Orrin had a young maid slain as punishment, and about my first escape attempt and the scar I earned on my forearm. But I never say the duke’s name or title, not wanting Alistair to feel guilty that it was his brother that did such things.
As I speak, Alistair holds my hand, squeezing it while I cry and leaning forward to kiss my forehead. But I can see the vengeance hidden in his eyes.
He means to kill my master. But I can’t let him kill his own brother. Orrin’s death would haunt him forever.
When it’s Alistair’s turn, he tells me about the time he campaigned for his father to continue training Orrin as his heir to the ‘family business’ instead of Alistair. Alistair had been so desperate to escape the responsibilities and expectations of being his father’s heir, that he didn’t care if Orrin was dangerous or not. Alistair knew that Orrin had only a week prior had a man sent on a dangerous mission as punishment for disobeying orders, from which the man never returned, his body never recovered.
Alistair hangs his head in shame as he tells me the story, but I nudge his chin up, urging him to look me in the eye. Then I kiss him and tell him that he may not be able to be proud of his past, but his present is something worth celebrating. He is worth celebrating.
Alistair smiles and pulls me close, Narcissus meowing a complaint at being squished between us. Though we talk for most of the night, Alistair never reveals that his brother is the duke. But I don’t begrudge him for it. I think I can safely assume that he’s keeping it to himself out of fear of what I’ll think.
But I’m resolved now. My choice has been made and like the wild animal he compares me to, I will not leave my pack. And from here on out, my pack is Alistair Godfrey.