16. Lessons of the Woods
S he slept in my arms last night. Half-conscious, I thought her soft voice, her fingers combing through my hair, and her hand in mine had to be my imagination’s escape from another night terror. There’s no way a moment from my wildest dreams could be real.
But it was. Luna comforting me was as real as the stunning goddess in front of me now, bathing in a spring-fed pond.
The waterfall feeding it tumbles down from a dizzying height.
The fact that we endured that drop together makes me queasy, especially knowing we barreled over Cove Falls first, which is at least twice as high.
Despite the odds, we survived, and this waterfall has delivered enough wayward trout for proper meals.
The rain’s let up for now. Mist kisses my skin, leaving droplets in its wake. Far-off rumblings warn the storm isn’t done, and the ground is still slick and unstable, a recipe for disaster with Luna’s injury. We’re stuck. Not that I’m complaining at this particular moment.
So I sit on the bank, switching between making sure the crossbow won’t jam at the wrong moment and scanning the woods like a hawk. The forest’s eyes watch back, encroaching on this moment between us. But all I can really focus on is the memory of her warmth around me.
Her Carolina jasmine and honey scent, heady at the apex of her thighs, the softness of her skin…
Fuck. In my dream, I wanted to pull her panties aside and taste her again.
My mouth still waters thinking about it.
I’d have made sure she loved it, just like she did in the dressing room.
Resting on her thigh, I felt the frantic pulse there against my ear.
I have no doubt she wanted it too—or, at the very least, I had an effect on her being that close.
She knows exactly what the man she hates can give her.
But now the lust is mixed with confusion, and I’ve racked my brain all morning with one question.
Why did she stay?
My crossbow was only a few feet away when I woke up, a mistake if I’ve ever made one.
Had I trusted her that much to leave it lying out?
Or was I so exhausted I forgot she’s a threat?
Hell, she could’ve emptied every dart left from my quiver into my heart and ended her captor once and for all. And yet, she didn’t.
Was it the storm that kept her with me? Her ankle? The threat of my traps?
But no, none of that accounts for why she’d let me cuddle her waist, why our fingers were intertwined like we needed each other, or why her palm cradled my head like I was something fragile.
My heart was near full to bursting, but I got up before she could push me away.
The rejection would’ve been a crack in my sternum I’m not sure I could’ve stitched back up.
So instead, I carried her back to the cot, raised her sprained ankle on more blankets, and let her sleep while I went out to clear more trail.
I feel more refreshed after the best sleep of my life, let alone since my night terrors started at seventeen. But I’m sure I kept her up, considering whatever she heard was bad enough to convince her to soothe me.
And I can’t muster an ounce of guilt over that. Not when I finally felt her arms around me. Not when I held her like I’ve wanted since I was too young to understand why.
But I do hold back a wince every time I glimpse the evidence of her poor sleep—sunken cheeks, dark bags against pale skin, reddened eyes. She keeps massaging her neck, where a knot seems to come back with a vengeance every ten minutes.
I want to rid her of the pain I caused, but I won’t. The only kindness she’s shown me so far was when I wasn’t conscious to remember it, and I won’t acknowledge it before she does.
When I returned to the cabin, Luna was up and demanded a bath in the small lake, seemingly desperate to get out of the cabin.
I didn’t blame her. I’m sure she was bored, and after our swim in the rapids from hell, I’d carried her into the shack to sleep off the tranq and scrubbed off the sediment that dusted every inch of me.
With her passed out, though, all I could do was wipe her down with a washcloth, a poor substitute for the real thing.
I only took a dip in my boxer briefs, not wanting to freak her out, then set up shop on this water-slicked boulder, my clean jeans hanging from a branch for later.
She splashes near the waterfall, probably passing time since she and her clothes are already scrubbed clean.
Her bodice suns beside me, featherless in spots and stained from the muddy river.
In the water, her tutu spreads around her like wings as she switches from lathering her skin to working the soap through the tulle.
With the storm-ravaged river beyond the waterfall, it’s a miracle this pond is clean.
And while it’s chilly, the water still clings to the last heat of summer, and Luna doesn’t seem to mind the cooler temperature.
She’s weightless, serene, her arms long and graceful as she rinses the bubbles trailing down her curves.
When she rises to drape her tutu over a dry boulder, the sexy dimples above the swell of her ass flirt with the surface of the water.
Each time she turns, I catch sight of the soft contour of her breast.
I shouldn’t be looking, but a man only has so much willpower when it comes to his wife.
Her faint humming drifts like a memory, though I don’t recognize the tune. She’s talkative today, but these last few minutes have been her quietest all morning. Maybe it’s nerves, or maybe she’s trying to distract one or both of us. Either way, I like hearing her when I’m not looking.
I had to be on alert every moment I watched her from afar. Finally having her nearby is a breath of fresh air. She’s safe. She’s here . And she’s mine .
Almost.
I’ll claim her soon enough, but not before the time is right.
“You don’t scare me, you know.”
I frown, blinking back into focus to see she’s facing me now, dunked lower so the pond teases the tops of her breasts.
“Whatever you’re doing with that thing.” She nods at the crossbow in my lap. “All those broody, scowling, villainy looks. It’s not working on me.”
I look down, suddenly seeing it through the eyes of someone who has no idea how a crossbow works. I’ve been messing around with it, aiming it this way and that, testing the tension, checking for cracks along the frame, making sure the mechanism I designed for my hands still disengages properly.
No wonder she thinks I’m trying to intimidate her.
“I’ve figured you out,” she continues. “I don’t think you’d actually hurt me.”
Rage surges through me at the mere thought. “Never.”
I set the crossbow aside, keeping a blunt bolt from my quiver to twirl it between my fingers. The exercise is necessary to stretch the scarred skin and keep my palms from tightening up, but hopefully the movement is more playful than menacing.
She juts her chin. “So who taught you to use a crossbow?”
Pain slices through me, sharp enough that it takes me a second to realize the hit wasn’t real. I clear my throat.
“I taught myself. My momma gave it to me for my seventeenth birthday.”
Something furrows her brows before she spins away. Her voice is light when she replies over her shoulder.
“I’d ask what kind of parent gives a weapon for a birthday gift, but my Dad gave Nox a dagger when we turned sixteen.”
I’m about to say I got one of those too, but she tosses her hair in a dramatic flip, smiling. “ I asked Daddy for a sweet sixteen yacht party, naturally.”
I chuckle. “Naturally.”
She doesn’t know I know the full story. As the NOLA grapevine tells it, Luna invited her whole class on that luxury yacht, something most of the kids probably wouldn’t have even dreamed of experiencing.
It was fairytale themed, and she gave crowns and costumes to anyone who wanted them, complete with professional styling and makeup.
Not a soul was left out. The party was legendary for that alone.
People were still talking about it two years later at her eighteenth birthday.
I’d been there less than a week when I heard the story, and I’ve been smitten ever since.
My brothers and I grew up isolated in a county with a smaller population than the French Quarter, so it’s entrancing to watch someone not only make so many people feel included, but actually include them. She’s never met a stranger.
My father taught us every King kin carries a fight inside him that he’ll never win until he finds the peace to his fury.
Momma was that for him, his perfect opposite.
When we find who’s ours, Fate carves our mate’s name into our souls.
We feel that peace deep in our bones, but we won’t be at rest until we claim it.
Luna is my perfect opposite. She’s as reckless as I am vigilant, a city girl but freer than I’ll ever be.
Left to her own devices, she’ll test her boundaries until she breaks, but as long as I’m there when she finds the sharp edges of this world, I’ll make sure she doesn’t get hurt.
Once I claim her, I can give her the freedom she craves.
With me, she’ll finally be safe to stretch her wings.
She’ll fit right in as a Fury, as soon as I convince her to anyway.
“Why a crossbow, though?” she asks. “I’d think guns are a better gift for most hunters.”
“Aimers,” I correct, then shrug. “We have more guns than we’d ever need stocked in our armory, and every Fury gets a family dagger after completing Survival Week. I broke my ‘baby’s first crossbow’ running from a momma black bear on day one?—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” She wags her finger. “None of those words should go together. Explain ‘Survival Week’ first.”
“It’s a Fury rite of passage. When we’re sixteen, our parents blindfold us, drop us in the woods with a weapon and a prayer, and we have to last a week on our own before finding our way back.”
“Oh, so casual child abuse,” she snarls protectively, nearly making me preen.