Chapter Seven
Isobella awoke with a start, bolting upright, the memory of large teeth sinking into her neck fresh in her mind.
With frantic hands, she checked her throat, searching for a wound, a bandage, anything to assure her it hadn’t been part of a fever-induced dream.
That he had bitten her. Nothing. Was that because she was a werewolf now? Because her body could heal itself?
She sought them out, the Montagne twins, for confirmation, but she was alone. In a strange place. Not the keep of her fuzzy memories, with its stone walls and large barrel tub. Had it all been a hallucination?
Soft light streamed through a hole in a thatched roof, the air hazy with the trail of smoke wafting up and out.
A rough timber table crowded the single-room cottage, and a large soot-covered pot hung over a small fire.
Woven baskets lined the walls below a shelf of chipped mugs, plates and numerous pots of who knew what.
From the rafters hung bunches of drying herbs.
Where the hell am I? A peasant’s cottage?
She thrust back the covers and swung her legs to the floor. Thirsty. Her stomach growled. And hungry. But…no dizziness, and the weakness and chills that’d racked her body were gone. The pain in her abdomen now only a memory. Her wrists…
She held up her hands. The skin was unmarked, as though she’d not spent days, maybe weeks, with iron cuffs and chains tethering her to a wall, cutting into her skin and making her bleed. Of the cut on her palm from her athame, nothing to show it had ever happened—no redness, not a hint of a scar.
With her feet spaced for balance, she stood on legs no shakier than the solid beams of the table.
And her body…it was so…light. Of the debilitating fatigue which had plagued her for months, the heaviness that had weighed her down as though every step were an effort, there was no sign.
Instead, her body hummed with a new awareness and a new energy.
She took in a deep breath and a myriad of smells hit her—the smoke from the fire, cooking meat, a hint of pine and oak from beyond the cottage.
The scents of two men—no, three males—two with a distinct musk.
Wolf? Werewolf? And another, faded, mingled with the familiar odors of herbs and plants.
Different. Female? The owner of this cottage?
Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. The smells weren’t the only thing she noticed. Colors, sounds…everything was so…intense. The crackle of the fire, the whisper of wind in the trees and the scrape of…steel? against…something. The rhythmic whack of someone chopping wood.
Isobella squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.
Still the same. She picked out knots in the timber of the tabletop, every blade of straw, every gap in the thatched ceiling.
She zeroed in on the scratching in the roof.
Two beady eyes peeked out at her through the thatching.
A mouse. Something so tiny shouldn’t be visible.
Not to human eyes. Its scratching reverberated in her ears as though it were the size of a large dog, not something small enough to fit in the palm of her hand.
Tears pricked her eyes, and her vision misted over. Those large teeth, the bite of them into her neck, the two big warriors… Not a dream. A memory. Of the Montagne twins. One of them had turned her. She’d not hallucinated it. She was a werewolf. It was the only explanation.
The heaviness of her diagnosis slid off her shoulders. She was alive. And healthy.
Isobella choked back a half laugh, half sob. She wanted to dance. To scream at the top of her lungs, I’m alive, I’m cured. To drop to her knees and ugly cry away the fear and the pain of the last few months. Race out and tell Annabelle, her father…
Her joy sputtered out, and she slumped back onto the cot. She couldn’t tell anyone, hug anyone she loved. Isobella wrapped her arms around herself. She was in the tenth century.
Another scrape of steel from outside the cottage.
The clunk of kindling being tossed onto a pile.
She eyed the door. They were out there. The smoke, the pine from the forest, the meat cooking in the pot could not mask the distinct musk of their bodies.
Aubert and Edmond. The men who’d rescued her in more ways than one.
She owed them a huge debt of gratitude. And an explanation.
She had to tell them who she was. Why she was here.
Another thunk of an ax on wood drew her to the open window. The cottage was in a clearing, and beyond that, the forest. Against the backdrop of green was one of the twins. She ducked back out of sight, peering around the edge of the shutter. Had he seen her?
Big and bearded, with shoulders that would make a linebacker weep, his long hair in a tight braid down his back, he ran a whetstone down the blade of his sword—once, twice. Then he held it up, running his eye down the length of it. No, she didn’t think so.
He stood, testing it, swinging it in a clear arc, thrusting it as though attacking a foe.
A dance of death and violence, yet so fluid, so beautiful.
She stood transfixed. He moved with a grace a man that big should not possess, a vision of raw power.
Goosebumps rose across her skin, and something warm curled low in her belly.
He lowered his sword, cocked his head and turned in her direction. She stilled. Of course he’d known she was there. As a werewolf, he’d probably known the moment she’d awoken and thrown back the covers. Isobella stepped into view.
He smiled at her. It seemed so out of place on such a brutish face, but she liked it. Isobella smiled back, then ducked her head, a flush of heat rising up her neck.
Good Lord. She’d barely escaped knocking on heaven’s door, and she was…what? Flirting with her savior? Had the spell, her turning, scrambled her brains? Or her hormones?
The thud of an ax against timber drew her attention to a woodpile and another man, the other twin. Shirtless, his body glistening with sweat, he raised the ax, the muscles across his back and shoulders bunching. Another flush, this time to her whole body.
What the hell?
With a powerful swing, his pants stretching tight across his taut ass and muscular thighs, he brought the ax down on a log with an almighty crack.
Her stomach swooped, and she clenched her thighs together.
What is wrong with me?
Brawny men were plentiful in the twenty-first century.
You could find them in any gym, or on social media.
There were three shifter packs in San Francisco alone, not counting the Langeais wolves visiting from France.
All the male shifters were buff. Even Douglas had a nice set of abs.
She’d admired them, but it wasn’t like Isobella to go all ga-ga over a man’s physical attributes. Over a man chopping wood.
How ridiculous. Although…There was that guy on TikTok with something like ten million followers.
The twin raised the ax again. Every taut muscle honed by his life as a warrior rippled, his body gleaming in the sun. She clutched the edge of the window frame, its rough surface digging into her palms, and held her breath, her whole body wired, tense, waiting. She was beginning to see the appeal.
He brought the ax down, splitting the wood in two, then tossed his head, flicking his long brown hair over his shoulder. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, off his bare torso. A low growl rumbled up from her chest.
What the…?
He froze. His head cocked to the side, he raised his nose to the air and drew in a deep breath. He turned, his eyebrows dipped in a deep frown and his lips pursed. A memory surfaced of him leaning over her, dripping liquid into her mouth from a wineskin.
Her gaze skipped back to the other twin. Both of them were staring at her, the one holding a sword with an intensity that had her insides quivering. The other… A girl could almost swoon.
Good Lord, what is wrong with me that a scowl makes me…
Isobella squeezed her thighs. Was this a werewolf thing? The way her body was reacting? It had to be.
The back of her hand itched, and she scratched at it. Her neck prickled, and her body burned. Was this some sort of residual after-effect of her turning? Her knee twinged, almost dropping her leg out from under her.
What is happening to me?
A bone in her right hand cracked. And another in her left hand.
She held them up. Blood roared in her ears as dark fur sprouted across her knuckles, and claws punched through the ends of her fingers.
Something dark and primal rose inside of her.
Another bone in her hand crunched, and a dull throbbing started up in her gums.
Oh, no. I’m shifting.
She had to make it stop. Isobella didn’t know how to shift. Or how to shift back. She wasn’t trained.
Bones in her feet cracked. A sharp pain in her hips sent her to her knees. Amid the pounding of her heart and the spreading heat in her veins, she clocked the twins bursting through the door.
Isobella stared at her hands, now paws, her body trembling. She opened her mouth to plead for their help, but no words came out. She couldn’t speak. Her vocal cords were changing, her face elongating into a snout.
“Let it happen, chaton.” The twin, the one who’d smiled at her, dropped his sword and kneeled in front of her. “Do not try to resist it. Not yet. Let it come.”
His deep voice sent shivers down her spine, and a musky scent invaded her senses. Him. Them. Their scent filled the cottage. It enveloped her, making her nipples hard and her sex clench. Her transformation accelerated.
No!
Dark fur covered her hands, and as her shoulder joints cracked and popped, rearranging, her dress tore. She looked up into his eyes, drowning in their shadowy depths.
“Trust me.”
What choice did she have? She had no hope of controlling it.
Isobella let go.