Chapter 12 #2
I swallow roughly, watching him make his way toward me, unsure what my next move should be. Do I run to him? Run away? Pretend that this is all one big misunderstanding or take advantage of the scene to make a break for the edge of the Blackmoor forest?
Too bad I don’t get to do any of that before the huntsman stands up, grabs his axe, and calls out, “She might not choose me, but I’ll make it so she can’t have you either, beast.”
And the deranged fucker buries his axe in Wolf’s back.
My mate rips out a howl, his back arching as though he might be able to escape the sharp edge of the weapon. He can’t, but his arms are long enough that he can reach behind him to grab the handle, yanking it out again.
He flings the axe away from him before backhanding the huntsman on his next swing, sending the big man flying until his back slams into the nearest tree.
At the same time, Wolf’s body bucks, falling forward, landing on his hands and knees and giving me a perfect view of the big fucking hole in his back.
That’s when I… shit. There’s no other term for it.
I snap.
That’s what they say. When a woman has had enough, when she’s taken all that she can, she snaps and, well, you can’t blame her for what she does next?
As a kid, I broke a bully’s nose with a lunch tray.
I once used a steak knife to stab a different foster brother who would sneak into my room at night; at seventeen, I was brave enough to sleep with it under my pillow until, like now, I snapped.
As a twenty-eight-year-old who believes in fairy tales, but who also knows that monsters are all too real, I dash for the axe. The fact that it’s slick with red blood—Wolf’s blood—gives me all the nerve I need to grab the handle and pick it up.
Part of me wants to run to Wolf and make sure he’s okay. The other part, though? It has this need to react, to make sure that no one can ever hurt my mate again.
Fairy tales are bloody. They have teeth. I grew up on the sanitized Disney versions, but when you read the real stories, you understand that not even happy-ever-afters are guaranteed.
I want one. My biggest wish was to find someone who loved me with everything they are, for me to love them in return, and for the two of us to have our own happy-ever-after.
At this moment, I realize that I just might have found it with Wolf.
There’s no doubt that he believes that I’m his one true love because I’m his mate.
The feelings I have for him… how else can I explain how much I’ve been drawn to him since the beginning if not for fate?
But if I’m looking at my happy-ever-after, I know that I won’t be able to have that in Blackmoor as long as the huntsman has this insane idea that I was meant for him.
Fuck that. I choose Wolf, and I prove that by swinging the axe until there’s not enough magic on Earth or in Blackmoor to heal him. After all, when you lose your head, there’s no going back from that, is there?
I just hope that whatever that asshole did to Wolf… I hope he can heal from that.
Dropping the bloody axe, ignoring the way the droplets staining my cloak are a much darker shade than the fabric, I race back over to my mate. He’s still on all fours, though his head is bowed, tucked into his chin as though he doesn’t have the strength to hold it up just yet.
I make myself look at his wound. Okay. The hole’s smaller, but there’s no denying that there’s still a goddamn hole in Wolf’s back. I throw myself at his side, wrapping my arms around as much of his linen-covered leg as I can.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, burying my face against his hip. “This is all my fault.”
His tail curls around my shoulder, comforting me despite the pain he must be in. “That fault is Wolf’s. He left Red alone. He heard… he heard the axe. He knew the huntsman had come for her, but Wolf… this Red is mine. Even if only for a few days, Wolf will love Red forever.”
Love.
That’s all I ever wanted.
“I’m yours,” I murmur, understanding instinctively that that’s the truth. “There’s no one but you. Not for me. And you are my Wolf.”
Wolf shudders. And though I’m sure he’s still not healed enough to move, he eases back until he’s sitting on the ground and I’ve somehow found my way onto his lap. I snuggle against him, and he lets the tip of his tail fall into my lap.
He reaches up, swiping a claw over my face. Something damp smears on my cheek, and when he shows me the shine on the edge of his claw, I realize that I must have blood on my skin from when I kind of, sort of beheaded the huntsman.
“You are strong. You are brave. You are wild,” he rumbles, nuzzling my jaw with the fur growing on the edge of his. “You are my Charlotte.”
I don’t know what affects me more: the way he uses my name again, or how he says ‘my’ instead of calling himself ‘Wolf’. It’s almost as if he’s still listening, still learning, as though what I say matters…
Shit. It’ll be so, so easy to fall in love with my mate.
And you know what? I think I might be looking forward to it.
Slipping my much smaller hand into his paw, I bring it to my mouth and kiss it. “I am your Red,” I tell him.
His eyes spark with pure affection and undeniable love. “You are my mate.”
I tilt my head up so that he can see my impish grin. “Yeah. That, too.”
Because I am, and even if it means I never get my wish, that’s okay.
I have Wolf, and that might just be even better.