Chapter 5 #3
He dressed in silence, mindful of each ache and bruise, and with a careful hand he replaced the chains, laying them as Max would have done, precise and orderly. Max who would certainly have questions about finding the cellar empty this morning.
For a moment, Lucien stared at the chains, fighting the urge to smash the lot or cast them into the deepest part of the fen. Then he left the cellar, and headed for the castle.
He got as far as the steps before the south portico when the hounds found him.
Braccus, gray and deliberate as ever, blocked the entrance with his massive chest, fixing Lucien with an amber stare that said, I saw what you did.
Eirin circled behind, her fawn coat bristling, nose twitching as she scented out every humiliation he carried.
Ronan simply bounded straight at him, nearly bowling him over in a frenzy of greeting.
“Down,” Lucien hissed, and Ronan obeyed as best as he could, tongue lolling and tail wagging still so fast it whipped the snow into miniature storms.
Braccus pressed his head softly against Lucien’s thigh, then looked up, mouth closed and eyes grave. It was a look Lucien had learned to read. You’re alive. Barely. Next time, remember we’re the ones meant to do the hunting.
Eirin, too, softened as she crept closer, ears flat, body low. She let Lucien scratch behind her ears, then her head whipped up and her eyes darted to his face, as if expecting him to dissolve into wolf again at any moment.
Together, they flanked him as he slipped into the castle, padding silently over the flagstones.
The entry was empty, but he knew that at any moment the cook or, God forbid, the housekeeper might emerge from a side passage.
He darted up the stair, the dogs pacing behind him, until he reached the relative safety of his own chambers.
He closed the door and sagged against it, sliding slowly to the floor. The hounds gathered round, Braccus on one side and Ronan leaning shamelessly into his lap. Eirin sat at a careful distance, watching him with her pale, clever eyes.
“You will have to do better next time,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his wild hair.
He rubbed his face and forced himself to sit up straight.
The day was just beginning, and in an hour, he would have to greet his mother, face the staff, pretend at the normalcy they all craved.
He wondered, briefly, what Max would say about the failed chains.
A discussion was in order, but Lucien did not wish to have it yet.
And then, like a flicker of warm light in the shuttered room, he remembered the kiss.
The sensation of being wanted, even for a second, by someone alive and lovely and unafraid.
He had been a monster, yes, and would be again.
But for that single moment in the snow, he had been only a man. A lustful, ravenous man.
He was still thinking of it, and of the woman who had given it, as he stood up and walked across his room into his dressing room.
The room was warm. A hip bath steamed, filled near to the brim with water so hot it sent up clouds. His valet must have come in, as he did every morning, leaving a kettle steaming gently on the trivet. The manservant had been told he would be hunting in the early hours.
Lucien stripped off the coat and his clothing, wincing as the fabric peeled from half-healed scrapes.
Next to the bath, there were towels, shaving soap, a mirror, a clean shirt and trousers, all laid out with the efficient care that marked Mr. Smythe’s rule of his bedchambers.
Mr. Smythe whom Lucien avoided at this time of the month lest he see any bruises that could not easily be explained.
He eased himself into the bath and let the heat soak in.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but the hiss of water and the dull ache of muscles returning to their proper shape.
He shut his eyes and tried not to think of everything.
The shift, the waking in the forest, the wild, mindless run back home through trees. His aching feet.
But the thoughts came anyway, as they always did. Though he did not remember anything past it, he remembered the moment when his mind had broken apart, leaving only the raw, animal need. He remembered the taste of blood.
He opened his eyes and reached for the looking glass. When he bared his teeth, faint rust-brown streaks clung between them and under the gums. His stomach lurched, yet he forced himself to breathe slow and steady.
It had to be a buck or a wild boar, he told himself, for he had woken miles deep in the heart of Blackfen Woods, far from any croft or village path. Plenty of game roamed there. He scrubbed his mouth fiercely with tooth powder until he was clean.
Only then did he notice the absence. The heat, the hunger, the low thrum that lingered was gone. Chased off by the sunlight. For the first time that morning, the quickening had truly left him. His shoulders loosened and he exhaled deeply.
Skin scalded and senses clear, he found his thoughts pulled to Miss Hale.
To the feel of her lips, the defiance in her eyes, the way she had surrendered and resisted in the same breath.
He recalled, with mortifying clarity, how she had merged with him, not as a victim but as a woman claiming what she wanted.
He felt a heat that had nothing to do with the bath water, and for a few wild seconds, he let himself imagine what might happen if he abandoned duty and let desire win. He pictured her in his arms, arching into him, her small soft hands digging into his biceps as she pulled him closer.
His body stirred beneath the water, hard and insistent, as the vivid image of her pressed against him refused to fade. A low groan escaped his throat while heat pooled low in his body.
He clenched his jaw and muttered, “Settle down, she is not for you.” The words sounded stern in the quiet room.
He choked down the fantasy and stood, forcing his mind to the morning’s business. It was impossible. He had made a vow. No wife, no heir, no child to carry on the curse. Even if he had not, a woman like Miss Hale deserved more than a reclusive lord shouldering an ancient curse.
But still, as he toweled off, dressed, and sat for a while at the edge of the bed, he wondered. Just for a moment.
He rang for Mrs. Harrow, who appeared as she always did. Composed, silent, briskly efficient.
“Please see that Miss Hale is offered a hot bath this morning,” he said, keeping his voice as even as possible. “She had a difficult journey yesterday and will need some comfort.”
Mrs. Harrow gave a small nod. “Of course, my lord.”
Left alone, he glanced again at the mirror, at the man who stared back with eyes too old for his years, and resolved to keep the memory of her, of hope itself, locked away where it could do no harm.
He was Lord Blackfen, keeper of the fen and the lycanthropic curse alike. But for a few seconds, in the warm hush of his chambers, he allowed himself to be irresponsible enough to dwell on how yielding and responsive Miss Hale was in his arms.