Chapter 9
Ale had a way of encouraging certainty among the men at the inn, where theories were formed with great conviction and little evidence. Storms, wandering livestock, peculiar sounds in the hills, all were debated at length, though no consensus ever endured beyond the next round.
Lucien left Verity and hurried from the study as if the house were on fire.
The world felt oddly thin around him, as if every hall and stairway and doorframe had been built only to slow his progress, to herd him back toward her.
Each step away from Verity should have eased his mind, but it only made the ache worse.
He was furious with himself. Not just for what he had done, but for how desperately he wished to do it again.
He navigated the castle from habit, hardly registering the aged beams and echoing stone, the ancient hush of rooms. The only other movement was the trio of hounds at his heels, all three following him with a strange, troubled gravity, their enormous paws almost silent except for the click of claws on the worn flagstones.
Lucien did not need to look behind him to know Braccus, Eirin, and Ronan were there.
Their presence was a shadow at his back, a warning and a comfort in equal measure.
Tonight, of all nights, he would need both.
He reached the main hall, racing across its breadth.
The hounds surged after him, jostling for the lead, butting at his hip and thigh as if to herd him faster.
In a moment when his mind was not devoured by the scent-memory of Verity’s skin or the echo of her moans in his ears, he noted the oddness of their behavior.
Braccus in particular kept whining in the back of his throat, a high anxious sound that did not suit the beast’s size.
Eirin looked at him with eyes too wide, tail tucked so tightly it all but disappeared.
Even Ronan, the most puppyish of the three, was subdued and watchful, as if expecting something to leap from the gloom at any instant.
Lucien knew what troubled them. He could feel it in his own bones, the way his pulse beat faster and his skin felt stretched over a body just slightly too large for itself.
The full moon would crest soon, and even with the chains and precautions, he had always hated the nights when the animal crept up on him early, when it made a home in his chest hours before the actual transformation.
The anticipation was a sickness, a tide of dread so heavy it made him short of breath.
Yet today was worse than any previous. He was aware, with every cell of his wretched body, that the danger he presented was not merely theoretical.
It had a name and a face and a scent so intoxicating he could smell it still.
Miss Hale, Verity, her body pressed beneath his, around him, her lips swollen and eyes dazed with the aftermath of pleasure he had no right to give her.
The thought made him nauseated. He remembered the way her hands had clawed at his hair, the way she had welcomed him, how she had said yes with her entire being and then clung to him after, as if she trusted him not just with her virtue but with her very soul.
The memory was like drinking hot spirits on an empty stomach.
It was heady, dizzying, but ultimately a punishment.
He was supposed to be stronger than this.
He was supposed to be the last of his line for a reason.
He should never, ever have let himself touch her.
The horror deepened as his mind conjured the peril that had lurked so perilously close.
What if the transformation had seized him there, in the shadowed confines of the study, with Verity still entwined in his arms?
He could have changed mid-embrace, his body twisting into that monstrous form, fangs and claws erupting in a frenzy of unholy rage.
He might have slain her outright, her delicate frame rent asunder by the beast’s savage hunger, her lifeblood staining the rug like crimson accusations against his soul.
Or he could have injured her grievously, his jaws closing upon her tender flesh not to kill, but to maim, potentially passing on this terrible curse that blighted his lineage.
She would awaken to the same torment, her spirit warped into a creature of the night, forever bound to the moon’s cruel whims, her soul shattered beyond redemption.
The mere thought was too much to bear, a dagger twisting in his gut, filling him with a despair so profound it threatened to unman him utterly.
He nearly collided with a servant who was lighting the sconces.
The girl looked up, then took one look at his face and retreated so quickly she left her taper behind.
Lucien did not blame her. He could not imagine what he looked like.
Pale, wild-eyed, shirt askew, panting. A gentleman. An animal. Both at once.
He forced himself to slow, to walk with the deliberate pace of a man in control. He hurried through the hall leading to the kitchens, exiting out in to the snow to reach the root cellar, which doubled as his prison. The air was cold as he picked up speed to run past the stables.
Reaching the doorway, the hounds spread out, Braccus stalking ahead, Eirin and Ronan fanning to guard either flank. Lucien ducked through to find Max Dray already there, waiting for him.
Max stood in the middle of the floor, arms folded, lantern at his feet, chains in one hand and a scowl fixed on his face.
“Ye’re late, m’lord,” Max said. He did not raise his voice, but the Northumbrian edge in it could cut stone.
Lucien said nothing at first. He shrugged out of his coat and let it fall, then pulled off his shirt, fingers trembling with effort. He did not want to speak, because he knew if he did, the shame would spill out.
“Ye look like hell.” Max glanced over him, his gaze concerned and afraid. Lucien hated to see it.
Lucien worked his jaw, trying to hold himself steady. “Thank you for the news, Max. It is always a comfort to hear your voice first thing in the evening.”
Max let the sarcasm slide. “Ye look like ye’ve not eaten, m’lord. Like ye’ve not rested.”
Lucien ignored him and continued undressing. He kicked his boots aside, then stripped off his trousers, leaving him in only his small clothes. The cold of the cellar bit into his skin, but it did little to cool the fever that raged within him.
He had assuaged his appetites … of sorts.
Just not what Max meant. He could still smell her.
Verity. Her womanly essence clung to him like a second skin, the richness of her hair and flesh mingling with the salt of her arousal.
The memory of her body clamped around his manhood assaulted him anew, her moans and cries echoing in his mind as she had writhed beneath him, surrendering everything in that forbidden union.
Max watched him with narrowed eyes, the chains clinking softly in his grip. “Where’ve ye been?”
Lucien straightened. He extended his wrists toward Max, refusing to meet his gaze. “I do not require an accounting of my movements. Secure the chains.”
Max stepped forward, wrapping the heavy manacles around Lucien’s wrists, the links gleaming dully in the lantern light. “Ye don’t require it, aye, but ye look like ye’ve been dragged through hell by yer heels. What’s got into you?”
The click of the locks snapped shut, binding Lucien to the wall. He tested them once, the familiar sting of silver against his flesh a grim reassurance.
Max moved to his ankles next, kneeling to fasten the lower restraints. “Ye haven’t somehow forgotten what could happen if ye’re free when night falls, don’t ye? The moon’s already been pullin’ hard for a while now. I can see it in yer eyes, m’lord. They’re glowin’ like embers.”
Lucien flexed his hands, the chains rattling faintly. “I am well aware. Do you think I have forgotten the curse that poisons my blood? The risk I pose to every soul under this roof?”
Max rose, wiping his hands on his trousers, his face full of worry. “If these chains fail again …”
Lucien’s head shifted up, his eyes locking onto Max, but he said nothing.
Max crossed his arms, his broad frame filling Lucien’s view. “Did ye get free last night?”
Lucien averted his gaze, vulnerability clawing at him. The lie formed easily on his tongue, born of shame and the need to shield himself in this moment of exposure. “I did not escape.” Not quite a lie, but certainly not the whole truth.
Max’s eyes searched his face, doubt etching deep lines around his mouth, but Lucien could scarcely focus on the present.
It was as if his mind was not located inside his head, like he had left it with Verity.
Thoughts of her relentlessly beat at him, consumed him.
The image of her in his mind unraveled his control, turning rational thought to ash.
He could think of nothing else. Her touch, the way her skin felt against his.
He would need to learn how to master these carnal urges to claim her, or he would put everyone in jeopardy. This single-mindedness was an obsession, a madness that gripped his soul.
Max persisted. “I don’t take this lightly, having to ask ye what happened last night, chaining ye up. But the castle’s still full of folk. Yer mother, Mrs. Harrow, that new lass, Miss Hale. Ye could tear through them all without a thought.”
Lucien’s breath hitched at the mention of her name. The beast within stirred. He fought it down, chains clanking as he shifted.
How could he have taken her virtue in such an ignominious manner?
Deflowered her on the study floor, driven by lust that overrode all reason?
Should he send her away? Provide her with funds, a quiet life elsewhere, away from him, to keep her away from his sin?
The very thought made the wolf inside him howl in protest, a savage denial that echoed through his veins.
But he could not allow the creature living within him to dictate his actions as it had done today. Could he?