Chapter 16
Nine months ago…
“Can I get you anything else, sweetheart?”
I smile at the waitress and shake my head. She watches me, the concern clear on her plump face. At an inn like this, she’s probably seen her fair share of people running from ghosts and monsters. But she hasn’t seen a ghost like mine. Even if she wanted to help me, she couldn’t.
But he might.
When she finally moves on to the next table, I slump lower in my seat, the fire cackling close by, casting a warm glow on the room. It’s busy tonight—which is good. The bigger and louder the crowd, the easier it is for me to get lost in it. And the more likely this plan will work.
“Stephanie?” a deep voice says.
I look up and find a man standing by the table. He’s taller than most of the men in the room, a little lither than I was expecting. There’s a severe look to him, his face weather worn and his eyes haunted like mine.
“The Baron?” I ask, my fingers grasped around my knife under the table.
He nods and sits beside me, close enough that no one can hear us without invading our space. At first glance, I pegged him at forty-two or forty-three, but up close I realize that he can’t be older than his early to mid-thirties. His rugged appearance ages him, but it’s the steely quality to his expression that made me assume he was older.
“You need assistance with a delivery?” he asks.
I nod, thankful that he’s cautious enough not to speak plainly here.
“That’s correct. Did…” I hesitate, anxiety making my fingers tremble. “Did she tell you about the…situation?”
I feel him study me, but I refuse to meet his gaze, instead playing aloof and watching the fire. If he senses my fear, he might take me for everything I have. Or worse, take me back to Orrin and claim the reward the duke is offering for my return.
“She did,” he says. “This will be treacherous.”
“I can handle it. Can you?”
When I look to see his reaction, he stares back, determined. “Yes. In fact, I insist on it. If things are truly the way our friend explained them, then the delivery needs to be made as soon as possible.”
Surprised by his willingness, I spear him with a glare. “Why would you care about delivering quickly? You’ll be paid the same regardless.”
The Baron leans forward, glancing around the crowded room. “Because this is why I started this business. For people like you. The money is just a way to keep the predators away.”
“And it doesn’t hurt to get paid.”
He smiles, his face softening with the expression. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. Are you ready?”
“Now?”
“It’s best to be quick about it. If we wait too long, people might take notice and alert him.”
He’s right. The duke always keeps my disappearances quiet—no one can know that I’m his pet. But he will have incentivized a few bounty hunters to find me and quietly bring me back.
Where I will be treated to solitary confinement in the dungeons and another scar on my forearm.
No, not this time. This time I’m not going back.
I follow the Baron out the back door and into the night. Pulling my cloak tighter, I walk behind him to the stable where a young groom holds a black horse.
The horse doesn’t do more than blink at us when we approach, nearly a statue it’s so calm. My nerves ease slightly at its confidence. Slightly.
“You first,” the Baron says, motioning me to the saddle. “I don’t want to risk someone trying to snatch you off the back.”
I sigh and fish the money out of my pocket as I reach for the saddle. “The payment.”
But he shakes his head and shoves the money back at me. “No. This isn’t a job to me. It’s a rescue mission.”
“I don’t need rescued.”
He considers me before nodding. “A liberation mission then. But regardless, I don’t want your money. Just do as I say and that will be payment enough. I’ve had more than one delivery go awry because someone couldn’t follow orders.”
I reluctantly put the money away, not fond of the idea of accepting charity—no matter how much I need it.
Once I’m up in the saddle, the Baron swings up behind me and takes the reins, tossing a gold coin at the stable boy. We’ve barely turned toward the forest when someone shouts at us.
When I turn, I see a guard dressed in black. The duke’s men.
“He found me.”
“Let’s go,” the baron shouts to his horse, kicking him into a gallop.
The Baron’s horse is fast. But the duke’s men are faster.
They catch up to us quickly, reaching out to try and pull me from the saddle. But the Baron was smart to put me in front, his arms caging me in and making me impossible to reach.
We’re out of the village, almost to the tree line when I hear the Baron cry out. Turning around, I see the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. My stomach drops, it’s my fault.
“Keep running,” I say, bracing myself.
“What?” the Baron grunts.
“No matter what, I need you to keep running. Don’t stop.”
“Stephanie—”
“It’s Stella. And I’m not the only one out there that needs liberated.”
There’s a pause as he understands what I’m saying. “Don’t you dare!”
I glance at the Duke’s riders. There are four of them, two armed with crossbows. The Baron won’t make it out of this alive. Not with me. “Don’t come back for me. I’m not worth it.”
And then I punch his wounded shoulder. He cries out and drops his arm, and I take the opening, launching myself from the saddle.
I hit the ground hard, rolling to soften the blow, but I know I’ll have bruises down the side of my body tomorrow.
The duke’s horses slow, dancing in a circle around me. Off in the distance, I can see the Baron stop at the tree line and look back, but he knows just as well as I do that he can’t help me now.
He watches as one of the riders dismounts and walks slowly up to me. Orrin. My muscles clench as I realize that the duke is here. He’s never come after me himself before.
It’s not a good sign that he did.
He lifts his helmet and squats in front of me, his lifeless eyes watching me like a cat watches a wounded bird. Hungry and waiting for the right moment to pounce.
“You stupid Little Wolf,” Orrin tsks, shaking his head. “I thought I taught you better than this.”
Despite my initial desire to spit in his face, tell him he doesn’t own me, and maybe stab him in the groin, I say nothing, feigning submission. I’ve been a captive animal long enough to know that only dead wolves strike fast. A wise wolf bides their time and waits for the right opening to make the kill.
And someday, I will.
When his fingers grasp my chin, I force myself not to react, pushing all the hate out of my eyes. It would only fuel him.
“You will never do that again,” he hisses, and I can’t hold back the whimper when his fingers squeeze too hard.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know what comes next,” he says, his other hand grasping my arm. Fear writhes in my gut and memories of past pain cause me to resist just a little.
But he’s stronger and he lifts my wrist, taking his hand from my chin to push my sleeve down, exposing my forearm.
I watch as he takes the knife from his belt, unable to keep myself from trembling slightly. Over the years, I’ve prided myself on learning to contain my emotions so I can’t be punished for them. But fear is different.
I can’t seem to smother it.
“Your shaking will only make it worse,” Orrin says icily, poising the knife below the six scars running along the underside of my forearm.
I will myself to be still, and just when I’ve managed to stop the trembling, the knife slides across my skin.
The duke’s pressure is harder than necessary—it always is—tearing past the first layer of skin. I push my lips together to keep from screaming as the blade rips through my nerves and blood pours out across my skin. The burning is strong and I ache to cry, but I wait, the duke still holding my wrist.
“Do I need to reinforce to you that escape is not an option?” he asks, looming over me, his expression hard.
I shake my head, my vision swimming a little. “No.”
He narrows his eyes at me, and after a moment he yanks me to my feet. A loud whimper escapes my lips at the pull on my arm and I feel the tears burn my eyes. When I look at the duke, he’s nodding, satisfied that I’ve learned my lesson.
Even when he releases my arm, I wait until he turns away to cradle it close. One of the guards dismounts, allowing me to pull myself up on the saddle before he sits behind me. While he resituates his reins, I watch the duke grimace at the blood on his gloved fingers. A vindictive pleasure blooms in my chest.
It’s these small, almost insignificant moments of victory that give me the strength to keep going. To endure injuries and ridicule. It’s not much, but it’s one thing he can’t own, can’t take.
When we turn back for town, I search the tree line, hoping the Baron took my advice and ran.
But he’s still there.
I wave my hand to the side, urging him to go, but instead, he lifts a hand to his brow and salutes me. Then he turns and disappears into the trees.
“Cheer up, Little Wolf,” the duke calls out, too happy for comfort. “You’re an employee of the duke. Remember, being useful means being alive, Stella.”
I say nothing, knowing it’s what he expects. But he’s wrong. I’m not alive. I’m just breathing.
When I wake, the room is filled with the glow of the fire that I left burning in the hearth. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in the dark again, knowing that when I inevitably woke in the night, I would recover easier if I could see my surroundings.
I’m quick to rise, not willing to risk another nightmare by trying to sleep again. As I slip on the robe and slippers that Francesca insisted I wear, I think about the Baron.
I haven’t seen him up close since that day in Fernshire. But I’ve seen him from a distance, and I’ve heard about the people he’s freed from the duke’s control.
He’s been more active since he tried to rescue me, and it gives me a small amount of comfort to think that I had something to do with it.
It does not, however, give me comfort to think of what the duke has done since then. I rub the seventh scar on my forearm, remembering with brutal clarity the determination he employed when he brought me back to the castle. That was nine months ago, and he’s sent me on almost as many missions.
He’s getting greedier. It’s only a matter of time before he makes his move on the capital. But I won’t help him take it. With any luck, I’ll be long gone before then.
If Alistair and I can find a way around the curse. Because I’m pretty sure it won’t take Orrin three months to find me—
My thoughts and body freeze as I see the shadow of a man ambling down the hall ahead of me. With my adrenaline still high, I move toward him, fast and silent.
My knife is pulled free of its hiding place and pressed to his side before he can even speak.
“What the—”
“Stay back,” I snarl, the scar on my wrist stinging, a phantom pain that’s accompanied by memory upon memory of moments just like this.
Me alone on some godforsaken mission for the duke, caught in a dark hall or sneaking across the lawn, a blade pressed to my back, or an arrow pointed at my heart.
There’s a pause of silence, and then, “Stella?”
My hand falters. “Alistair?”
He shifts, maneuvering the knife out of my fingers with surprising skill. A moment later, a sconce comes to life along the wall, and I see him pocket a set of matches. He’s dressed in pajamas, his hair a tangled mess and deep shadows under his eyes.
“You look terrible,” I comment.
“Well hello to you too,” he says with a dry smile, handing me the knife. “I wouldn’t go insulting me when you look like someone who’s been awoken from the dead.”
I touch my hair and cringe at the sheer height of it. My curls are a frizzy mess and I’m sure my face is nearly skeletal from my lack of sleep.
He’s right, I probably do look like a corpse.
“What are you doing up so late?” I ask, stowing my knife.
“Apparently I’m being assassinated,” he retorts, opening the doors to the library and motioning me in ahead of him. Inside, he lights another sconce and I make for one of the sofas where I find Narcissus curled up on one end.
“He doesn’t sleep with you?” I ask as I settle myself down, the cat stretching before he crawls over to my lap.
“Absolutely not,” Alistair scoffs, setting to work lighting the fire. “Narcissus doesn’t do anything that could potentially make people doubt his role as master of the manor. Which includes sharing my bed.”
“You’re a very independent man, aren’t you?” I croon as I scratch the cat’s chin. He purrs, kneading his paws against my thighs.
“Lucky cat,” Alistair murmurs, watching us. But I must have misheard him.
Once the flames have caught on the hearth, Alistair opts to sit on the floor, leaning back against an armchair. It puts me off guard to see him so relaxed, his legs stretched out in front of him and his clothes rumpled.
“Why are you up?” I ask, stroking Narcissus as he falls back asleep.
Alistair turns his striking green eyes on me. “You first,” he challenges, his dimples flashing.
“Bad dream,” I admit.
“Must be going around.”
“You too?”
He nods, not expanding on the information. Feeling equally protective of my own nightmare, I don’t push him. Instead, I watch the way the firelight dances across his face. I don’t usually allow myself to openly admire him. It would only boost his ego.
But he seems more human tonight. Like the show is over and he’s removed his costume. It makes me wonder who he is when no one’s looking.
“Why can’t you walk in sunlight?” I ask, suddenly uncomfortable with all the secrets filling up the space between us.
He sighs like he knew the question was coming and shifts to face me. “It’s the curse. I can leave the property of the manor, but sunlight burns and cuts me. So I can’t get far. The wounds heal quickly, but the pain isn’t worth it.”
Empathy purrs to life inside me and I try to imagine what it would feel like to go four years without feeling the sun. Four years of darkness.
If I were in his position, left to rot in a manor by my brother, isolated from the social influence I once knew, and never allowed to see sunlight, I wouldn’t be a very agreeable person either.
“So why were you so insistent that I shouldn’t search the grounds for the artifact?” I ask, sensing that a piece of the puzzle is still missing. “I understand why you couldn’t do it, but why couldn’t I?”
I’ve seen Alistair annoyed, angry, entertained, confused, curious, but the look of regret that crosses his face is unexpected. “Because of Leeta.”
“…Leeta?” I say tentatively, thrown off by his sudden somber attitude.
“It was two years ago. She was one of the women who spent time here under the curse,” he explains, still facing the fire. “She was angry to be stuck here, which wasn’t shocking. Some women have seen their time here as an opportunity to land a rich husband—me. Others simply bide their time until they can leave. But there have been a few that responded to the curse’s limitations with violence.”
I listen silently, stroking Narcissus’ back more to comfort myself than him. But he purrs regardless, unaware of Alistair’s current state.
“Leeta was one of the violent ones,” Alistair says, and I detect a thread of hatred in his voice. “Her parents were dead and she had four younger brothers that she was the sole provider for. She resented being stuck here, desperate to get back to her family. Apparently, her father had owed money to someone and she was making payments to alleviate the debt. But without her contribution, her family’s home would be taken as payment.
“She tried for weeks to get around the curse, and one night, her worry for her family hit a breaking point.” Alistair pauses, looking down at his hands. “She broke into my room and tried to kill me. We struggled and…her knife ended up in her chest. She died because a physician couldn’t gain access to the grounds and Leeta couldn’t leave. We did what we could, but she didn’t make it to the next morning.”
And then I realize that the loathing that seethes out of him isn’t directed at Leeta. It”s directed at himself.
In fact, the more I think on it, the more I understand that Alistair is teeming with self-hatred. It’s in his sarcasm, in his falsely arrogant attitude. It’s even in the way he moves.
Alistair Godfrey despises himself more than anyone else could ever do. And that is why he’s so insufferable.
“That”s why Denise looked so horrified when I joked about you killing the women,” I guess, so many things beginning to make sense. He nods. ”And why you didn”t want me to go hunting for the artifact outside. Leeta is buried on the grounds,” I surmise, understanding now why he acted like such a bear.
“You already hate me,” he shrugs, his smirk half-hearted and empty. “Why give you more ammunition?”
I nod, feeling a strange sense of kinship with him. That can be the only reason that I possibly form my next words. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only killer in the room.”
Alistair turns toward me, his face slack with shock. I see him trying to puzzle out who I might have killed and why, but I give him nothing, keeping my expression impassive.
“Do you regret it?” he asks, and I’m surprised he didn’t ask for details.
I think back on my past, recalling the panic and the anger. “No. I feel guilty, killing doesn’t sit well with me. But I don’t regret that they’re dead.”
He nods thoughtfully, a sad smile on his face. “I guess that’s where our similarities end, Freckles. Sounds like you killed someone we’re all better off without. I left a bunch of kids homeless and made a girl go crazy enough to try and kill me. But do you want to know a secret?”
I don’t answer, positive that I don’t like where this is going.
“I wish she’d been successful,” he whispers, and at first, I think I misunderstood him. But when his expression hardens, I know I didn’t.
My heart aches at his words, knowing how much they weigh. I’ve never considered giving up, never allowed myself to think of ending the fight. But there have been moments when Paul or the duke would threaten to kill me, and a part of me wanted to dare them to do it. To just let it all be over.
But then they would win. And I’ve never been able to stomach the idea of them thinking that they broke me.
“Alistair—”
“Don’t.” His gaze murderous, but it doesn’t scare me. I know it’s a mask.
“I’m sorry,” I say gently. “If I had known why you didn’t want me searching the grounds, I wouldn’t have pushed so hard. But…for what it’s worth, I’ve been told that the best way out is through—through the pain or grief or whatever. Stifling it with hate won”t help you heal.”
His forehead wrinkles and he leans further back against the chair, studying me like I’m a mythical creature. I want to fidget under his scrutiny, but I sit still out of habit.
“Do you follow that advice?” he asks.
I look down, uncomfortable having the questions turned on me. “Sometimes.”
”And does it work when you do it?”
I say nothing, wondering how likely it is that he”ll let me leave without making a big deal of my avoidance.
Turns out, there”s no chance. “I don’t understand you,” he says, shaking his head. “Your eyes tell me that you’re mind is on the exit, yet you sit there like a perfectly trained pet.”
“I’m no one’s pet.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re too wild for that.”
I toss a pillow at him. “That’s not a compliment.”
He catches the pillow and grins.
“On the contrary, it’s a very generous compliment. I’m saying that you are a majestic wolf or a lioness or maybe a rattlesnake, sitting there quietly coiled. It’s impressive to see someone with so much natural strength keeping it in check.”
A smile spreads across my face, but it’s bitter, soured by the memory of constant cages. The smile morphs into a laugh and I rest my head against the back of the couch. Narcissus looks up at me, annoyed by the disturbance, but I can’t stop.
I wipe tears from my eyes and laugh harder when I see the offended look on Alistair’s face.
“You actually think that I have natural strength?” I wheeze through chuckles. “That I’m sitting here instead of running because I have so much natural control?”
“I take it that the answer is no,” he grumbles, put out by my reaction.
“Correct.” The laughter has finally stopped, and I shake my head, in awe of his na?ve thoughts. “Alistair, I would think one prisoner would recognize another.”
That gets his attention. Confusion turns to concern, back to confusion, to frustration and then finally rests on curiosity.
“You control yourself because you have to,” he says quietly, finally understanding.
I nod. “It’s a survival tactic, Al. The dog that bites the hand that feeds it never eats again.”
“But the dog who gets away survives,” he guesses, comprehension lighting his eyes. “When I saw you that first day in the forest, you weren”t running off to meet your sweetheart or join a traveling troupe. You”re on the run from someone dangerous. That’s why you’ve been so tense since you got here.”
“It’s my eighth escape attempt and it’s not going very well.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Whoever is after you won’t be able to get to you here.”
“True. But this is just another cage. Much less dangerous than my previous one, but still. A cage is a cage, no matter how many accommodations there are inside.”
He moves, leaning his shoulder against the chair so he can face me. “Is that why you keep wearing the same clothes?”
Self-conscious, I toy with the button on my night dress. “Gifts are never just gifts. If you accept, you’re either owned or submitting.”
Alistair sits up straighter, eyes wide with realization. “Those men in the village, they were looking for someone. It was you, wasn’t it? Hell, Slither, what kind of life did we snatch you from?” His voice is so disgusted, his face full of anger and concern. I’m not sure I buy it.
I don’t think I know how.
“One I’m not going back to,” I reply, uncomfortable sitting under the warmth of his worry.
He goes quiet, and his posture relaxes. “There have been eleven girls in this manor over the last four years, and I have never once been happy to have them here. But just this once, I think I’m happy to have a guest.”
“Because you’re hoping that I’ll help you get around the curse.”
He sighs, exasperated. “No, Wolverine. Because I’m hoping that by the time you’re able to leave, you can actually get away from whoever it is you’re running from. No one should be this scared of their own shadow. It”s not right.”
I smile, Narcissus purring as I scratch behind his ears. “Why Al, are you actually admitting that you’re worried about me?”
He smirks, the devil incarnate. “Of course I am, Freckles. My life has gotten ten times more exciting since I met you.”
I laugh, finding him ridiculous. But we sit and talk for another hour, trading childhood stories of mischief in front of the fire.
He tells me about the time he and his father surprised his mother for her birthday and scared her so badly that she accidentally lit a curtain on fire.
I, in turn, tell him about the cakes covered in berries that Mother and I used to make for my birthday. We would keep one for ourselves and give the rest to the neighbors. But I always stole one cake and hid it in my room, letting Mother think we were just one short.
Alistair laughs at this story, entertained by my childhood thefts. And by the time we”re done sharing—and arguing—the fire has begun to dim and it”s well into the night.
We’re on our way through the halls, the library far behind us, when Alistair comes to an abrupt stop. At first, I can’t tell why, but then I see what he’s staring at.
The mural I painted stands before him on the wall, hard to make out in the dark. But as Alistair steps closer, the lantern he carries bathes the painting in bright light.
It’s completed now, the cottage a warm brown and covered in flowers and greenery just the way Mother always wanted it. Sunlight bounces across the scene, shining on two people settled in the tall grass of the meadow.
Their faces are hidden, their backs to us, but it’s clear that the painting depicts a little girl and her mother. They’re leaning close together, their messy brown hair tumbling down their backs.
It’s a happy painting. I wish it were real.
“Is this…” Alistair doesn’t look away from the mural as he speaks. “Is this you and your mother?”
“Yes,” I reply slowly, unsure what he will think about me putting paint on his walls without asking. “I know that I didn’t ask you if it was okay, but Milly told me I could. And you have to admit that this place could use some brightening up—”
“Will you do more?”
I freeze, blinking at him. “What?”
“Do you plan to paint more?” he asks, his expression inscrutable as he continues to stare at the wall.
“Is that a problem?”
He doesn’t say anything at first, and I wait for him to light into me about taking liberties with his home. But the words never come.
“You have talent, Stella,” he whispers, still not looking at me. “I’m glad you used it here.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already walking away, disappearing into the shadows.