Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
Bishop doesn’t say a word after that. He doesn’t need to. His face may be blank, but his rage is a palpable thing, whipping around the room like an energy bolt.
“Think on it,” Hamish says before we leave, and when he smirks, I fear I’ll need a binding spell to hold Bishop back. Which proves, I suppose, that I am still getting to know my husband.
Bishop only walks out, guiding me with him. Behind us, Julius murmurs something to Edwin, and then Edwin says, “Of course. The northern forest will be empty. Follow the path from the granary.”
We walk straight outside with Rufus and Julius behind, Bishop heading for that path. Julius must have been asking for a place where we could be alone, maybe a forest for Bishop to run in.
We reach the path, and Julius murmurs he’ll patrol with Rufus to make sure none of the Caledonians get close enough to overhear us. He says it to me. Bishop is beyond hearing, lost in swirling rage.
Bishop and I continue on, and we’ve gone about a hundred paces when he stops and turns, blinking as if I materialized there, as if his hand isn’t holding mine so tight my fingers ache.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.
I look pointedly at where his hand is clamped around mine, and he stares down for several heartbeats, but doesn’t let go.
“Bishop?” I say.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, and he’s holding himself very still as that roiling rage swirls from him.
“If you want to be alone, I’ll join Julius and Rufus,” I say.
“You should,” he says, and doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Bishop…?”
“I can’t hold it together much longer,” he says. “You should go.”
“Because you might hurt me?”
He finally drops my hand, stepping back. “Never.”
“I know,” I say gently. “If I thought you were someone who could lash out at me in rage, I wouldn’t be with you. Are you afraid I’ll see you get angry?”
“Not just angry.”
“Lose control.” I step back. “If you really don’t want me here, I’ll leave, but I think maybe you need me to see this.”
He only takes deep breaths, his eyes fever bright now.
“Let me see how bad it gets,” I say. “You’re afraid of being—or becoming—like your grandfather. Go ahead. Show me. What Hamish asked for is demeaning and—”
Bishop spins, slamming his fist into the nearest tree, a sapling that snaps under the force. Then he hits a sturdier one, and I wince, imagining the pain shooting down his arm, but I don’t say a word.
“He insulted me,” he says. “He insulted you, and I had to sit there and take it.”
Another slam, splinters and blood flying, and then he wheels to me. “I hate that I had to take it on your behalf. That isn’t right.”
“It was for the Pack.”
“And it still didn’t matter!” Spittle flies, and his face pulses. He pulls back to rub his hands over it, and I notice his hands are pulsing, too, dark hairs poking through, as if he’s starting to transform.
He pulls his hands down and shakes them, droplets of blood flying from skinned knuckles.
“It didn’t matter,” he says. “That’s the worst of it, Delia. I thought I was being steadfast, when I was being a fucking doormat for him to wipe his fucking feet on. He—”
Deep breaths, as his face keeps pulsing, the bone structure seeming to shift. I should be fascinated. Maybe horrified. But all I can feel is his pain. His outrage and fury and pain.
“I am not his lackey,” he says. “Not his supplicant. Not his bootlicking toady. I am Alpha of the Albion Pack.”
“Yes.”
He steps toward me. “He disrespected us. You and me and the Albion Pack.”
“But mostly you.”
He pulls back, rubbing his face again and leaving bloody smears. “That’s not…” He trails off.
“Not what you want to focus on,” I say softly. “You want to deflect and say it doesn’t matter how he treated you. But it does, and you’re allowed to be furious on your own behalf, Bishop.”
“That’s…” He shakes his head.
I move forward and take his bloodied hands, whispering a quick healing spell to soothe them before I say, “Do you think it’s selfish? It’s not. You are angry—furious—because he disrespected you, and that’s all right.”
“I won’t kill for him. I’m not—” He swallows hard. “I’m not my grandfather, Delia.”
“You’re really not.”
“I will kill for my Pack. But I won’t do it on another man’s orders. I don’t care if Hamish is Alpha of the most powerful Pack in the country. I am not…” Deep breaths, the rage rising again. “I am not his tool to be wielded.”
“You are not.”
“Three sons. Two enforcers. A massive Pack. And yet he orders me to do this?”
“It’s disrespectful.”
“He’s seeing how far he can push me. He’d say he’s testing my strength, but he’s really testing my weakness, my desperation. And the way he did it? Pretending to give me what I wanted and then slapping a price on it?”
The rage pulses through him, his skin pulsing. I’m still holding his forearms, and I can feel the muscles moving under my fingers, but I don’t let go.
“He was mocking me, Delia, and I wanted to … I wanted to…” He clenches his fists, and his whole body pulses with barely contained transformation.
“But you didn’t,” I whisper.
“Maybe I should have.”
“No, but you know that. You did the right thing, the hard thing, and I’m sorry you had to.
” I move my fingers down to hold his hands, the skin there rough, hairs poking through, his fingernails thickening.
“Before we went into that room, you asked me what I needed. Now I’m asking you. What do you need, Bishop?”
He takes deep breaths.
“To transform?” I say. “To run? To hunt?”
The tip of his tongue runs along his upper teeth, and the look he gives me makes my own skin prickle, desire surging.
“To hunt?” I say.
Deep breaths.
“But not to transform?” I say.
His gaze goes to mine. “Not to transform.”
“You want to play?” I say. “Chase me. Hunt me.”
His tongue flicks out again, eyes burning with lust. “I shouldn’t.”
I glance around. “Because Julius or Rufus might hear?”
A low, ragged laugh. “That is not my concern, but if it is yours…”
I consider only for a moment. I already know from being at Trevelyan that werewolves are much more open with such things. Does it bother me?
“Not if it’s only them,” I say finally. “The Caledonians would be another matter, but Julius and Rufus are keeping them out of earshot.”
“They are. My objection wasn’t a lack of privacy. It’s that chasing you, hunting you … might not be safe.”
“Would you hurt me?”
“Never.”
“Then why isn’t it safe? Have you done it before?”
“With someone else?” A shudder of revulsion. “Never.”
“So how do you know it’s not safe?”
“Because if I catch you…”
“If you catch me…?” I step forward and run my finger down his shirtfront. “Please tell me that if you catch me, I’ll no longer be a virgin. Finally.”
A ragged chuckle. “You will not.”
I smile and release his hand as I take a slow step back. He matches me, and I laugh under my breath.
“Then I ask again,” I say. “Do you want to chase me?”
“Very much.”
I step back again, and when he steps forward, I put a hand out to stop him. “This won’t last long if you don’t give me a head start.”
“Oh, I will. But you can’t run in that dress.”
“So what should I do? Take it off?”
Bishop pauses, and then says, “Yes,” before coming back firmer. “Take it off.”
“Is that an order?”
Another pause. Then, “It is.”
“From my Alpha?”
He locks gazes with me. “Yes.”
I reach back for the buttons and undo them one at a time. He stands and watches as I shimmy out of the dress.
“Chilly out here,” I say as I shiver.
A grin that is definitely wolfish. “Then you’d better run fast enough to warm up.”
“Oh, I wasn’t complaining.”
“No?”
I roll my shoulders and inhale the sharp night air. “It isn’t unpleasant. Different. Mild discomfort, which is…” I rub my arms and then look at him. “Interesting.”
“Petticoats off.”
“That will be chilly.”
“If this isn’t what you want, just say so.”
“Or stop complaining?”
A deep chuckle. “The rules are the rules.”
“And the rules of this particular game are that I accept or I do not, and if I accept now, I’ve committed to seeing it through?”
“If you ever want me to stop, you only need to say no.”
I step closer and look into his eyes. “If I want you to stop, I can stop you myself.”
A low laugh. “You think so?”
“I know so. And I’m fine with the rules as you initially seemed to suggest. Accepting now is committing to seeing it through. On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you don’t keep checking with me.” I reach out and untie his cravat. “If I want you to stop, I will stop you. Otherwise, for tonight, presume the way is clear. I’m a witch and a lycan. I can take care of myself.”
I step back and remove my petticoats. Then I look up at him.
“Keep going,” he says.
“How far?”
He meets my gaze. “All of it.”
I do as he says, taking off each layer and letting it fall to the ground.
The night breeze is crisp and cold, but even as I shiver, there’s something delicious in the discomfort.
Something delicious in giving in and doing as he says, handing over the reins for tonight because he needs that and I don’t.
When I’m standing there, naked, his gaze drinks me in, stopping on my breasts, the nipples hard as pebbles.
“You look cold,” he says, his voice rough.
“I am.”
“And magnificent.”
“Thank you,” I say with a curtsy. “Now it’s your turn.”
One brow rises. “To do what?”
“Undress.”
His gaze settles on me, his lips twitching. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m fine.”
“So I’m going to run naked and freezing through the forest, while you pursue, fully dressed, protected from the elements?”
“Yes.” He steps toward me and runs his bare fingers up my side, leaving a trail of warmth that has me sighing in pleasure. “Did you mean what you said earlier?”
“I’ve said a lot of things. I’m sure I meant them all, but you might need to be more specific.”
His hands cup my breasts, the heat of his skin incredible.
“You said you’re mine,” he says. “My mate. My wife. Did you mean that?”
I look up at him. “I did.”
“Then I meant what I said.” He squeezes my nipples, and I hiss in pleasure. “When I catch you, you’ll no longer be a virgin.”
“If you catch me.”
He grins. “When.”
I move closer, so close I can feel the burning heat of his body, the fever of that thwarted transformation lingering.
“If,” I say. “Because you want a chase, a hunt, a real one, not me running a few paces before you take me down. You want to win your prize, and if you do…” I lift up until my lips hover by his. “It’s yours.”
He squeezes my nipples hard enough to make me gasp. “This might not be the mood you want me in.”
“It’s exactly the mood I want you in. A fitting wedding night for a werewolf mate.”
He reaches to pull me to him, but I dance back out of his reach.
His smile grows, and he lunges, snatching me before I can escape, but he only gives me a quick kiss, then lifts me up and turns me around.
When he sets me down, he slaps my rear and says, “You have to the count of fifty. I’ll make it a slow count.
Give me a good hunt.” Another slap. “Now run.”