Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
ROSAMUND
Panic is a fist wrapped around my chest, crushing me. Seeing Valen entangled with the huge wildcat—he never said how big they get!—is one of the most frightening moments of my life.
That’s it, I think, watching claws flash and blood spraying as they roll into the stream. I’ll lose Valen.
The thought almost breaks me into pieces. His easy loping grace, his capable hands, his easy smiles and wide grins, his eyes roaming over me, so possessive, his rough voice, his protective nature… his gentleness with me.
No, that would be unbearable, I realize in a flash of understanding, knowing that his absence would cost me emotionally, and not just because he’s my bodyguard and protector.
Grabbing fistfuls of pebbles, I start pelting the cat with them. “Over here!” I yell. “Come here, you stupid animal!”
And the cat growls and turns toward me, showing me I’m the stupid one. I’m not a warrior. I’m not equipped to fight wildcats.
But Valen doesn’t let the cat get me. He roars and starts running toward the animal, and it’s such a frightful sight, the cat jerks away and leaves.
With his head almost wolf-like, stiff ears, and his hair turned into gray fur, his elongated jaw and muzzle, with the weird way his legs stand and the claws on his hands, as if he’s about to drop to all fours and bound away after the wildcat…
He’s menacing. Terrifying. Fearsome, which is not the same thing.
I stare at him, and he makes me feel… alive.
Finally alive, after all these years. He’s thrilling, shocking…
intoxicating. I want to run away, and I also want to touch.
I want to hide, and I also want to run my hands over his darkened skin, the fur spreading over his wide shoulders, over the face that’s his and yet isn’t.
He’s my worst nightmare and my brightest hope merging into one.
I start toward him, slowly, hesitant at first, the danger of approaching him a tingle all over my skin, a skip in my heartbeat.
He’s still, watching me, a monstrous figure standing in the shallows of the stream.
His pants are shredded, barely containing his powerful legs, and his roughly-hewn chest heaves with every ragged breath.
The silver-studded collar is still snug around his neck.
I wonder why and how he hasn’t yet torn it off.
I walk right up to him, ignoring the pounding of my heart. He doesn’t move a muscle, only his eyes following me as I approach more and more, until I’m almost touching him. Craning my neck to look up at his face, I draw a lungful of his scent.
Valen. It’s Valen’s scent, even if it’s muskier now and overlaid with a coppery tang. Emboldened by his stillness, I dare place a hand on his arm—
He hisses, and I recoil, stumbling backward. He lifts his clawed hand, then looks down at his arm where a dark substance has spilled.
Blood. Now the coppery smell makes sense. He’s bleeding, which shouldn’t come as a surprise after his wrestle with the wildcat. A deep gash in his upper arm is weeping blood, and it’s seeped through the gray fur.
Black lips curl, all those sharp, long teeth in full display. Now would be a good time to run, I think, not be like the stupid girls in the stories my mother used to read to me, who, instead of fleeing the wolf, got into bed with him.
Getting into bed with Valen. What a thought. It somehow breaks the grip of fear on me, and I realize he’s still not moving. He has let his hand drop back to his side, and he’s just… gazing at me.
Waiting for me to make the next move.
Giving me the reins.
It’s such a punch in the chest, this realization, this trust he’s showing me, that I can’t breathe. He’s begged for my trust while he’s placing himself in my hands. So to speak.
You’re overthinking this, I tell myself. He’s still dangerous, and you’re still way too close.
Yet, instead of walking away, putting more distance between us, I step closer once more and place my hand on his chest. I slide it up, between his chiseled pecs, and feel his stomach tighten even as his heart thuds under my palm.
He seems to be holding his breath.
“Let me take a look at that wound,” I say.
I expect him to tell me off, sneer that I’m not a healer and have no idea about wounds and blood. Hells, I almost fainted at the sight of the dead pig yesterday. I couldn’t blame him if he made fun of me.
But he says nothing and gives a single nod. His eyes are on me, not as wolf-like now, letting that beautiful amber with a green rim and black flecks resurface. As we look at each other, his shift seems to recede, his jaw changing, shortening, the fur reabsorbed into his skin.
Magic has always given me the creeps, the few rare times I’ve seen it performed in front of my eyes.
Mainly by noble fae, friends of my stepfather, who’d think nothing of touching a tree and making it bloom suddenly, or a fruit and having it ripen on the spot so they could indulge themselves and eat it.
It had always seemed like a selfish extravagance, not really useful for anything else except showing off this advantage they have over us.
I mean, I know they use their magic to hasten the harvest and encourage plants to grow and even to heal people. There are many nuances and shades to fae magic. But I never saw dark fae magic before I was taken by the wolves, and it had seemed unholy and destructive.
With Valen… It’s different. It’s neither indulgent nor destructive.
It just… is. It’s something he has little choice over, it seems, and it controls him as much as he controls it.
I pity him a little, but at the same time admire him for accepting his nature, working with it, using the advantages it gives him, and not apologizing for what he is.
I think… I could learn from him. Learn how to be myself. Accept my fears and joys, my weaknesses and strengths. Let myself just be.
Some day.