Chapter 56
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
VALERIAN
The servants drag me away from Rosie and down the hallway. I could easily shove them off and go back to her. I could slam them into the wall for pulling me away.
But this isn’t about what I want. This is her life. Her plan. Her future.
I’m leaving soon. They tell me they are preparing a hot bath for me, and fuck, that sounds great.
A bath, warm food, and a bed to sleep in sound like a dream.
I may be a werewolf and used to sleeping rough, but that’s mostly for when I am in wolf form.
My home has all the comforts, and I appreciate a soft mattress as much as the next man.
So I let them. I’ll find her later. Her scent is a golden thread winding through the manor, a sweet caramel thread, enticing and heady.
Headier than the cherry liquor offered to me on a silver tray, in a silver goblet, as I sink into the hot water of the bath.
They can’t know silver stings, since they don’t know I’m a werewolf.
No matter. I’m used to handling the metal.
After all, I made a choice to insert silver into my earlobe, my tongue and my cock.
The warmth seeping into my chilled flesh isn’t as pleasant as the warmth of having her curled up against me.
Nothing will ever feel as good as her. I know it in my fucking bones.
I drink my liquor to drown the pain and sink deeper into the water. I’m surrounded by comfort and luxury, and I couldn’t care less for it. It’s all a lie, and I’m not only talking about who I am pretending to be. A noble light fae. Not a dark fae. Not a shifter.
It’s time I sent a message to my own people. See if anyone is nearby to give me news of home. And then… then go. Leave.
The goblet falls from my hand as my claws grow and my jaw aches as it shifts. I hold onto the rim of the tub, struggling to stop myself from going to her.
Remember, she asked you to let go. Not to call her pet names. To be happy for her.
Be happy for her, you bastard, I tell myself. You have to be happy for her. This is what she wants. You have to respect that.
Respect it? Yes. I don’t have to like it, though. I don’t have to respect that… person she’s about to marry. That asshole. I was jealous of him, but now I’m furious.
What does he have that I don’t? What does my nature matter? Wouldn’t I have given her everything she wanted?
Fuck.
I splash my face with the hot water and take calming breaths, waiting as the shift slowly recedes. I run my fingers through my wet hair and tug.
Time to make myself presentable. If that’s what it takes to be near her, then that’s what I’ll do. Clean and dressed, cautious and talking little, I’ll pretend to be a hunter who happened upon her and brought her here.
Not a man whose heart is about to be broken to a million fucking pieces.
A manservant brings me clothes, laying them out on the bed for me to choose. Apparently, they are cast-offs of the lord of the manor, and I grit my teeth at the thought of wearing anything that belonged to him.
Needs must, though. He’s shorter and narrower than me and I struggle to get into his pants and shirts. The servant realizes the issue and goes to find something larger.
I’m left once more out of patience, struggling with my temper, having to remind myself that none of this is the servant’s fault. It’s nobody’s fault but mine for getting involved. For letting feelings develop.
That wasn’t the plan.
The servant returns with other cast-offs, and I don’t ask to whom they belong, glad not to have to wear the bastard lord’s garments.
These are a bit too large, but that’s fixable with a belt and some tucking in.
Pants, shirt, vest. I also get undergarments, stockings, boots, and what the servant calls a foulard, a long stretch of fabric I’m supposed to wrap around my neck and tie in a knot.
Fuck that. Fuck the vest, too. I pace the opulent room, my hands in fists, muttering under my breath, the servant looking on.
“Do you need anything else, my lord?” he eventually asks.
“I’m fine. Thank you… What’s your name?”
He blinks and stammers, “Leam.” I wonder if anybody in this manor has ever bothered to find out his name.
“A pleasure to meet you, Leam. Will there be a supper downstairs?”
“Yes, my lord. Lord Eorl has guests for tonight’s banquet and I’m sure he’ll be introducing his betrothed to them.”
Right.
“I’ll come up and inform you when it’s about to start, if you wish,” he offers.
“That won’t be necessary.”
He bows. “Yes, my lord.”
I watch him go, my hands clasped behind my back. I plan on exploring the manor and its grounds, scenting out the place… and its surroundings.
Almost time for me to take my leave.
The manor is an easy survey. We’ve already checked its upper floors, so what is left for me to do is find the kitchens, pantries and laundries, the storage rooms, and the servants’ quarters.
Just knowing the place helps with my peace of mind, which is always ready for an attack or other disaster.
Funny how my mind works similarly to Rosie’s. Losing my mother has left a scar I rarely touch, but which has left me always vigilant. Living in the mountains makes it all the more imperative to be aware of your surroundings and potential hazards.
I’m just more vigilant than most of the werewolves I know.
Next up is the garden and backyard of the manor. I stroll through the grounds, nodding at the workers who watch me blankly, not realizing I’m the same man they may have noticed earlier today entering the manor barefoot, bare-chested and filthy.
Funny what a bath and clean clothes can do. How a facade can disguise the monster behind it.
I explore the stables, the pens, the vegetable patches and the orchards, my mind never there; always on her. On what she must be doing and wearing. Who she must be with.
Fuck, I miss her already. I miss her as if she were cut out of my chest, out of my head, a part of me. I feel I’m a widower without ever having married, without my mate having died. It’s the weirdest, most unsettling feeling.
I exit through the gate as more carriages roll in. More guests for the banquet. I stroll around the manor’s perimeter walls, crouching down from time to time to sniff any trace of scent on the ground.
Wolves. Werewolves. Yes, there is a fresh scent, and I narrow my eyes at the fields and groves. Then, making a decision, I walk over to the nearest grove, whip out my dick and piss on a tree. Then, letting my hands shift, I leave a long scratch on the trunk, for good measure.
There. My signature. If my people are here, that will tell them I’m looking for them.
That done, I return to the manor. Slowly, taking my time, I enter the house. In the great hall, long tables have been set, and I get a memory flash from her home when I was brought in, trapped inside a cage, bound and gagged.
And there she is. Rosamund. My princess. Queen of my heart.
I never knew I’d become a blithering idiot for love. Never knew I’d find my fated mate in a human girl.
I stop in my tracks and watch her hungrily, as if I haven’t seen her in days or weeks.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. She’s wearing a long, blue gown that makes her eyes sparkle, and her dark hair is swept up, revealing the elegant curve of her neck.
She has sparkling gold and gems dripping from her ears and down her cleavage.
She’s like a marvelous dream, though… I’ve seen her naked, and no garment or jewel can do her bare body justice.
Never has she been more beautiful than when she was traipsing through the country with me, dirty and disheveled, laughing and joking with me.
She spots me, and a smile spreads on her lips. I smile back, like the smitten idiot that I am.
And then her future husband, her betrothed, appears at her side, scowling at me and everyone.
I have to pretend not to hate him. Pretend is the operative word here.
Fine, I tell myself. If you can’t be happy for her, then pretend. Fake it. You owe her that. And then get out of here. The sooner the better.