Beauty’s Beast(34)
Author: Amanda Ashley

A sharp crack of thunder ended her indecision. She lifted the latch and the door swung open. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

When there was no answer, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

It was cold inside the house, too, but at least it was dry. There was a thick woolen blanket draped over the back of a settee and she drew it around her, grateful for its warmth.

It was a large, square room. The fireplace looked big enough to roast an ox; the mantel was higher than her head. The furniture was large and sturdy, built for a man’s comfort. A bookshelf was set against one wall. There were several low tables. A rack of antlers hung above the fireplace.

Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she went exploring. A quick glance showed that the kitchen was little more than a stove, a table, and two chairs. Turning away from the door, she walked down a short hall. A large bedroom took up most of the back of the house. A huge, rough-hewn bed dominated the room. A large armoire stood against one wall. An intricately carved chest with a domed lid rested at the foot of the bed. She took a step into the room, then drew back as she heard a crunching sound. Looking down, she saw the shattered pieces of a large mirror scattered on the floor. Frowning, she backed out of the room. There was a smaller bedroom next to the first, furnished with only a narrow bed, a three-drawer oak chest, and a commode.

Returning to the front of the house, she looked longingly at the hearth, wishing she had a way to start a fire.

Wrapped in the blanket, she sat down on the settee and closed her eyes. She would just sit here until the storm passed, and then she would go home. . .. Home.

It would never be home without Erik.

He smelled her the moment he stepped into the lodge. Her scent filled his nostrils, seemed to permeate every fiber of his being. For a moment, he forgot the pain that engulfed him, forgot everything but the fact that she was there, within reach.

And then he looked down at his hand that was no longer a hand, at the bloody bits of hair beneath the thick black claws, and a long, shuddering sigh rippled through him.

He could not go to her, could not let her see him. If he was lucky, he would bleed to death.

But surely he could risk a look. Just one look. He knew she was asleep, though he didn’t know how he had come by that knowledge.

Padding quietly across the kitchen floor, he made his way into the lodge’s main room and peered over the back of the settee. And she was there, sleeping soundly, her head pillowed on her hand.

His gaze slid over her. She was as beautiful as he remembered, her skin soft and smooth, her cheeks rosy, her lips pink and inviting. He yearned to touch her, to taste her, but he dared not.

Slowly, he backed out of the room and left the lodge. Outside, he drew in a deep breath. The cold air stung his wounds. He stared at the long claw marks that ran down his arms, at the bites across his chest and legs and shoulders. Blood continued to ooze from the deepest gashes. He had a sudden, overpowering urge to lick his wounds.

The idea should have been repulsive, and yet it wasn’t. It was what animals did, after all, and wasn’t that was he was now? A beast?

Even the wolves thought so. Earlier, driven once more by the same urge that had compelled him to run naked through the night, he had shed his clothing and gone running through the darkness. He had felt the cool, damp earth beneath his feet. A thousand different odors had assailed his nostrils, but it had been the scent of blood that had drawn him into the woods.

He had come upon the wolves deep in the forest. He had recognized them as the same ones he had seen near Hawksbridge Castle. They had been wary of him then. But not now. They walked toward him, stiff-legged, teeth bared. He had never known a wolf to attack a man. Too late, he realized they no longer perceived him as a man to be feared, but a rival, a threat to their kill.

They had circled him, moving in closer, closer. Fear had chilled his spine. And then there was no time for fear. The larger female had darted forward, her fangs sinking deep into his forearm. Erik had growled low in his throat, then turned to ward off the male’s attack.

He looked down at the bits of bloody fur beneath his nails, remembered the taste of blood in his mouth. He had fought them as if he was one of them, growling and snapping, until one of the wolves bit deep into his right arm. Only then did sanity return, and with it the instinct to survive. Rising to his full height, he had yelled at the wolves.

Startled, they had backed away from him, then turned and ran back into the woods, disappearing into the shadows.

Overcome with weariness, Erik sank down on the ground, his wounds throbbing with every breath. He was cold, sick to his stomach. And he was thirsty, so thirsty. He licked his lips, desperate for a glass of water to ease his thirst, to wash the coppery taste of blood from his mouth.

He sat there for a long moment, trying to ignore his thirst, but it was impossible.

Gaining his feet, he returned to the house and poured himself a cup of water from the jug sitting on the table in the kitchen. The water was cold and sweet and he drank deeply, easing his thirst.

And then, hearing her footsteps, he froze.

“Erik?”

“Stay where you are!”

He heard the breath catch in her throat as she paused, then took another step. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Do not come any closer.”

“All right.”

He could sense her standing just beyond the door, waiting, wondering what was wrong. “What are you doing here?”

“I went riding and I got lost. What are you doing here? What is this place?”

“A place where you’re not wanted.” He spoke bluntly, wanting to hurt her. “Go back the way you came. When you reach the stream, follow it eastward. It will lead you back to the castle.”

“You want me to leave? Now?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s dark outside.”

“In the morning, then.”

“Why, Erik? What have I done?”

“Nothing. You’ve done nothing.” He took a deep breath. “I want you gone in the morning.”

He heard the sharp intake of her breath, knew she was trying not to cry. “When are you coming home?”

He clenched his right hand. She sounded so young, so uncertain. So unhappy. Was it possible she had been missing him?

“Erik?”

“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes and wished for things that could never be. Wished he had two good hands to hold her close, wished he dared take her in his arms just once more. Wished he could lay his head in her lap and feel her hands moving over him. He needed the touch of her hand, needed the comfort only she could give. He was alone, so alone. And so afraid. The fear was a constant sickness in his gut; fear of what he was becoming, of what he was losing.