Page 42 of Wolf's Redemption

Constance had turned away. She knew about his kind? She knew something, but now was not the time to question her. Not with Godfrey and Lance somewhere out there, searching for him.

He dropped the sack and the wineskin and stepped out into the storm, leaving Rebekah in the witch’s care. He unbuckled his sword, stripped off his sodden clothing, and allowed the change to flow through him. On all fours, insulated against the cold and wet by sandy-colored fur, he disappeared into the forest. He hadnot escaped the keep and come this far to be brought down by his brothers.

* * * *

The cold wind and the relentless rain made his old injuries ache, but the one-eyed wolf kept still as the sandy wolf slunk off into the sodden forest. The sense that he knew this wolf, had known him, settled in his bones. Perhaps when he had lived as a man. When he had had a family and had lived in a stone keep. When he had had a brother. He shook the feeling off. It was of no consequence to him now.

His gaze shifted to the hut. A woman lived here. Alone. Slight in stature, her long hair twisted about her head in wheat-colored braids and her clothes patched and worn, she drew his attention away from the wolf. Had he known her before, too? He did not think so, and yet she drew him in a way that suggested he had.

Before she had closed the door, she had turned and stared out into the storm, scanning the trees where he lay. Her gaze had hovered over him. He had feared she had seen him. And yet he had wanted her to see him. Strange.

He resisted the urge to slink closer, to scent her. He had not come here for her. Nor for the big sandy wolf. He had lost his quarry in the storm, only to come across the sandy wolf and his woman by chance. He had followed them in the hopes he may reclaim the trail of his nemesis.

With the image of the woman in the hut haunting his thoughts, he slipped away into the forest. Avoiding the path of the sandy wolf, he continued his search. He would have his answers, and then he would have his vengeance.

Chapter Twenty

Bek lay curled into a ball, wet, cold and more miserable than the day the judge had sentenced her to twelve months in Bronzefield prison. The woolen dress clung to her, saturated and weighty. Her boots were a muddy mess and her feet were like two blocks of ice. She was so cold she couldn’t move, though the warmth of the fire beckoned.

The woman spoke to her, words in French, gesturing to her wet dress, the fire and a pile of dry clothes. Bek nodded, her teeth clacking together, and let the woman help her peel off her wet garments and hang them up to dry, as Bek slipped into the dress provided. The woman, Constance she’d said her name was, eyed Bek’s knickers and bra with curiosity, but said nothing as she draped them over a seat by the fire.

Constance handed her a mug, steam rising above the lip, and Bek gratefully wrapped her hands around it. She took a sip. Ginger. She took another sip and warmth spread through her chest and down to her stomach.

“Thank you. For helping us.” Bek dredged up long-forgotten French words, hoping the basics hadn’t changed too much over the centuries. “Merci beaucoup.”

Unlike the villagers who’d turned their backs on her, this woman had taken them in. Would she evict them, force them back out into the storm if she knew Ulrik was a fugitive from the local count?

The woman’s two different colored eyes—one blue, one green—regarded her. Did she live all the way out here on her own?Had people shunned her, as the villagers had shunned Bek? Because she was a little different? Because she was born with a peculiar genetic feature? Or was there another reason for her isolation?

A woman in the woods, Ulrik had said, and he’d paused and Bek had wondered then, as they’d sat watching the hare carcasses cook over the fire, if she was a previous lover. What if… Her mind raced. What if he’d been going to say thewitchin the woods?

Bek’s narrowed gaze swept around the hut. The drying herbs, the bowls of powders, leaves and things she couldn’t name and the cluster of colored rocks and crystals. The only thing missing was a Book of Shadows, a grimoire. And maybe a broomstick. Perhaps this woman was the last person who would turn them away.

Constance beckoned her to a seat by the fire, beside her drying undergarments. Bek dropped her saturated boots at her feet and sat, warming her frozen toes and sipping her ginger tea. Whatever Constance’s reasons for taking them in, Bek was grateful. She hoped they could stay here for a little while. At least until she could thaw out and the storm had blown over.

The door swung open and a gust of wind swept in, buffeting the fire, before a bedraggled Ulrik closed the door behind him. He stood, dripping water, with several dead hares in one hand and his muddy boots in the other. Constance accepted the hares, and they exchanged a few words, too fast for Rebekah to catch any butmerci.A few long strides took him to a pile of clothing Constance pointed at. More French. Whatever he’d said, Constance was pleased. He’d probably offered to hunt for her again.

Serving drinks in a dingy, noisy bar, Bek had learned pretty quick how to read people. It had served her well more times thanshe could count. With the language barrier, the skill would come in handy.

Constance arranged the hares on the table and grabbed a large cleaver. She raised it up and brought it down with a loud thunk, chopping off a hare’s head. Bek jumped and nearly spilled her ginger tea. She looked away from the decapitated hare, her gaze sliding over Constance’s shoulder to Ulrik. He’d turned his back to them and was peeling off his sopping shirt. It hit the floor with a wet plop.

The cleaver descended again.Thunk. Bek flinched, drawn back to the macabre scene unfolding on the table. Constance had removed the hare’s front paws. Another chop and the back paws were off, too. Bek grimaced. It’d fascinated her when Ulrik had done this, watching his long fingers and those competent hands of his prep the hare, but now it made her a little queasy.

Her gaze lifted to Ulrik again. Muscles played across his naked shoulders as he dried his chest with a cloth. Broad shoulders that tapered down to lean hips. What would it be like to rake her fingernails across them? Or run her tongue down his spine. Would he arch his back? Would he growl?

The clunk of the cleaver against the table as Constance set it aside snapped Bek out of her smutty thoughts and drew her attention back to the hares. Now Constance held a wicked-sharp knife. With deft hands, she cut several slits in the skin. Then, gripping the fur tight in her fist, she stripped it away from the flesh. Behind Constance, Ulrik rubbed the cloth over his hair before dropping it at his feet.

The hare pelt set aside, Constance made a hole in the hare’s stomach and slid the knife along its belly. Ulrik reached for his trousers. Constance gently eased out the slippery entrails. Ulrik peeled his trousers down.

Bek stared at the twin globes of Ulrik’s bare ass, Constance and her hare preparation forgotten. The man had taut buns.You could bounce a penny off those things. And, God Almighty, wouldn’t she love to get her hands on them?

He bent over to slide his trousers off his feet, treating Bek to a prime view of his heavy ball sack and the bulbous head of his cock. She bit her bottom lip, holding back her hum of approval. The sounds of Constance skinning and gutting hares continued—the thunk of the cleaver, the snick of the knife, the squelch of entrails being removed—but Bek only had eyes for Ulrik. She clenched her thighs, conscious she no longer wore her knickers.

Another hard chop. Another hare lost its head, and Ulrik turned around, hands on his lean hips. Bek’s hands gripped her mug of tea so tight she thought it might crack. Her gaze skittered over his muscled abs, following the happy trail of sandy-blond hair down to his groin. Ulrik’s casual nudity shouldn’t surprise her. The man was an exhibitionist at heart. He’d already proved that.

A soft chuckle had her cheeks heating. He raised an eyebrow, amusement and not a little heat dancing in his eyes. He dropped his hands from his hips and held them palm up, inviting her appraisal, daring her to look. Constance still worked diligently at prepping the hares. If she had any inkling of what was happening behind her, she gave no sign.

Bek met his gaze, refusing to drop it and look her fill. She wanted to. God, how she wanted to, but she refused to give him that satisfaction. She would content herself with her memory from the pond. Of seeing his long fingers stroking… Her breath hitched, and she turned her attention back to Constance and the bloody table with its hare carcasses. Even the sight of the severed heads and the wet pile of entrails couldn’t shake the image of Ulrik with his hand fisted around his cock.

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