Page 49 of Beast of Blood and Roses
I pulled the soft blanket tighter around me, cocooning myself in its warmth while I watched Beast’s sleeping form. He must have stayed with me all night, keeping vigil like some protective guardian. The realization made my throat tight with emotion.
When I was sick as a child, I could never remember my dad ever staying with me like this. He’d always treated my illnesses asif I was more of a bother than a concern, tossing me some aspirin and leaving me to fend for myself. No homemade chicken soup or other remedies like the other kids’ parents provided. No cool washcloths on my forehead or gentle words of comfort. I was always on my own, left to suffer through fevers and nightmares in solitude.
Yet here sat this formidable predator, keeping a gentle vigil over me as if I was something precious worth protecting.
There was a soft knock on the door, barely audible in the quiet morning light. I jumped, my heart skipping a beat. “Mademoiselle?” Colette hesitated as she cracked the door open and peered inside my bedroom.
I slowly sat up, my muscles protesting after whatever The Witch’s Heart had put me through, and stretched my arms with a soft groan. “Good morning.”
Beast snorted loudly, and his eyes flew open, immediately alert. His head whipped toward me, scanning for danger. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I winced slightly as I lowered my arms, feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. “I just feel tired.” I studied his worried face, taking in the way his fur stuck up at odd angles and the crease marks from the chair pressed into his cheek. “You stayed here all night?”
“You were drained.” He carefully got out of the chair, moving like an old man as stiffness clearly plagued every joint. His hand went to his lower back with a barely suppressed wince.
Colette glanced between the beast and me, her eyes twinkling with something that might have been knowing amusement. “I didn’t know where you were,monsieur, but I have made breakfast. Are either of you hungry?”
My stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, the soundechoing in the quiet room. Heat flushed my cheeks. “I’m famished.”
Beast held out his claw, his movements careful and deliberate. “Then you should eat. You need to build up your strength.”
I scooted off the bed, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me. I took his offered claw. His grip was warm and reassuring as he pulled me to my feet with gentle care, as if I might shatter.
I still wore the same clothes from yesterday, and they felt heavy and strange against my skin. Suddenly, I desperately wanted to wash away whatever residual magic was clinging to me. I could almost feel it like invisible cobwebs, continuing to sap my energy with every breath.
“I need to take a quick shower.” I ran my hands through my tangled hair, grimacing at how disheveled I must look.
Beast gave me a wary look, his green eyes scanning my face as if he was worried I might collapse right there on the bedroom floor.
I held up my hand before he could protest. “I’ll be fine.” I gave him a pointed once-over, taking in his flour-dusted appearance and wrinkled clothes. “You look like you could use one too.”
He glanced down at his clothes and scowled, brushing at the flour still stubbornly clinging to the fabric. Self-consciousness flickered across his features as he realized how rumpled he appeared. He looked up at Colette, his expression becoming protective and serious. “Stay with her.”
I was about to argue with him, but I was too tired and just wanted to take a shower. If he wanted Colette with me to make sure I didn’t collapse, so be it.
My legs were wobbly as I grabbed some undergarments, ared T-shirt, and a pair of jeans from my dresser, where Colette had neatly arranged all the new clothing. Maybe it was a good idea to have supervision. The Witch’s Heart might not be through with punishing me for trying to force it to reveal more.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fierro
I clutched The Witch’s Heart tightly against my chest as I headed toward my bedroom, the dual-colored stone still warm from Rosalie’s touch. Self-loathing crashed over me in waves as I cursed myself for allowing her to try to use it again. The amulet was too powerful, too unpredictable for someone untrained in its dark magic. If anything had happened to her—if I’d lost her because of my weakness in giving in to her demands—I would never forgive myself.
The flour and dried batter were crusted to my fur like cement, making me look like some pathetic, wet, pissed-off alley cat. Every step sent flakes of the mess drifting to the floor. I snagged another pair of pants and a black shirt from my dresser, my movements stiff and ungraceful.
I turned on the shower, cranking the heat until scalding water filled the bathroom with thick,choking steam. The mirror fogged over immediately, obscuring my reflection; a small mercy I was grateful for.
I cringed as I peeled off my shirt, the fabric catching on matted fur and pulling it out in clumps. Sharp pain lanced through my scalp with each tug, and I clenched my teeth to keep from growling at the discomfort. My protesting muscles screamed with every movement. Sleeping upright in that damned chair had put crimps throughout my entire body. Pain pulsed from my neck down to my lower back with the slightest shift, my spine feeling like it had been twisted into knots.
But it had been worth every agonizing second.
I’d refused to leave Rosalie’s side, not even for a moment. Magic could have adverse effects on people. During the last Supernatural War, I’d seen witches fall into comas that lasted for days, their minds trapped in magical feedback loops. I hadn’t slept for most of the night, instead keeping vigilant watch to make sure she didn’t slip into restless nightmares.
The hot water beckoned, promising relief for my aching body, but even now, part of me wanted to rush back to her room to make sure she was still safe.
As I slipped into the shower, the scalding water hitting my aching muscles like a blessing, my mind drifted back to what The Witch’s Heart had revealed. When I had gone outside to investigate, I’d been looking for signs of one of Trystan’s wolves, scanning the perimeter for paw prints, claw marks, anything that would indicate a shifter had been prowling around the property.
But there had been no signs, no lingering scents of a wolf shifter. They had a distinct smell that was impossible to miss, wild and feral, like wet earth and predatory musk that clung to the air long after they’d gone. A human scent was completelydifferent, softer and more complex, lacking that primal edge that made my hackles rise.
