Embers (Blaze Series Book 3) (9 page)

The wolf growls, a low, dangerous sound,
full of hunger and rage. All the strength drains from my body, and my throat
closes too tightly for me to scream for help.

The wolf’s coat is ragged, a mottled gray
and black, skin slack against sharp ribs. Spittle drips in long strands from
its jaws, steaming when it hits the snow. The wolf’s yellow eyes are locked on
mine and its tail is down, low and tense. Its growl is a sneer, exposing
jagged, rotting yellow teeth.

It moves closer—slowly, deliberately, but
even with terror gripping me, I manage to match its movements, taking tiny,
petrified steps backward. The crisp white snow crunches beneath my feet, but I
don’t dare take my eyes off the wolf. The moment I do, it will spring, I know.
That red jaw will close around my throat.

My heart pounds.

A feathery plume of steam streams from the
wolf’s jaws as it breathes. Its pink tongue hangs out, and for a moment I
wonder just how scarlet my blood will be, spilling out across the snow as the
wolf rips me to shreds.

I gasp when I bump into something hard and
unyielding behind me. There’s an awful, painful pulling at my head when I try
to move, and I realize the rough winter bark of the huge oak tree I was just
walking next to, has caught some of my long black hair.

The wolf growls again.

I don’t want to die
.

The realization catches me by surprise. It’s
a thread of steel cutting through the thick fog of panic I’m floundering in,
and a trickle of strength seeps back through my body.

I don’t want to die.

Slowly, I bend my knees and inch closer to
the ground. The wolf is silent, and that’s almost scarier than its growl.
There’s a dead branch, slick with ice, by my foot. A feeble weapon against the
wolf’s sharp teeth, but I won’t go down without a fight. The wolf’s hungry,
wild eyes follow my every movement. Its body stiffens; its tail lashes
furiously. I freeze, the blood drumming in my temples, before gradually
standing up again, gripping the dead stick.

Please,
I
think.
I don’t want to die out here.

I let out a long, unsteady breath. The wolf
settles back on its haunches, ready to spring. Suddenly, I’m calm. My only hope
is to get in one good blow when it comes for me. Maybe then it will seek easier
prey.

If it knocks me over, I’m dead.

It’s as though the wolf can hear my thoughts
and it uncoils and launches itself at me. Fear overtakes me and I drop the
branch, shielding my face with my hands as though that might somehow offer some
protection.

Fool! Fool!
I
open my mouth to scream, finally, as the wolf leaps toward me, slavering, its teeth
coming straight for my neck—

“Back!” a voice shouts, and suddenly a man
is there, battering the wolf aside with his steel shield. The force of the blow
is like a hammer, and it slams the wolf to the ground. The wolf howls in pain
and outrage, thrashing in the snow until it can finally get back to its feet,
now looking more pitiful than anything else.

Cold steel shines in my rescuer’s hand,
gleaming in the hard winter light, like the sun reflecting off the packed snow.

“Come on!” he yells, and stamps a heavy boot
into the ground. He beats his sword against his shield and the sound rings out
as clear and strong as a silver morning bell. The wolf shoots one terrified
glance at him and bolts back into the safety of the trees, its paws churning up
the snow behind it as it disappears into the endless snowy lines of
bare-branched brown elms.

My breath comes back with the force of a
hurricane. I slump against the tree, landing on the hard ground with a thud
that reverberates through my whole body. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.

I stare at him, seeing him properly for the
first time, and all I can think is,
this is the most beautiful man I’ve ever
seen in my life.

He’s wearing some kind of uniform, a long,
forest-green coat, a white shirt, and black breeches. The uniform clings to his
lean, muscular frame, and I can how broad his shoulders and chest are. His
heavy black boots flatten the snow as he walks closer to me, his eyes searching
the woods for any further threats.

A golden sunburst stands out on his shield,
behind it a blue so deep it looks like the depths of the sea. I’ve seen the
symbol before but I can’t remember where. It gleams in stark contrast to the
white and gray and faded brown of the frozen forest.

His hair is dark blond, cut much longer than
fashionable. A day’s worth of stubble shades his jaw, reaching up to the high,
sharp lines of his cheekbones. He stands head and shoulders and then some above
me . . . or he would, if I was standing.

But it’s his eyes that catch me. They’re the
deep green of the spring forest, and they sparkle with fierce life.

He stands over me, concern furrowing his
brow.

“Can you stand?” He reaches one hand out. I
take it, hesitating, and feel the warmth and strength of his grip. He lifts me
easily to my feet.

I stare at him. I can’t think of a single
thing to say. He raises an eyebrow.

“Wolf got your tongue?” he asks. His face is
serious, but only for a second before he grins. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

I blink.

“I . . . I have to thank you,” I manage to
say. “You saved my life.”

He sheathes his sword where it hangs easily
by his side, like he’s used to drawing it at a moment’s notice. “Indeed I did.”
He stretches, as though saving me from the wolf was just his warm up for the
rest of his day. “I try to do one gallant thing before breakfast every day. It’s
good for the appetite.”

“I see,” I say slowly. As far as I know,
it’s customary for soldiers and heroes to be humble in their accomplishments,
not effortlessly arrogant. But my head is still swimming, my senses running
hard and fast. Part of me can’t believe I’m safe, and nervous energy squirrels
through me, making me shiver.

“And it’s nice to just have done someone a
service,” he continues, as though serving is not something he’s done every day
of his life as a soldier. “I’ll do you another and let you know it’s foolish
for a serving girl to be out in the woods alone.” He eyes the simple gray dress
and coat I’m wearing, what I always wear when I go out walking. While my
stepmother likes to admonish for it and declare that any other princess would
wear proper attire, at all times, I can’t stand the thought of wearing the
tight formal gowns on my walks.

“There is a guard close by,” I say, slowly.
“But he stopped to eat. I got sick of waiting and just wandered off a little.
The wolf caught me by surprise.”

“Foolish,” he says again, and suddenly he’s
standing close to me. All the easy laughter is gone from him, and suddenly his
face is hard. His emerald eyes are cold. My breath halts. Have I escaped one
danger only to fall into the hands of another?

His lips are close to my ear and if he moved
a fraction closer, his body would be pressing against mine.

“And dangerous,” he whispers. I shiver at
the feel of his breath against my neck, a soft breeze on my skin. “Anyone could
be out here.”

But then he leans back on his heels, and
gives a tiny bow, something he is clearly not used to doing. 

“Luckily for you,” he says, “you have me to
keep you safe. Allow me to introduce myself. Captain Alexander Farrell, of the
personal guard of Prince Sebastian of the Summer Islands.”

The way he stands, the commanding lines of
his posture, the easy set of his shoulders . . . of course this man is a
soldier. I’ve seen his type all my life, coming and going from the castle, full
of themselves and their own reputations. And no matter how much they might
laugh and joke, their hands are always near their blades.

He looks at me, waiting for me to speak.

Does he think I should I tell him how
impressed I am?
That isn’t going to happen. My
gratitude gives way as annoyance blooms in my stomach.

“And you are . . ?” he prompts.

“You were right the first time,” I say. “I
am . . .”

A name, any name, think of a name!

“I am Ruth,” I say, and give him a curtsy as
small as his bow. “I am a serving girl, for the Princess Snow White.”

He stands up straight at that.

“Princess Snow White,” he says, and grins.
His teeth are white and straight, and when he smiles, his lips raise at one
corner first. “Then this has already been its own reward. I rode a week ahead
of my men in order to be the first to catch a glimpse of her before the
Tournament of Princes begins. Is it true,” he asks, lowering his voice, “that
she is as beautiful as people say?”

Something stirs in my stomach, and with a
shock, I realize: I’m jealous. But there’s another feeling there: satisfaction.

“I cannot judge myself,” I say carefully,
“I’ve known her so long that her face is as familiar as my own. But she will be
flattered to hear that this is how she’s spoken of.”

He is just trying to earn praise,
I think, disappointed.
I’m no one’s idea of beautiful.

There’s a pause. His attention has drifted;
he’s looking at something just over my shoulder.

Soft white flakes of snow are falling. Puffy
gray clouds have moved in, blocking out the sun and obliterating the blue sky.
He reaches out and brushes something from my hair. A snowflake.

“She must be beautiful indeed,” he says
softly, “if people speak of her, and not of you.”

Blood rushes to my face. I stare at the
ground.

“Where are you?” comes a shout from somewhere
behind me. Ralf, the fat, slovenly guard sent to watch over me in the mornings,
has finally worked out I’m not where he left me.

If he calls out my name, Alexander will
know I lied.

“Thank you again,” I say, the words running
together in my haste. “I owe you my life. And I have no way to repay you.”

Without knowing what I’m doing, I dart
forward and kiss him softly on the cheek, my lips lingering for a second longer
than they should. I’ve never even come close to do something like this with a man
before, but something about it feels right. More than right.

For an instant he looks stunned, but then he
recovers. The arrogant laugh is back in his eyes.

“I’ll think of something,” he says, grinning
that crooked grin again. “I’ll tell you what it is the next time I see you
walking out here.”

I blush again, and turn to hide my face. I
make my way to where I last saw Ralf, picking my way carefully through the
brush, unable to contain the smile that is spreading across my face.

I hope you do see me again,
I think.
I truly do.

Erika Chase is an avid
traveler, decent baker, and expert garage sale shopper. She lives in San
Francisco with her pet cat who chooses to remain nameless on the internet.

Blaze
is her first series of erotic novels.

Erika Chase on Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/authorerikachase

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