Wicked Pleasures (11 page)

“Who? What happened Azelda?” Bronte asked.

“In her rage over the death of her father, she
called upon my help. She swore vengeance upon those who took her
father’s life, cursing the clan for one-hundred years.” Azelda
coughed and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Nothing
good results from anger—or comes without a price. The lovely woman
learned the hard way. Her wolf came, but it was too late. The curse
had begun.”

Bronte waited, wanting more knowledge, but nothing.
“Please tell me more, Azelda!”

“The pale-haired lass lives deep within your heart.
You are chosen to conceive because of a promise made,” Azelda said
in a hushed tone. “Understanding will come when you are willing to
accept it.”

An acrid smell pierced her senses as an oozing
sensation floated over her. She tried speaking, but nothing came.
Blackness overcame her.

Chapter 6

“CAN I GET you anything, Mr. Roark?”

Roark lifted his throbbing head. Miss Deveraux stood
in the open doorway to his bedroom. “What’s that?” he asked. He’d
been lost in writing in his journal and hadn’t heard her approach,
which was very unlike him.

“I asked if there’s anything I can get you.”

“No thank you, Miss Deveraux.”

She glanced at Bronte’s sleeping body. “I’ve never
seen one sleep this long under the medicine. Two days.” She shook
her head. “And you sir, you haven’t left her side. You need your
rest too.”

“She’ll be fine, and I’m ok,” he said. “I don’t want
her to wake up and be frightened.”

“You’re a true gentleman.”

“Some would beg to differ, Miss Deveraux.” He heard
her leave but kept his eyes on Bronte. She’d fallen into a deep
sleep at Azelda’s. He’d carried her home in his arms on Seed Demon
and laid her in his bed. He knew the potion that the witch had used
would put Bronte out for a while, at least until her body had time
to recover from the shock. Sometimes remembering history exhausted
the emotions.

He was curious what she remembered. If she was
ready, she’d know everything.

Laying the journal down on his lap, he shifted in
the large leather chair, resting his head back on the cushioned
headrest. He couldn’t seem to remove his gaze from Bronte. She was
lovely and looked peaceful. Her long hair was spread out across the
pillow, and looked like black velvet against the red blanket he’d
covered her with. He half expected her to wake up cursing a string
of four letter words. She was certainly a feisty one, he’d give her
that. She had the soul of a fighter.

Glancing down at the worn book, he’d written in it
almost every day and his heart was heavy. He’d just finished
writing what he’d witnessed at Azelda’s. As he’d watched the witch
cast her magical spell on Bronte, he’d wanted to drag her away from
the shack. The witch couldn’t be trusted, but for now, only she
knew what transpired one-hundred years ago. Roark hoped Bronte
remembered everything, even the answers he didn’t know. She’d only
accept as much as her heart would allow her in such a short time,
and apparently she’d shut down before the entire story could be
told. He wished he could tell her the truth, but she wouldn’t
believe him. If she blocked him out, their future would be
hopeless. He grew weaker each day and he still wasn’t sure if he
could save his family.

He opened the book and flipped through pages until
he came to the entry he wanted.
The curse
. It was written in
his words as told to him by the witch. He was growing sick of the
hex hanging over his head like a dark and deathly cloud. The poison
rushed through his veins, making him frailer with each breath. His
body was failing him.

Something slipped from the pages and fell at his
feet. He picked it up and held the neatly folded letter, yellowed
with time, in his hand. He didn’t need to read it because he’d read
the scrawled writing so many times that he’d memorized every word,
every letter, every pattern of character, like it was etched into
his mind, branded like an incurable disease. He believed he could
still smell
her
scent lingering on the paper.

The rustling of sheets brought his attention to the
bed. He quickly pushed the letter back into the journal and stuck
it in his desk.

Bronte rolled but didn’t open her eyes. He’d hoped
she would come to. Not only was the clock ticking, but he found
that he missed her, which was far more dangerous than the threat of
time.

It irked him knowing that his livelihood, the
livelihood of his heritage, rested in her hands. She wanted no part
of this. In her defense, he guessed she had every right to hate
him. If only she knew the link that bound them…

Maybe he should just take the risk and tell her of
the past. Would she understand then?

Shaking his head, he tore his fingers through his
hair in frustration. She must come to the reality of the situation
on her own, seeing for herself that they were chosen for one
another, to reproduce. He’d waited many years, a lifetime it’d
seemed, for this treasured moment. Now he had to make things right.
He had to plant his seed, a child, before his heritage died because
of his mistake—because of
their
mistake. She was the
one,
he was certain. He ran his hungry gaze over her. Her
hair was darker, her eyes lighter, skin paler and her body
thinner…but it was
her
.

One thing he knew, he’d
never
make the
emotional sacrifice twice.

But was it in his control?

Bronte’s moan pulled his mind from his dreary
thoughts. He stood up and crossed the room to the side of the bed,
sitting at her hip. His heart skipped a beat as her eyes fluttered,
and then her lids flew open. A frantic expression washed over her
face, but when her gaze connected with his, she seemed to
relax—some. She brought her hands up and pressed her fingertips to
her temples. “I have a headache.” Her voice was scruffy.

“I thought you would.” He reached for the glass on
the nightstand and held it out for her.

She sat up and stared at the glass of green liquid,
her pert nose wrinkled. “What the hell is that? And why are you
handing it to me?”

“This is beet root and fresh herbs mixed with a
touch of scotch. And it’s obvious why I’m handing it to you.”

“I’ve made a conscious choice in life to never drink
or eat anything that looks like it’s been regurgitated by a
dog.”

“It’s not that bad,” he said.

“Then you drink it.”

“But I don’t have a headache. And I wasn’t drugged
by an old witch.” He should have known she wouldn’t have lost her
stubborn streak.

Her eyes opened wider and her hands dropped to her
lap. “So it wasn’t a dream?” One corner of her mouth slipped
downward.

He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. However, you’ve
been asleep for two days so I’m sure you’ve had enough time to
dream.” He took her left hand and placed the glass against her
palm. “Trust me, this stuff will work wonders inside of your body,
but spilling it will only attract bugs, creatures and other
non-human beings. It’s a bitch to get it off your skin.”

Her eyes slanted. “Are you being serious?”

“Deadly serious.” He sighed. “And your headache will
last until you cure it. So come now. Drink it like a good
girl.”

She snarled in disapproval, but she didn’t argue
this time and brought the glass to her lips. One long drink and she
pushed it back at him. “I can’t. It’s horrid. Like ass.”

He lifted a brow. “Like ass?”

“It’s an expression.”

“Well, then. Bottom’s up.” He couldn’t keep from
laughing.

She eyed him in irritation. “Not funny.”

“Ahh, not in the slightest?” he asked. She shook her
head. He felt a bit sorry for her. “Alright then. I can’t have the
lady drinking ass.” He pulled open the nightstand drawer and
grabbed a small white bottle. He popped the lid, shook out two
tablets and handed them to her.

She took them. “What are these?”

He read the bottle, “Pain and fever reducer.
Acetaminophen.”

“This will work?” Relief spread over her
features.

“Yes, it will,” he answered. “I guess. I prefer the
green stuff.”

The pills were almost to her mouth when she stopped
mid-air. “Wait. Are you telling me that you were forcing me to
drink that nasty green slime when I can take two pills and it has
the same effect?”

“Not entirely the same effect. The nutrient-packed,
green slime will make you healthier and stronger, as well as
cutting the pain. It’s a natural supplement from the earth
and—”

“Stop right there.” Her jaw angled. “And the part
about spilling it on your skin and being a magnet for creatures?
Was that a lie too?”

He shrugged. “No, that’s not a lie. This is a
delicacy.”

“And how would you know that creatures like this
stuff?”

“Shall we test the theory?”

“I’m not up for testing today. I’ve stepped out of
my normal existence into the twilight zone.” She swallowed the
pills and grabbed the bottle of water from the nightstand. “This is
plain water right?

“Clean, clear water. Another delicacy.”

She downed half of the container in one gulp and
recapped it. “The witch wasn’t a dream. So that means the story, of
the wolf and his lover, is true?” Her mouth dropped. “Wait…you’re
the woman’s lover.”

He nodded. “I’m afraid it’s very true.”

“Where is she?” Wrinkles appeared between her
eyes.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “What did you
see?”

“You…and her. In the woods. Some kind of ritual…the
wolves howling.” A stricken expression took the place of shock. “Oh
no! The woman’s father. He fell from the cliff.” Her eyes
glistened.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“She ran from you. She blamed you…and your family.
And—” She jumped up on her knees so fast that the bottle of water
fell onto the floor. She grabbed the sheets and jerked them to her
chest, as if in protection. “You! You’re a wolf…no…not possible! Or
is it?”

Although fear mangled her features, relief spread
over him. “Very possible.”

“That’s how you read my thoughts, or should I say
sense what I’m thinking. And the sudden disappearing and the
appearing act?” Her hand came up and pressed her forehead.

“The headache back?” She nodded. “Green slime?” She
nodded again. He handed her the glass and while she held her nose,
she downed every sip.

“That was instant relief,” she said.

“Works every time,” he said.

“What’s in it that has the numbing affect?”

“Don’t ask.”

She dropped onto her bottom and leaned against the
headboard. “What does all of this mean, Roark?”

“The woman, Jillian and I, fell in love. Because of
our selfish desires, lives were lost and hearts were broken.” He
stood up and walked to the windowsill, staring out onto the land.
It was calm and serene, for now. A dark cloud blanketed he sky and
a storm brewed. He could feel it in his bones.

“But she said the clan is cursed for one hundred
years and there is a price. I feel there’s much more information
that I’m missing.”

He shrugged. “The mind can only accept so much at
one time. Maybe that’s all that you chose to hear.”

“I wouldn’t have believed Azelda’s story unless I
was there, as if I was transported back into time to the moment
where the woman’s father was killed. My heart broke at the
sight…”

“It was a tragic story.”

“I’m confused, Roark.” He turned and looked at her.
Glad that she was finally realizing the seriousness of their
situation. “What does a story of lost love, wolves, death, have to
do with me? Where do I belong in this?”

“Like I said, in time you’ll understand.”
He
hoped
.

Her groan echoed off the walls. He watched her push
back the covers and once her feet hit the floor, she dropped her
gaze to her nightgown. She brought her chin up and shot invisible
daggers at him. “I hope it was Miss Deveraux who kindly helped me
into this gown.”

He was on the fence. Should he tell her what she
wanted to hear? Or, lie? “I’ve seen a woman’s naked body before.”
He went an entirely different direction.

“How absurd. You’re saying that once you’ve seen one
woman’s body you’ve seen them all.”

“That’s not the case?” He could only imagine where
this was leading.

“I guess coming from an ogre like you, I couldn’t
expect anything more. For your information, I believe that when a
man falls in love with a woman, he finds her body special.
Therefore, not all are the same.”

He processed her words and scratched his head at the
foolishness. “You spoke that bullshit as if you really believe
it.”

“You said yourself you fell in love with this
Jillian and she left you, which is probably why you’re so bitter.
Now, where are my clothes?”

“I think they are…, but wait, you believe I’m
bitter?”

She frowned. “Absolutely.”

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

She folded her arms over her chest. “And what’s that
supposed to mean?”

“In all honesty, you don’t think you’re bitter
too?”

“Hardly. I just like to be alone. What’s wrong with
that?”

“You stay alone so you don’t have to socialize with
people, therefore preventing creating a bond. I’d say that’s
bitter.”

“Well, thank you Dr. Phil for your analysis but I
don’t care what you think. Clothes?”

“But the green slime did make you feel better,
didn’t it? I guess I’m good for something. It’ll give you the
calories you need.”

She placed her fists on hips. “Really? Are you going
to complain about my weight again?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t saying anything about your
weight. I was only suggesting that since you’ve been asleep for two
days your body needs the nutrition.”
She waved him off like he was an irksome fly. “I’m going to my
bedroom and getting clothes.” She stomped toward the door. Before
her hand was on the knob, he was beside her. “Here, allow me.” He
opened it for her.