Heart Of The Wolf (16 page)

Glancing away
from the chair, she caught sight of herself in the dressing table
mirror, and stilled. For a split second, it was another version of
herself, entirely, that stared back – not the Lydia she knew with a
mane of red hair, always tied back messily, freckles that took up
half her face when she didn't wear make-up (which she almost never
did) and eyes, always wide with wonder and curiosity making her
look permanently clueless. This new Lydia looked … regal. Hair
silky and sleek, her freckles looked like a map of some secret
world, and her eyes, more violet than blue, held a steady composure
she was sure she'd never have.

A loud 'thump'
from the wardrobe made her jump.

She looked
towards the sound, then back at the mirror. Oh – there she was.
Frazzled Lydia was back again. The moon must be frying her brain.
Was there a term for that? Moonburn?

Tearing her
eyes away from the mirror –
and what man has a dressing table in
his bedroom anyway?
– she made towards the wardrobe to
investigate the noise. Whatever had fallen, she could at least put
it back so it wouldn't tumble out when Lawrence next needed a
change of clothes.

Prepared to
catch whatever it was, she gently pulled open the door. The item in
question was a leg. Or part of a leg.
So, this is where he keeps
his prosthetics.

Intrigued, she
opened the door fully and spied about ten pairs of 'legs' and bits
and pieces which she assumed went into putting them together,
neatly arranged in some kind of order. There were all sorts of
things, from sleeves that looked like bandages, to rubber looking
tubes, to metal gadgets, to pads and wires. Wires? Maybe for the
bionic legs? Because, yes, each pair of legs, all of them slotted
into a long rack, were different. Some looked metallic and slick,
as if from some futuristic sci-fi movie; some looked liked the ones
she'd seen athletes wear in the Paralympics on the telly, and
others still, looked closer to actual legs.

Wow.

It was amazing
really, what the body and mind could accomplish when it wanted
to.

Her admiration
for him deepened threefold, and she felt it right there in the
centre of her heart. But did he admire himself? Did he love
himself? Could he? The pristine décor of the bedroom, the dressing
table, the impeccable taste in clothes and the surprising warmth on
entering the room indicated that he, at the very least,
wanted
to. And 'want' was the precursor to attaining any
goal. She was in with a shot at helping him heal – she
could
make him happy after all, if they both just tried at it.

In her mind,
her wolf lazed at her feet with a big, lolling-tongue grin on her
face, completely contented.

With a smile,
she put the leg that had fallen out of its rack, back into
place.

It fell
forward again.

And again.

Something must
be stopping it from slotting in place.

She crouched
and reached into the back of the wardrobe, behind the rack, careful
not to dislodge all the other legs from their places. Her hand
grazed the corner of something which wouldn't move backwards, so
she gingerly pulled it out instead.

Lydia took in
a sharp breath as her gaze fell on Elana, young, clear-eyed and
happy, smiling back at her from the framed photograph. She knew it
was her because she'd seen her face every night for the past four
nights. Even if she hadn't, the white-blonde hair and pale blue
eyes – exactly like her brother's, down to the last detail – gave
it away.

Lawrence,
about sixteen years old at a guess, sat next to her in the photo,
an arm wrapped tightly around her and grinning from ear to ear.

Oh, my
god
… he was
beautiful
. Not that he wasn't beautiful
anyway, but that smile …
Jesus!

“I've got
videos, too.”

She screamed
and the frame slipped from her hand.

Too late to be
saved, it landed with a clap on the wooden floor, the glass inside
shattering.

“About fifteen
family albums and just as many show reels. When you've finished
your intrusion of my privacy, maybe we could sit and go through
them with some fucking popcorn.”

She slowly
turned to face him, realising she was scared to, because his tone
was devoid of all emotion, and flatter than dead. The shutters were
down.

She almost
jumped out of her skin again when she realised he wasn't standing
by the door where she'd expected, but right behind her.

Oh, hell … the
way he was looking at her – it was like
she
was the enemy.
What was he seeing? Because it wasn't her. Her heart split in two.
“I wasn't intru—”

“Don't
lie
to me.”

All sound
stuck in her throat. He'd never spoken to her that way before,
accusing; as if she'd just betrayed him in the most horrendous way.
Maybe she had. Heck, he never showed an ounce of feeling until
pushed. Looks like she'd just pushed him too far.

“What did you
come up here for? Did you need another good look at what a wreck I
am? Does your disgust need confirmation?”

What?
God, no…
But she was mute in front of him again and had to
force the words out. “You don't disgu—”

“
Enough
with the
lying
.”

“I'm not—”

His mouth
landed on hers.

It caught her
completely unawares, not that her body would know it – no. It
responded as it always did nowadays, and moreso because it was
Lawrence.

“You lied to
me earlier.”

She had? When?
“I never—”

His tongue
invaded her mouth again, as he pushed her back against the
wardrobe. “Is this the only way to stop you?”

She wished her
body could just
not react
. Moonburn was right. She was
burning at his touch and it was obvious – she could smell her own
arousal fill the air.

“Is
this
why you're here? Relief?” Pain poured off him in waves.
If his tone was void of all before, it was full of something now:
self-loathing. “Ryan's left, Taylor's working – looks like you're
stuck with the invalid.”

The first coil
of anger rose up through her shock at his actions. She bit his
tongue enough to cut it. It was an attempt to get him off her, but
she realised her mistake too late: the taste of his blood filled
her mouth and it acted like a splash of petrol on the flames of her
desire. His scar throbbed on her neck and she throbbed everywhere
else.

Fuck! This
isn't right – not like this!

She heaved
herself into him, arms pushing against his chest, but he pulled
them up and pinned them against the wardrobe by their wrists. She
might be lithe, but she was no match for him in strength.

“Don't you
think I can give you what you need?”

With no
warning, no teasing, no second to breathe, he slipped his hand up
her dress, against her groin and entered her.

The moan left
her before she could stop it.

“So wet for
it…” he muttered hoarsely, yet clearly needing his own relief, his
long, thick shaft pressing up against her hip through his trousers.
She ground against him unable to help it.

He was so
completely controlled, yet, in the depths of his eyes, behind the
anger, behind the steel and the ice, a chaotic vulnerability flew
around a chasm. It was that chasm that consumed him now, she knew –
filled with his cries, and the cries of his sister, and the cries
of his family … cries she heard every bloody night…

Not like
this!

Finally, she
found her voice from wherever it had gone. “This isn't what I came
here for.” Although it might be too late, because he was thrusting
inside her with deliberate force, stroking and stoking her in all
the right places.

“Then tell me
to stop.” A dare in his tone, coupled with an arrogant smirk that
was all defensiveness and none of the truth she had seen in that
photograph.

Tears burned
in her eyes as her climax approached. She was a slave to her body
and he knew it.
That's
why he was doing this. She had
reduced him to the emptiness he felt by invading his past – he was
reducing her to this.

'Do you know
what it's like to have no choice? To be a true slave to another's
will?'

Words he'd
spoken to her the first time they'd joined; the only time they'd
bonded. But, despite the words, that time had been different. No
matter how tempestuous their union had been, he had been sharing
something with her. This time, he was taking something from her
because all he could feel at this moment, on seeing her disrupt his
secret sanctuary, was his violation twenty years ago.

'I need you to
understand.'

She understood
all right. But it didn't make it okay.

The tears
escaped her as lightning surfaced on her skin. “Lawrence…” Her
muscles contracted, tightening around his fingers.

“Tell me to
stop,” he growled out, his own need swelling against her; in his
voice, the absolute certainty that she couldn't say that word.

And she
couldn't, because if he stopped now, she'd be in burning pain until
she found relief. She'd have to run to Taylor and beg him to finish
her off which would lead to questions and she'd have to explain…
What tumbled out instead, as her orgasm pulled her under were other
words, as naked and raw as he'd plied her to be …
“You said
you'd never hurt me.”

It was as if
she'd just hit him with a bulldozer. He froze; he cracked; horror
marred his features. He went as white as a sheet, all trace of
self-absorbed anger and hatred gone in an instant. He stilled
inside her, but it didn't matter anymore. Her orgasm erupted and
she had no choice but to ride it to fruition, tears now
free-flowing until it peaked, before finally fading.

~*~

The warning
bells had gone off ages ago – aeons ago – but they hadn't been loud
enough. Not loud enough to be heard over the screams in his head,
and that's all he'd been hearing. That had become his focus, his
centre, the crux of his existence. For two decades.

Screams of the
dead had drowned out the screams of his mate.

And the
torment in his heart was second-to-none.

What have
you done?
And that was all his wolf said. For once, the animal
had gone silent, as numb as himself.

He had never
experienced mating pains to the same extent as other males. He'd
always suspected it was because every other affliction he felt was
so much greater, that the aches of mating – or lack of mating – had
been insignificant compared to all else. And then, four weeks ago,
out of the blue, he'd been mated. So, any mating pangs he would
have felt were gone.

Now, he'd
discovered something much worse: the agony from hurting that mate –
his
mate. Directly. On purpose. He couldn't defend himself.
Even taken over and blinded by his macabre past, it had been
deliberate. He was responsible.

Lydia…

He wanted to
say her name. He couldn't – had no fucking right to any longer.

He stumbled
backwards, not really realising he was moving; having no clue what
he was doing.

I'm sorry, I'm
sorry, I'm sorry…

He couldn't
say that either, even though the apology burst from his heart with
a force that he was sure had broken it. That was the problem with
ice, wasn't it? It broke. And now all manner of feeling flooded
him. He'd thought it was bad when she'd found him, legless, on the
study floor – he'd thought that was the lowest he could go. Turned
out, he'd been letting fate lead the way for twenty years, refusing
to participate in life. Nothing could be your fault if you didn't
become a part if it – nothing or no one could hold you accountable,
and you didn't have to
feel
, damn it! Fate had led her to
discover what had happened to him… But
this –
what had just
taken place – he had done himself.

He saw the
shattered picture frame on the floor, Elana's eyes smiling out of
it, then looked back at the woman he'd just ruined.

Was it
possible for artificial legs to give way? Guess it was.

He fell down
on his bed, shaking.

Lydia stood
there not moving, saying nothing, doing nothing, and fuck it, he
wanted her to shriek and rage at him in that way she was so good
at. He wanted to feel her fury – anything to take him away from
everything else he could feel, and by fuck … that was a lot of
stuff. Surely there wasn't room in his body for it all.

She stared at
him, her red-rimmed eyes still shiny with tears and haunted.

Lydia…

He still had
no voice.

I'm sorry.

He said it
with his mind instead.

Forgive
me.

She blinked,
having heard him, and it took her out of her reverie. He expected
the maelstrom to come next – that fiery temperament of hers he'd
started to admire, because it expressed everything he'd been afraid
to for too long.

Instead, he
got something he'd never have expected.

She
straightened, held her head up, and looked him right in the eye.
Her irises went from blue to violet. Her lips, marked red from
where he'd all but bruised them with his kisses, tightened. Her
wild hair, made wilder by his treatment of her, crowned her head
with a red hue. She should look a mess. She looked magnificent.

When she spoke
it was with a composure he couldn't find anywhere inside himself.
“I know why you did what you did. I know because I have your
memories. Every night, I dream – or remember – what happened to
you, and to Elana. I feel what you felt – I guess because of your
blood in me. I go through it. I know what they took from you.
That's what I came up here to tell you.”