Page 22 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

She steps forward and dread punches me in the gut.

“No—no—!”

My feet, they move on their own.

Thorns pierce and wood snaps as I run.

Our fingers touch, and then, she vanishes over the edge.

KATHERINE

There is warmth, and silk again.

Violins sing.

The ballroom glows around me in amber candlelight. Gowns sweep past. The air smells of rosewater and powder.

I turn and there he is.

Human.

Man.

And, ravenously breathtaking.

Dorian.

There is no trace of his beastly fate. He stands in a dark navy coat with his hair combed, black hair curls at the edges, his lips parted in surprise as though seeing me for the first time all over again. Green and hazel eyes twinkle as he nears with a hand outstretched.

“May I have this dance?”

My cheeks ache as I smile too widely.

“If you are certain, perhaps I will oblige…just this one time...”

I reach for him.

Our fingers graze the other as we step closer toward the other.

His smile falters.

The glow of the chandeliers die and the music cambers, squealing like a dying cat.

My stomach plummets.

I’m sinking.

I scream. I scream and—

Air whooshes from my lungs.

“Oooh!”

It is cold, wet. Droplets pelt my face and all around. Pain radiates down my shoulder and spine.

I am not standing.

I am not dancing.

No, I am dangling off a cliff .

“What- “

Dorian, he grips me with one clawed digging into the edge of an embedded rock, partway down the cliff-face, and the other—his human hand—fused tight around my wrist.

Only half changed, he looks in pain. His teeth grit, water soaking his face, hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes glimmer in the storm’s light with anguish. The voice that comes is strained with a growl that is half-demon and half-man.

“Katherine, do not look down!”

Nausea comes I avert my gaze there.

Too late.

The abyss is endless.

I cannot see the bottom.

Panic comes and I kick against the emptiness.

“What madness is this?”

I throw my hand around his waist and grip him tighter, shivering as icy cold droplets burn my skin. My teeth chatter so hard, I cannot abide by them.

“I-I-I can’t—”

My fingers slip.

A rope is thrown—hitting him in the back.

“Take it Katherine, I won’t let go.“

Without time to spare, I do not think, only grab it with my human hand, wrap it around his forearm, then return my hold over his narrowed waist.

“Quickly,” Dorian bellows. The voice is no longer is own. “The demon will not stay.”

The line pulls tight. Above us, shouting comes. It is Everly’s voice.

“Haul them up!”

We rise.

My ribs ache. His grip bruises. Rain fills my ears like drowning. I can hear the storm inside his chest as he holds himself back from changing entirely.

Finally, we crest the edge.

Thank heavens.

Fingers grab me and I am hauled up onto the moss. I collapse inside the mud half-wrapped in someone’s coat, with my skin drenched and freezing.

Returned to human form, Dorian pulls me against him—bare chest against bare skin. Heat radiates off him as his breath shakes into my hair.

“Please do not fight me, I haven’t the strength.”

I want to speak, for I have many questions, but my teeth chatter too violently. Instead I press my forehead into his collarbone and let myself ravage his warmth and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat.

All I know is the dream is no more and I have returned to this cursed place, where I am married to a demon and possible execution.

Dorian wraps his tunic around me, soaked, yet warm as we gather our wits. Someone else throws a blanket around my shoulders, I don’t see who .

“The morning will be upon us soon,” Dorian says. There, within his embrace, I stay as we follow the string. We walk until the rows of carriages and the light from our camp flickers in the distance.

“That felt an age longer than what it was,” William complains. “This forest is a wretched thing.”

I am lowered in front of the fireplace. My fingers won’t unclench. Dorian places hot bricks beneath my feet, wraps me in every dry thing he can find. He undoes the coat between us and presses my skin against his.

We lie there, tangled in silence, breath shallow and shaking. I feel his chest rise and fall. I listen to the heart that almost stopped when he saw me fall.

The men tend to what remains.

Mrs. Grange lies unconscious, Isaac stitching her wound. Nora stares into the fire like she might walk into it. Williams sits, filthy and scraped, his fists red, holding his weapon like it’s the only thing he trusts.

“Never been touched by a demon before,” William says.

“You did well,” Everly replies.

“I screamed like a wench and pissed myself. That’s not well, sir.”

“You lived. That’s more than Lord Sainsbury’s men.”

“Still think you should’ve become a sailor?”

Williams chuckles hoarsely. “Sea’s got monsters too. But at least you can drown ‘em.”

“Was that you then,” Isaac asks, “wailing like a banshee in the forest?”

“I’ll have you know I’ve only screamed thrice today,” William mutters. “A miracle, considering the circumstances.”

Nobody sleeps at all for the rest of the night. Once I am thoroughly warmed with broth and hot tea, I’m returned to the remands of our broken carriage.

Dorian lies on the steps blocking the only exit, and watching the men sit by the fire.

His knuckles are raw. He holds a blade in his lap.

I fall asleep to his silhouette, wondering what kind of man my husband is.

DORIAN

There were things in the forest we could not see or prepare for. And we did not stray far. I imagine what is waiting inside the heart of the forest.

The Butler hands me a flask and I take it.

As soon as dawn cracks, we load our supplies. Then, we mount our carriages and weakly travel through the cursed forest, soaked and exhausted.

The town remains quiet as we enter. Katherine is asleep, she does not stir, and does not witness the rows of neat brick houses with their gas lamps just lit. Every step on the cobblestones seems strange after days in mud. Smoked wood and fresh bread follows me until my stomach grumbles.

How can it be that I am famished, but exhausted behind measure. I want to both eat and sleep at once.

As we pass the small shop, the door swings open and old man carrying a basket of herbs drops his supplies.

“His Grace has returned!” The man calls out.

People emerge from their houses. The staff and their families live here, along with merchants, miners and farmers. The single road that creates Main Street is full of wares, freshly picked fruit and vegetables stacked high. ‘Tis a small town of no more than five hundred souls.

Ahead, high on the mountain, black stone walls and turrets climb into the darkening sky.

At last.

We are home.