Page 13 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Thirteen

Fierro

Marcel must have hit every single bump between here and the bayou.

Each jolt sent fresh waves of agony through my torn body. Blood seeped steadily from my wounds, soaking Marcel’s shirt where I leaned against him. I gritted my teeth against a particularly vicious spasm of pain.

As a vampire, I would have healed these injuries within hours. But my supernatural abilities lay dormant, locked away by the curse. As a beast, I felt every torn muscle, every puncture wound, and healing crawled at an agonizingly human pace.

I forced myself to glance over at Rosalie as she clung to Colette on the other ATV. Had she really not known she possessed such power? Not many witches could manifest a force field on their first attempt, especially one strong enough to repel a werewolf pack.

She must come from an incredibly strong magical bloodline.

Another bump sent fresh agony rippling through me. My eyes fluttered shut despite my efforts to stay conscious. I slumped heavily against Marcel’s back. My arms slipped from around his waist and fell limply to my sides as the last bit of willpower dissolved into darkness.

Something cold and wet touched my neck. Fire shot through the wound. I snarled, my body tensing for another attack.

“Oh!” someone gasped, and the pressure immediately lifted.

I forced my eyes open, blinking against the dim lamplight. The familiar ceiling of my bedroom came into focus, but it took several disorienting seconds to remember how I’d gotten here. The bayou. The wolves. The impossible shield of light.

Rosalie sat perched on the edge of my bed, close enough that I could smell the lingering adrenaline and fear on her.

Her dark hair was swept up in a messy bun, several strands escaping to frame her face.

I could sense the adrenaline from our ordeal coursing through her system, masking what must be considerable pain from her injuries.

Three angry red scratches marred her left cheek—souvenirs from our escape through the cypress branches.

She wore an oversized black T-shirt that I recognized as one of Colette’s, the fabric swallowing her slight frame.

But it was her eyes that held me captive. Those amber depths were filled with something I hadn’t expected to see directed at me: genuine concern. Not fear, not disgust, but worry. For me.

She held a damp cloth in her trembling hand, water still dripping from the corner. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just trying to clean the wound on your neck, but you’re still so tender...”

I stared at her, struggling to process this scene. The woman I’d terrified in my bedroom, who’d fled into the bayou rather than stay under the same roof as me, was now sitting beside my bed. Tending to my wounds. Voluntarily.

“Why?” The word came out as more of a growl, my voice rough from unconsciousness.

She tilted her head, a curious expression softening her features. “Why what?”

“Why are you tending to me?” The question came out quieter, almost vulnerable.

“Because...” She paused, her fingers fidgeting with the damp cloth. “You saved my life..” When she looked up at me, there was a shy warmth in her smile that made my chest tighten in an unfamiliar way.

“You saved us too,” I said softly, then studied her face more carefully. My gaze traveled over her, searching for any injuries I might have missed besides the scratches on her cheek. “Besides your face, are you hurt anywhere else?”

If any of those wolves had seriously injured her, they’d answer to me. She was mine to protect.

Rage flared hot in my chest. The thought of that creature’s claws tearing into her skin, of her trapped and helpless beneath its weight, made my hands curl into fists. “Show me,” I growled.

She shook her head quickly. “It’s really not that bad. Colette already cleaned and bandaged it.”

“Colette,” I called out, my tone leaving no room for argument. When she appeared in the doorway, I fixed her with a stern look. “How badly was she injured? Don’t sugarcoat it.”

She glanced over at Rosalie and gave her a sympathetic look. “ Monsieur , the claws went deep and I had to stitch up her wounds. But she will heal. I promise you that.”

“Other wounds?” I pressed.

“Cuts and bruises across her body, monsieur . She fought bravely but paid a price for it.”

My jaw clenched. “The wolves will pay for this. No one hurts what’s mine.”

Rosalie cocked a slender eyebrow. “Yours?”

Heat crept up my neck at the possessive slip. I quickly changed the subject, too tired to argue with that conversation. “I thought you said you weren’t a witch.”

She straightened defensively. “I’m not.”

I managed what might have been a gentle smile, though it probably looked more like a grimace on my monstrous features. “Then how did you create that shield?”

She shrugged helplessly, but I caught the tremor in her voice. “I honestly don’t know.” Her gaze dropped to her hands as if they belonged to a stranger. “Like I told you before, I’ve never done anything like that. Ever.”

She flexed her fingers slowly, wonderingly. “But when I saw those wolves about to kill you...” Her voice caught slightly. “Something just... awakened inside me. I couldn’t let you die. Not after you came for me.”

The raw honesty in her words hit me harder than any wolf’s claws. Here was someone who’d risked everything—including her own mysterious power—to protect me. A monster. A killer.

“I almost didn’t make it to you in time,” I admitted quietly. “The curse binds me to this estate. I can’t leave the property. When you ran, I was terrified you’d get beyond my reach and I’d be powerless to help you.”

When was the last time someone, besides Marcel and Colette, had cared whether I lived or died? Marcel and Colette were servants. When I worked for Angelo Santi, I was an employee. I wasn’t one of the chosen ones that got to live in his house, not that I cared.

But after being trapped in this mansion for months, I almost wished I was. At least I’d be able to talk to more people.

“Those wolves were so huge,” she whispered, her voice still carrying traces of fear. “I’d never seen wolves do that, so coordinated, so …intelligent. I didn’t even know there were wolves in the bayou.”

Her words pulled me from my thoughts about her unexpected tenderness. The feeling was so foreign I didn’t know what to do with it. I shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at my wounds. “They weren’t wolves.”

Rosalie’s face paled. “Then what were they?”

“They’re wolf shifters.”

She held the rag in midair. “Excuse me? You mean werewolves?”

“No, werewolves are slaves to the moon; they have no control over when they transform or what they do once changed. But wolf shifters have complete control,” I said carefully, watching her face to see if she would believe me, fall apart, or cower in fear.

“They can shift at will, maintain their human consciousness in wolf form, and coordinate like a military unit. Much more dangerous than mindless werewolves. Their king, Trystan Hunter…” The name left a bitter taste in my mouth.

“The gangster?” She gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “Trystan Hunter’s a shape shifter?

The color drained from her face completely, leaving her skin ashen. Her breathing became shallow and rapid as the full implications hit her. “But I thought—my father always said he was just a ruthless businessman.”

“Your father knew him?” That was an interesting development. If Volaris had connections to wolf shifters, it could explain how he’d gotten mixed up with people far more dangerous than simple casino debts. Was he in an alliance with Tristan or did he owe him money like he did everyone else?

“Dad mentioned him a few times over the years.” Her hands began to shake visibly.

“I think he owed them money like he did everyone else. Said he was someone you didn’t want to cross in this city, that people who crossed Trystan Hunter just…

disappeared.” She swallowed hard, her amber eyes wide with terror.

“Oh god, if he’s that powerful, and we just fought his pack. ..”

She pressed both hands to her chest as if trying to slow her racing heart. “I don’t understand. You just said you couldn’t leave the property. How were you able to come save me?”

I held up a clawed finger. “The bayou where we fought is still part of my estate. This property spans several acres.” I gestured toward the windows.

“But Trystan has been encroaching on my territory since I was cursed. He doesn’t recognize me as the vampire enforcer I used to be.

No one does anymore. Since his pack outnumbers me, I chose not to fight them.

..” I paused, meeting her eyes that were clouded with worry and fear. “Until today.”

“He won’t let this go unpunished, will he?”

“He’ll want revenge,” I nodded grimly. “Shape shifters don’t forget slights, especially public humiliation like what happened today.”

“Trystan was the massive white wolf, wasn’t he?”

“I won’t let him hurt you.” The words came out as a growl, my protective instincts flaring.

She gazed out the window again. “Will they attack the house?”

“I don’t think so. They reside in the bayou, but I would suggest you stay close to the house.” The thought of her wandering too far from my protection made my stomach clench with dread. In my current weakened state, what if I couldn’t reach her in time?

She lowered her head. “You mean you risked your life for me?”

Her question was like a pebble starting an avalanche of emotions, startling me into silence.

The raw vulnerability in her tone made something twist uncomfortably in my chest. I stared at her bent head, at the way her fingers twisted nervously in the damp cloth, and realized I had no idea how to answer.

The truth was too complicated, too dangerous to examine.

I had never put myself in harm’s way to defend another, not in all my years as a vampire, not even when it might have served my own interests.

Self-preservation had always been my guiding principle.

But when she’d run out of the house in terror and headed toward the bayou where I knew the wolves hunted. ..

I hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t even thought. I’d simply moved, driven by something primal and desperate that had nothing to do with logic or strategy.

What was happening to me?

She looked up then, her amber eyes searching my face for an answer I couldn’t give. The hope I saw there—fragile and uncertain—made my throat constrict. When was the last time someone had looked at me like that? As if I might actually be capable of something good?

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the weight of her gaze. “I’m tired,” I said roughly, taking the coward’s way out. “I need to sleep.”

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but it was safer than the truth. Safer than admitting that somewhere in the space between her terror and her courage, she had begun to matter to me in ways I didn’t understand.