Page 3 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)

“Is there any way I could understand you?”

BELLE

Ijerk awake, taking a deep gasp into my lungs. Something that always happens after I pass out. Like I’m making up for all the slow breaths of lost time.

The second I start to shift, I freeze. Pillow under my head. Velvet blanket beneath me. And…oh, holy Hecate! I peer down. It’s a nightgown. A sheer gothic nightgown with lace and pleats and an off-the-shoulder neckline. It does nothing to hide my tits, the outline of my areola and nipple showing right through the fabric.

Oh, lord, if I wore such a beautiful, breathtaking nightgown growing up, I’d have been staked.

Your breasts are for your future husband, Belladonna. You must cover them. No bra straps showing either. Make sure your clothes cover your shoulders.

Those lessons resound in my ears like nails on a goddamn chalkboard. Mimi let me choose from her vintage outfits, reminding me that I inherited my well-endowed chest from her, and there was no shame in wearing clothes that didn’t include itchy, coarse, high-neck shirts and baggy dresses. Frumpy Little House on the Prairie mixed with a lovely dose of The Handmaid’s Tale. And a Southern cult equivalent of both.

Overwhelmed, I cup my forehead, dazed, thoughts whirling back to my last memory. I closed up the shop. Went for a walk in the woods like normal. Oh…I found that book in the false bottom of Mimi’s old trunk, making me wonder why she hid it.

And my life could use a little excitement.

Oh god! Ohgodohgodohgodohgawwwd! The summoning spell worked. The thoughts rush back. The hammering of my heart as I raced through the woods, tripping over the log, and a strong hand picking me right up by my neck like I weighed nothing to him.

I clutch my throat, shutting my eyes because…I sense a presence next to me—on the other side of the bed. I gather my courage.

Because I’m not dreaming. Nothing about this feels like a dream. And I have a healthy respect for all things paranormal and what goes bump in the night. Except the paranormal didn’t just bump me. It fucking rammed me like a damn wrecking ball.

First, I perform a couple of mental grounding exercises, willing my heart to slow before I finally open my eyes.

Fuck!—he’s there. Right there. Maybe six feet from me at the most, sitting in the antique chair, unmoving, still as a specter. Mr. Headless Heatchliff, all sex-on-a-steampunk stick. His black-gloved hands are stoic, but firm on the armrests. A not-so-subtle tapping of one index finger. His entire body faces me.

What does he want with me? I assume he does not want to chop off my head and use it for his own pumpkin noggin; otherwise, why take the time to dress me?…oh, fuck. My hair is still damp. The scent of roses bathes the air. My skin is soft and clean.

I turn, leaning over ever so slightly to notice the attached bathroom, the claw-foot tub.

He washed me.

Can he see me?

The tapping stops.

“Shit!”

I scramble off the other side of the bed, hearing the chair topple over, the sound of boots. He’s closing in on me out of the corner of my eye.

Shitshitshit!

He seizes my wrist. I miss the door handle by an inch.

A very muscled arm, the same one that plucked me right up like a flower, ropes around my waist, yanking my body against his—my back to his chest. My head doesn’t surpass his collarbone. The hand at my wrist touches my neck, fingers curving around my throat like a seductive and tender hover above a choke hold. He’s anchoring me to him.

Adrenaline spikes my pulse. My breath escapes in ragged gasps until the hand at my throat taps a finger to my pulse. Taptap. Pause. Taptap. Is he…trying to help me slow my heart rate? Calm me?

After a few more taps to my pulse, the hand migrates north until it skims a lone finger down the bridge of my nose. Encouraging me to breathe?

Okay, Belle, you can do this. Just breathe. Hot, headless Heathcliff is trying to help you, not hurt you. I take deep breaths, long and deep, until my heartbeat stops thundering in my ears.

With one more deep exhale, I tilt my head slightly, gulping. What did I expect? A head to suddenly appear? Jack-O’-Lantern, maybe? Nothing’s there.

The gloved hand at my waist lurks up until it stations itself just beneath my breasts. The other returns to my throat, fingers caressing my skin. Oh, god…heat thrashes in my veins…and some—mmm, some travels lower, nestling between my thighs.

“Okay, okay, I know, that was stupid of me,”

I deflect.

“More than stupid, it was impolite to simply run off after you picked me up from the ground, brought me to this pretty bedroom, and washed all the mud away before dressing me in a nightgown worthy of a Dracula novel.”

He could have done far worse. And with the cold night air, I suppose he kept me from hypothermia. That was…sweet.

“Look, I don’t know if you can hear me. But here you are, this famed icon from dark Halloween folklore, and you must not get many visitors, and maybe you can’t talk, but I’m sure you’re a great listener if you can listen—I mean, but maybe you can’t, and that’s okay because I am an amazing charades player. And now you know I ramble really fast when I’m very nervous.”

I suck sudden air into my lungs, only to notice he’s leaned over, and there’s this thumping motion from his chest.

“Um…oh, lord, are you laughing?”

He lifts the hand from my throat, poises it in the air next to me, and wags it back and forth in the gesture of “kind of”.

“Oh, bloody Mary, you can hear me, understand me?”

My breath hitches when he touches my bottom lip, then sinks a thumb to my chin, pressing down.

“Uh, is that code for “talk more”?”

He presses his chest to the backs of my shoulders for just a moment before rising again. I think that was a nod.

“Okay, first…”

I lift a trembling hand to his, flinching when he does—as if he’s startled by the gesture. How long has it been since he’s felt anything from anyone? Shaking off my curiosity, I take his hand and position his fingers in a thumbs-up.

“This means ‘yes’ or ‘good’.”

I then lower it in the opposite direction, thumbs down.

“This means ‘no’ or ‘wrong’ or ‘bad’. It will make charades much easier. Do you understand?”

My heart lurches into my throat, but when he pivots his wrist and does the thumbs up, I breathe a deep sigh of relief.

“Good…”

I chew on my lower lip, debating on what to ask next. Sure, I want to know his name, but I’m curious about so much more, and it looks like I’m going to be here for a bit. Especially since he seems to have no intention of letting me go. Not that I could possibly know the intentions of a headless horseman.

“So, how can you understand me?” I wonder.

With my hand still clutched in his, he captures my index finger, taps it, then reaches into his inner coat pocket, retrieving my grandmother’s book.

I put two and two together.

“Oh…when I cut my finger and dripped blood on the page.”

Thumbs up. He puts the book back in his pocket and wraps an arm around my waist again. My belly does a little flutter.

“Is there any way I could understand you?”

Silence. A few moments pass, and I swear my breath is a windstorm in my ears.

He tightens his grip on my hand. Before I can blink, he’s spun me around, taken a tiny blade from his breast pocket, and sliced a small line across my palm. A small cry escapes my throat along with the urge to jerk my hand away. He’s too strong. It takes less than a second for him to remove his glove, cut his palm, and press it to mine, coupling our fingers. He’s mixing our blood.

“Well, that can’t be very sanitary,”

I mumble, a little squeamish at the sight of blood. Not mine. Ironically, I could be gushing like a stuck pig, but if it’s so much as a drop for anyone else, it feels like a fist gripping my heart.

His chest bears down on mine, his masculine, gloved hand anchoring itself around the small of my back—another rub of his palm.

My deepest gratitude to you, my dear summoner.

“Bloody fucking pumpkins!”

I shriek as my nerve endings scream from the sudden, foreign voice inside my head. But all of me stills when he cups my chin, thumb brushing my cheek. I feel the blood smearing my jawline.

Beyond the shock, a sense of swoon-worthy heat washes over me. Because the voice in my head, definitely masculine, is deep, dark, and gravelly. It’s the exact type of voice I would expect from someone who stepped off the pages of a gothic ghost story.

A dark and velvety chuckle ripples through my mind, stirring warm butterflies in my belly. It is the first time I’ve smiled in decades. Much less laughed.

“Please tell me this is not some fated mates weird shit,”

I plead, trying to ignore the flush spreading to my breasts, which are currently plumping against his lower chest.

No. It is merely a blood tether. One that affords me limited access to your mind.

Limited is good, I guess.

“What do you want with me?”

is my next obvious question.

May I settle for your name first, sweet summoner?

I swallow hard and declare, “Um…Belle. Belladonna is my full name, but I prefer Belle.”

Intriguing.

“What?”

The contrast. Belladonna is a deadly nightshade, but your preferred name signifies ‘beauty’. Perhaps you are both…Belle. A woman who is as dangerous as she is captivating—one who dared to chant a summoning spell and offered her own blood to seal it. You possess a beauty that can be as lethal as it is enchanting. A rare and irresistible blend.

Heat swirls low in my belly as he brushes the backs of his knuckles along my cheek, pausing at my jawline where he fingers a few of my curls.

Okay, don’t swoon, Belle. Don’t swoon.

You may swoon if you wish, he remarks with another dark chuckle, triggering my face to turn hotter than a fever. I’ll be more than honored to sweep you off your feet again. But I won’t stop there. For I cannot be expected to play the gentleman forever.

So much for limited access.

“Yes, I’d say you’ve already failed at that, given my current state…”

I trail off, lowering my chin toward the sheer nightgown.

Hmm…indeed.

Oh, god, why does he have to say it so suggestively and seductively?

“Of course!”

I roll my eyes as his knuckles descend to my throat.

“I would get the one headless horseman who’s horny even without a head.”

This word is unfamiliar to me. Would you share with me?

“Um, no, not right now, thank you. I think we have some other…matters to discuss.”

Quite so.

I nearly double over once he puts a gap between us, though he captures my hand, directing me to the bed.

When I hesitate, his grip grows firmer, but he pauses. That devilish chuckle echoes in my mind again. Have no fear, Belle. While I find a little deviation from the gentlemanly norm makes things far more interesting, I have no intention of deviating at this time.

At this time. At least he’s honest. My mouth dries, but I follow him and accept him directing me to the bed. He still doesn’t let go of my hand, as if he’s worried I’ll vanish into thin air or something. Turning his body from mine, he opens a drawer on the little table next to the bed. Curious, I thread my brows until he retrieves an envelope stamped with a scarlet seal of a horse.

Goosebumps form on my arms as he hands me the letter. It’s the first time he releases my hand so I may break open the seal and read the contents.