Page 6 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)
JACKSON
The nature of my state affords me the ability to enter more visceral places without requiring a break-in. Not that I couldn’t pick a lock or scale to an upper window, considering all my years as a highwayman. Or bushwhacker in this country’s terminology. Or a woodsman robber.
After our earlier encounter, I need to be near her. Her sweet disposition, her romantic sensibilities, and her unique individuality of respecting the darker and supernatural realms of the world are truly rare. She captivates me.
I wander about her room, brushing my fingers across the objects and furniture, longing to learn more about this pretty and peculiar girl.
Books riddle her bedroom. Some piled in helter-skelter stacks along her end tables to a random book propped on the ledge next to a candle. Most are antique and possess dried autumn leaves pressed beneath their covers.
I find a dark romance novel beside her pillow, which has borne the touch of eager hands and dog-eared pages, its spine creased and cover faded from countless reads. Smirking internally, I snatch up the book, confirming my suspicions. Thanks to the blood bond we now share, my senses are no longer invisible. I find the subtle scent of her dried release marking the pages.
She will not require such arousing novels when she’s with me.
In her closet, I find various pieces of clothing with autumnal ones prioritized. I may only perceive dim colors, but the fabrics are more identifiable.
My wife smelled of sensual Victorian perfume and absinthe.
Belle is the wanderlust of autumn, a rich amber musk with sweet vanilla and hints of cinnamon and clove incense. I find random little tea bags in some pockets, amused by this whimsical woman. Random sprigs and thin twigs scatter the shelves like an October potpourri.
I trace my fingers along the bed, soft and cherishing, she will not feel my touch. It pleases me to learn she kept the nightgown on.
Careful and cautious, I take a few of her thick, auburn curls between my fingers before retrieving my blade and snipping off a few locks. My first keepsake of Belladonna Holloway.
Turning to the doorway, I take the steps to the first level, intending to memorize the layout of her bookshop. A small kitchen is tucked into the back corner, and I admire how tidy the kitchen is, bereft of dirty dishes. I discover a plate of scones next to the refrigerator and can almost smell the aroma.
If the scent is not directly bound to Belladonna, it is more difficult to inhale.
My fingers freeze at the sudden touch of a furry creature nudging against my arm from the nearby counter. Tension tightens my chest, and I prepare for the cat to unleash a series of spitting hisses and perhaps its claws, but it doesn’t attack.
With a warmth spreading through me, I scratch its ears and its cheeks as cats love. The little bell upon its collar jingles. A strange emotion washes over me, one I haven’t felt in a long time. Gratitude wells up in me at the cat, who is every bit as sweet as its owner. It’s a sense of acceptance, of belonging, of something so innocent. It does not see me as a monster. Belle is the same way.
After I retreat from the kitchen, I hear the subtle little jingle trailing my steps while I explore the bookshop. Twinkle lights adorn many of the shelves, casting a warm glow all around me. Incense sticks rest in holders upon shelves. Sandalwood, perhaps? Or cinnamon. Although the candles scattered throughout the shop are unlit, their waxy silhouettes stand ready, adding to the intimate, almost magical ambiance.
The books are meticulously organized on the shelves, their spines undoubtedly creating a tapestry of colors and textures. Some are worn and weathered, with frayed edges and faded titles, while others are crisp with the newness of untouched covers. The seating areas are welcoming—leather armchairs draped with soft, knitted blankets, beckoning visitors to sit and lose themselves in a story. The small, vintage-style tables nearby are perfect for resting a cup of tea.
It’s clear Belle takes great care with her shop. Cozy, inviting, and lovely in its vintage aesthetics, this bookshop must be a popular locale. A place where time slows and the worries of the world melt away. I felt much the same with a glass of brandy in my hand as I sat before a crackling fireplace, reading a thick novel while my wife would grumble about her latest needlework attempt, her fingers too chaotic and impatient for such tasks.
But oh, how my Catherine could dance and sing and entertain our guests while I preferred the company in the nearby cigar lounges. She could also out-drink me any night and had the annoying luck of winning at whist, quadrille, chess, backgammon, and any other popular game.
Much coveted before our courtship, it took weeks of persuasion over the competition to secure a visit. And many stolen moments at parties.
It has me wondering what sort of stolen moments I will share with Belle, though I am beyond thankful she lives in an era where escorts and courtships are unnecessary. Oh, I will court her in a way, but I have every intention of acting more of a cad for this sassy, sweet girl, who requires the strength and domination of a man like me.
While she is capable and strong, she has too much heart and romantic sensibilities. They rule her in the scales of life, outweighing any sense of strong-willed power. If this bookish coquette of a Belle has the capability of anger, I imagine it would be a fearsome thing to behold. A cauldron bubbling over. Fitting, for she has beguiled me, entrancing me with her spirit.
I return to her bedroom.
In another hour or so, midnight will pass into the next day. Until the sun rises, I will remain here, protecting her and reaping the honor of doing so. As dictated by the curse, I must remain hidden during the daylight hours.
But at dusk…I will return to tempt her, to possess her, and to make her mine. Yes, Belladonna Holloway will be mine to hunt in every sense of the word.