“I went riding and I got lost. What are you doing here? What is this place?”
“A place where you’re not wanted.” He spoke bluntly, wanting to hurt her. “Go back the way you came. When you reach the stream, follow it eastward. It will lead you back to the castle.”
“You want me to leave? Now?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s dark outside.”
“In the morning, then.”
“Why, Erik? What have I done?”
“Nothing. You’ve done nothing.” He took a deep breath. “I want you gone in the morning.”
He heard the sharp intake of her breath, knew she was trying not to cry. “When are you coming home?”
He clenched his right hand. She sounded so young, so uncertain. So unhappy. Was it possible she had been missing him?
“Erik?”
“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes and wished for things that could never be. Wished he had two good hands to hold her close, wished he dared take her in his arms just once more. Wished he could lay his head in her lap and feel her hands moving over him. He needed the touch of her hand, needed the comfort only she could give. He was alone, so alone. And so afraid. The fear was a constant sickness in his gut; fear of what he was becoming, of what he was losing.
“It will be Christmas soon. Will you not come home for the holidays?”
His eyelids flew open and he saw her standing in the doorway. He turned sideways, hiding his left side in the dark shadows behind him.
She took a step forward, one hand outstretched. “Erik, are you bleeding?”
“Don’t touch me!”
She came to an abrupt halt. “I won’t. What happened to you?”
“I was attacked by wolves.”
Even in the darkness, he could see her eyes widen in horror. “Wolves!”
“I’ll be all right. Please, just go away.”
“Not until I have looked at your wounds. They’ll fester if they aren’t treated.”
“I’m not dressed.”
A rush of heat climbed up the back of her neck. They had been married for almost a year and she had never seen him naked. “It’s all right. I . . . I don’t mind.”
“I do. Wait for me in the other room.”
“Very well.”
He watched her go, then went out the back door to gather up his discarded clothing. He felt better when he was dressed, his mask once again securely in place. The worst wounds were on his right side. He had not stopped to wonder why before, but he knew the answer. His human side was fragile, easily bruised. The skin on his left side was thicker, protected by a heavy layer of coarse black hair.
Desperate for her touch, needing to be near her, he would let her tend his wounds, and then he would never see her again.
When he was as presentable as possible, he went into the main room.
She was sitting on the edge of the settee, looking like a bird poised for flight. She glanced over her shoulder as he stepped into the room.
“Sit down,” she said. “Do you have any matches? I’ll need to heat some water to clean your wounds. And light a lamp so I can see what I’m doing.”
“There are matches in one of the drawers in the kitchen.”
He sank back on the settee as she left the room. He could hear her moving about in the kitchen, filling a pan with water, opening the drawers, tearing a tea towel into strips.
Every muscle in his body ached, his wounds throbbed with a dull monotony. Overcome with weariness and a sense of hopelessness, he closed his eyes. How much longer did he have? How many more days and nights until the hideous transformation was complete?
He opened his eyes at the sound of her footsteps. She had lit a small lamp. He squinted against the light, his gaze moving over her. Her body had changed. Her breasts were fuller, her belly swollen with his babe.
She knelt at his feet. Lifting his right arm, she rolled up his shirtsleeve and began to wash away the blood. Her face paled as she stared at the deep gashes that ran the length of his arm. “You need a doctor.”
“No. No doctor.”
“But these wounds are deep. They need stitching.”
“Just wash them and wrap them up.”
“Why are you being so foolish about this?”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to calm his anger. It was a mistake. Her scent rushed into his nostrils, warm and womanly and uniquely hers, reminding him of the nights he had gone to her bed, the pleasure he had found in her arms.
“Erik, answer me!”
“No doctor. Just do the best you can.”
“I . . .” She swallowed the bitter bile tickling the back of her throat. “Do you have a needle and thread? I can . . . that is, I can try to . . . to stitch the wounds.”