Withering Rose (Once Upon A Curse Book 2) (10 page)

Not dead.

Knocked out, but not dead. At least not
yet.

Relief floods through me. I'm not a killer.
Not a monster. And looking down at him, I'm beginning to wonder if
maybe the beast isn't either. With eyes closed in sleep, he looks
so gentle and innocent. Before I realize what I'm doing, my palm
reaches down to cup his cheek. His skin is soft. The heat of it
warms my frigid fingers. But it's not smooth. His face is laced
with delicate scars, some deeper than others. But he is so pale the
lines are almost translucent. Except for three severe cuts on
either side of his forehead, healed-over gashes slicing deeply
through his temples. They're nearly symmetrical, cutting into his
hairline just above both of his ears. My fingers drift up, tracing
his mutilated skin, before drifting higher to run through his
coarse onyx hair. It feels like velvety fur.

A soft purr distracts me.

I look over my shoulder into a set of bright
golden eyes. They look human. They look woefully concerned. But
it's the body of a snow leopard that slinks toward me, nearly
camouflaged by the falling snow. For the first time, I'm not
afraid. Its thick paw nudges the beast, but he doesn't stir.

"He's alive," I assure the animal.

Those golden eyes find mine again, filled
with understanding—far more understanding than any animal's should
be. But before I have time to process, howls reach my ears,
mournful cries that pierce the air and echo toward me. Over my
shoulder, gray shadows appear in the distance, growing larger and
more distinct, until a pack of wolves emerges from the shadows,
running closer. They don't stop until they surround us, all eyes on
the beast.

An undeniable sense of love permeates the
space.

I'm the outsider once again.

But more than that, I'm the cause of all
their worry.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so very sorry.
He frightened me. I got scared, and I just acted out of instinct. I
didn't mean…"

They're wild animals, but they don’t lash
out for vengeance, they don't let their gut reactions control them.
In fact, they hardly notice me.

The lead wolf steps beside me, nuzzling the
beast's neck, so close I could reach out and pet the fluffy white
fur on the underside of its belly. Steam escapes its parted lips as
the wolf licks the beast's cheek, trying to wake him. It whines a
sad, screechy sound when the beast doesn't move. And then it looks
over its shoulder to the rest of the pack. Without needing to
speak, they march forward, determined. While the leader watches,
the rest of the wolves dig into the snow, deep enough so they can
crawl beneath the beast's body. They wriggle under, matting their
coats with dirt and frost, and then stand with his heavy weight
stretched across them. His hands fall to either side, leaving his
fingertips to brush against the ice while they walk away. I follow
the red traces of blood dripping from his skin, unable to look
away.

When they disappear into the depths of the
storm, I finally remember how cold I am. My skin trembles. But I
can't move. I stare into the emptiness, utterly torn, remembering
the beast's last words to me.

I don't want to hurt you.

On a night like this, you'll never
survive
.

I was too blinded by fear to realize it, but
he was out here to save me. To bring me back to the warmth of the
castle, not to hunt me down and hurt me. Only after I attacked did
he unleash the beast within.

But before, the way he laughed so harshly at
my silent dance.

The way he slammed his fist into my door
when I wouldn’t let him in.

The way he attacked me for touching that
glowing woman.

No, I don't trust him.

But, I realize confidently, I no longer fear
him.

And I can't ignore the fact that I'm
intrigued. By him. By the mysteries of his kingdom. By the whisper
in the back of my mind telling me that maybe it was the beast who
found me in that field a few days ago, who held me in his strong,
sturdy arms, whose touch whispered that I'd finally found a place I
might belong.

A soft downy head presses into my palm, and
I realize I had forgotten about the leopard with the golden eyes.
It nudges my leg, but I don’t understand. It nudges again. But I
don't move. Then it growls, looking up at me with a hint of
frustration, and starts to walk away.

I try to follow, but my feet are frozen. My
body has no strength. The shivers grow unbearable. And with nothing
to distract me, the weariness mounts. Between the escape, the cold,
the storm, the battle, and the toll of my magic, my body shuts
down. I slink slowly toward the ground, utterly fatigued.

In one leap, the giant cat is beneath me,
catching me before I fall. I'm not very large or very heavy, so it
waits patiently for me to crawl onto its back before carrying me
away. I breathe in the warmth of its fur, letting the heat of its
body course through me. And together we travel through the
storm.

I must have passed out during the journey home,
because when I wake, I am curled against the leopard's side,
resting before the fire in my room in the castle. Two large golden
eyes watch me curiously as I sit up.

My whole body aches.

Every inch of me yearns for a hot bath.

For warm food.

For more sleep.

But when I open my mouth, unexpected words
pop out. "Where is he?"

The leopard yawns, stretching its jaws fully
wide while its tongue extends out. I catch a quick glance of sharp
canines. And then it shakes its head and rolls smoothly to its
feet, pausing for a moment to kneel down in a long back-extending
stretch.

Envying its feline grace, I push awkwardly
to my feet, wincing as my muscles scream that I should not be
standing, should not be moving.

As the leopard struts out the door, not
waiting for me to follow, I eye the armoire wistfully. But there's
no time for me to try on dresses, to find one that might hopefully
fit. My impatience wins out. The last time I saw the beast he was
barely breathing, and I won't be calm until I know he's awake.

Quickly, I grab the wool blanket resting on
the chair and wrap it comfortably around my shoulders. Let the
beast laugh at my funny outfit again if he wants. The more he's
laughing, the more he'll hopefully forget that I almost killed
him.

I enter the hallway just in time to see an
ivory tail disappear around the corner and I hurry to follow. The
leopard leads me through familiar corridors, to the central
staircase I first made my way up the day before. When we reach this
far wing of the castle, the halls still hum with an ominous,
foreboding sort of air. The curtains are all closed, cloaking the
space in shadows. But we turn down new corridors. I don't see the
glowing door or the beautiful woman slumbering behind it. We walk
farther and farther, to what I can only imagine is the complete
other end of the castle, and then we stop beside a closed door. The
leopard leans onto its hind legs, reaching a paw up to turn the
knob. And from the light shining through a narrow crack in the
curtains, I see the beast.

His eyes are still closed.

My heart sinks.

The pack of wolves from yesterday lie
scattered across the floor, and I step between them to the windows,
throwing the curtains wide.

They all whine, growling softly.

"Hush!" I order, then pause.

When did I become confident enough to chide
wolves?

But they remain quiet, listening to me, so I
bolster the newfound assurance and give them each a pointed stare
as I continue to adjust the rest of the curtains, not stopping
until the entire room is bathed in sunlight.

Finally able to see clearly, I glance
around, realizing something. The beast is a total mess. A slob, I
mean. Clothes lay in disarray all over the place. Chairs are
knocked over on their sides. Pillows rest scattered across the
floor. The only thing in the entire room that seems to be in its
perfect spot is a painting hanging over the fireplace, a young boy
with his parents. A young boy with ebony hair, ivory skin, and eyes
the color of a rainstorm.

Before I can take a closer look, a soft moan
draws my attention to the bed.

The beast is wriggling in his skin, showing
signs of life. But his eyes are still closed. I put a hand to his
brow. It feels warm. But he's not sweating or mumbling. He doesn't
seem feverish. Yet he flinches in his sleep, shaking his head,
almost as though in the middle of a terrible dream.

"Shh."

I lift myself beside him on the soft
mattress, leaning over to stroke the line of his cheekbones until
the creases leave his face. He leans into my palm as though sensing
my touch, as though it pulls him from the nightmare. He sighs and a
small smile settles onto his lips.

My heart twinges tenderly.

I'm so startled by the reaction that I pull
away.

But not far.

My eyes continue to roam, and it's only then
that I notice the angry scratches covering his arms and the gashes
along his fingertips. Painful cuts from the extra sharp thorns I
used to attack him. They're still red and raw.

I turn to the wolves, knowing they'll
somehow understand me. "I need a bowl and a rock. Water if you can
find it. Fresh towels. And most importantly, a potted plant. A
flower. Anything with soil. It doesn’t matter."

They leave quickly, returning one by one
with all the items I need, dropping them at my feet. The lessons my
mother taught me a decade ago come flooding back. Magic burns my
fingertips as I breathe medicinal herbs to life, the kind my mother
showed me how to use to help heal wounds. Using the rock, I crush
the leaves against the side of the bowl, adding water and a little
dirt, until I have a dark evergreen salve. The work is easy and
comes naturally to me. After all, this is the beauty my magic was
created for, to give life, to save it. Not to end it. Using the
towel, I wash the cuts clean and cake the mud all over the beast's
exposed skin, trying not to focus on the fact that he's not wearing
a shirt…and might not be wearing any clothes for that matter.

My cheeks burn at the thought.

I can't stop the blush as it comes.

But I could stop looking. I could give
myself more breathing room.

I don't.

If anything, I grow more and more intrigued.
Scars decorate his skin like tattoos, various shapes and shades.
Some are deep and dark. Others are pale and only brush over the
surface. The marks of different sets of claws, a strange sort of
artwork. But the more I look, the more I touch, and the more I
can't help but notice how sturdy the muscles beneath those scars
are. My fingers trace the curve of his hard bicep, the slope of his
wide shoulder, the strong edge of his masculine jaw. The only part
of him that looks soft is his lips.

"Enjoying the view?"

It takes a second for the words to register.
And another for me to realize they came from the plush mouth I'd
just been admiring.

I snap up.

I'm staring into tumultuous clouds, about to
get swept away in the dark storm churning in his eyes. Or maybe I'm
already there.

"You can stop," he growls, narrowing his
gaze.

He tries to sit up, but I press on his
shoulders. "Stay put," I demand. And it takes every ounce of my
strength to keep him down. "I'm trying to help you."

His nostrils flare. "Why?"

"Relax, okay?" I mumble. For some reason,
it's become easy for me to boss him around. "You never would have
gotten these cuts yesterday if you hadn't followed me into the
storm. If you hadn't come to save me."

He lifts his brows, eyeing me pointedly. "I
think you mean I never would have gotten these cuts if you hadn’t
tried to kill me."

I swallow, dropping my gaze, and then shrug,
getting back to the work of rubbing the salve over his wounds. I'm
very conscious of putting my fingers on the green mud and only the
green mud, keeping the urge to let my hands wander in check.
"That’s beside the point."

"You're right," he says and reaches out to
grasp my arms, halting my movements. Without meaning to, my gaze
finds his again. "The point is I'm fine. As you've no doubt
noticed, it's not the first time I've been injured, and it
definitely won't be the last."

"Well," I say, drawing the word out as I try
to whip my arms out of his hold. But his grip is a vice I can't
shake. The more I try, the more futile I realize it is. Huffing, I
look back to him, annoyed by the smirk that's suddenly sprouted to
life on his lips. There's something about him that just makes me
want to wipe that grin right off his face. Something that makes me
want to fight rather than back down. Something that pushes all of
my normal wallflower urges to the far corners of my mind. "This is
the first time you've been injured by me. So will you just let go
of me and let me help?"