Bitter Beauty: An ADR Short (Fallen Cross Pack Book 5) Read online

  “I—”

  “Christ on a crutch,” he mumbled. He reached her in two strides, and before she knew it, he had her in his arms again. This time he carried her through the wreckage and depositing her on the counter that had once held his potential dinner.

  He knelt before her and grabbed one of her feet, his large hands unexpectedly gentle as he turned her ankle this way and that.

  Marcela watched as a rivulet of her blood flowed from her foot down the length of his wrist, and she blushed. Could she be any more pathetic?

  “Please,” she said. “Just let me go. I’m sorry I wandered onto your property, and I’m sorry about the deer. Just let me go, and I’ll figure out a way to repay you. Or your Alpha. Whoever, just…”

  She flinched at the sting of a rather large piece of something being pulled from her flesh before those big hands moved on to her other foot.

  “Damn it, Marcela, this one’s pretty deep.” He wasn’t listening to her at all.

  “It’s okay. It will heal when I change again. They always do, so if you could just…”

  He was looking at her now, dead in the eye, and she didn’t like what she was seeing.

  “What do you mean, ‘they always do?’”

  Marcela crossed her arms over her bare chest and shrugged. “You know, wounds? Cuts, bruises, breaks and such? They all go away once the wolf comes out. So if you just let me go, I promise I’ll…”

  Okay, his face was going purple again, but Marcela couldn’t figure for the life of her what she’d done this time to cause it. “Are—you okay?” She tried to pull her foot from his hands, but his grasp only tightened.

  “Why do you know that?”

  “What?” She sounded like him now.

  “Why do you know that broken bones will heal?”

  “Look, I’m sorry I said anything. Really, this is nothing. I’ll just change back and be on my…”

  He was on his feet in a flash, and she nearly fell off the other side of the counter in her surprise. He caught her by the shoulders to stop her from toppling over, but that laser glare never left her eyes. And the longer he stared at her, the harder he squeezed.

  Marcela held her tongue as long as she could, but she was unable to keep the whimper of pain from escaping. She hated doing that, showing weakness, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. Occasionally, it was even enough to make it stop. Not often, but it had been known to happen.

  You’d have thought she slapped him, though, and he let go so quickly she lost her balance again, and had to jam her elbows into the marble countertop to stop her backward momentum.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, and took two steps back. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  And with that, he stalked into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter Eleven

  B utch had never wanted to hurt someone so badly in his entire life. Not Marcela, no. But whoever had done those unspeakable things to her? That person, he wanted to kill, because there was no doubt in his mind now that this little wolf had been abused.

  Did she have any idea how hard it was to break a Werewolf’s bones? Flesh was one thing, but bone? Even when in human form, they were incredibly hard to damage, and yet she spoke of it as though it were an everyday occurrence.

  Butch paced the width of the bedroom, working hard to calm his temper. The last thing she needed was some hot-headed wolf all up in her face. And yet, the thought of someone hurting her? The idea of her skinny arms or legs being broken on purpose?

  Something inside of him was about to explode, and he knew it was more than just his human sensibilities. His wolf was furious. This little slip of a girl had just waltzed into his life and not only taken his dinner and destroyed his solitude, but now she had his wolf riled up as well.

  It was going to take more than a few laps around the bedroom to calm down his alter ego, and yet he couldn’t leave her alone for long. There was nothing stopping her from doing just what she said—changing into her wolf and slipping away into the night.

  Away from him.

  Shit.

  Butch stalked across the room and swung the door open so hard it bounced off the wall and hit him in the ass on his way through. He jumped and swore, but the sound of her giggles, pulled him up short.

  She’d found an afghan somewhere in all the mess and was wearing it like a sarong. Her feet were covered with dishtowels, and though her blood was soaking through, they at least gave her some protection from the sharp objects littering the floor

  In one hand she held a plastic garbage sack, already half filled with the broken bits and pieces of his life. When she saw him staring at her, she schooled her expression and went on with her task—cleaning up the mess he had made.

  “Stop,” he said. The thought of her playing domestic goddess in his home wasn’t altogether unpleasant—surprisingly—but she was touching his stuff. It might be broken, but it was his, and—fuck his wolf—it bothered him.

  “I’m just going to tidy up, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “I said, ‘stop.’”

  She stopped.

  “I just…I need to sort through. See if there’s anything salvageable.”

  “Oh.” She looked between the fractured item she held in her hand and the bag.

  Butch walked over and took the vase from her, then carried it to the fireplace mantle where, only a few ticks before, he’d been prepared to smash it to smithereens. He placed it carefully on the rough-hewn wood, turned it slightly so the crack was hidden in the back, and gave it a curt nod of approval. It made no sense. It was a worthless piece of clay, but the idea of throwing it away made him queasy.

  He then returned to her and removed the sack from her hand. She looked ridiculous in that makeshift dress and slippers, her dark hair a wild tangle around her face after who knew how long in her wolf form. Her caramel eyes were wary, but she didn’t back away. She just stood there and watched him as he took over.

  Butch glanced at her feet again, and managed to only twitch a little at the sight of his favorite dishtowels soaked in her blood. He wasn’t sure which part caused the spasms—her blood or his ruined towels—but either way, she needed something to wear.

  He stalked back into the bedroom, and returned a moment later with a stack of clothing. None of it was going to fit her, but it was the best he could do on short notice.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the pile. “It’s not much, but it’ll have to do until I can get to town. The bathroom’s back there, on the left,” he added, motioning to the hallway. “If you need anything, just holler.”

  Chapter Twelve

  M arcela took what was offered and headed off to the bathroom, which was right where he said it would be.

  Like the rest of the house, the room was small and spartan. The sink and tub were white porcelain with chrome faucets and hardware. The tile was plain, and the toilet utilitarian.

  Laying the pile of clothes in the basin, Marcela closed the lid on the john and sat, bracing her head in her hands, her calloused elbows on her knees. She couldn’t seem to get anything right with this wolf. Everything she touched fell apart, and every move was the wrong one.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why he didn’t just let her go. Surely the Alpha, whatever that was, didn’t mean to keep her prisoner. It seemed everyone else she’d encountered at the big cabin was free to come and go as they pleased, so it would make no sense that she among all of them would be considered dangerous. Still, it was clear that she was not at liberty to leave.

  And he hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself. He knew her name now, but she was still calling him Man-Wolf.

  Marcela crossed a leg over her knee and went about removing the thick towel she’d tied to her foot, then repeated the process. The cuts on her left heel were already healing, but he’d been right about the other. It was still bleeding, and was going to need some tending. That was when she noticed the bloody Rorschach test she’d trailed into the bathroom, love
ly little splotches she’d left with every step she took.

  It just got better and better.

  With a slump in her shoulders, Marcela stood to look through the cabinets, hoping to find some first aid supplies. She was not disappointed, as the third drawer she opened revealed everything she would need.

  Several butterfly bandages and a bit of gauze later, she’d stemmed the blood flow, and was able to sort through the clothes she’d been given without fear of leaving another mess on the floor. Her choices were limited: sweatpants that, when she held them up, were as long as she was tall and a flannel shirt that would be as much a dress on her as anything. No shoes, of course, but he did throw in a pair of crew socks that might only come up to her knee pits.

  She dropped the afghan to the floor and grabbed the sweats. They were a definite no go. No matter how many times she rolled down the waist and rolled up the legs, they still managed to fall off of her when she moved. The shirt covered her well, though, and with the addition of the socks, she was nearly respectable.

  Another quick search provided her with a hairbrush, which she dragged through her tangles, and a brand new toothbrush. He would probably have a hissy fit over her using it, but the taste of vomit was still prominent, and he would just have to deal.

  Once she was presentable, she took the cleaner of the towels and wet it in the sink, then knelt to the floor to swab the blood off the tiles. She opened the door and crawled along, wiping up each bloody splotch along the way.

  As she turned the corner into the hallway, a light caught her eye, and she glanced up to see that the door across from the bathroom was opened just a bit.

  She glanced down the hall to confirm the coast was clear, then crawled closer and gave the door a nudge. It swung open on silent hinges, and exposed to her the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  W hat in the world is taking her so long?

  Butch had given up the sorting process as a bad job, and ended up sweeping the broken bits into piles and tossing them into the bag Marcela had started. He did manage to save the antlers that had once been his lamp, and a couple of other small keepsakes, but for the most part, the room was trashed.

  He’d pushed the furniture back into place, using a pile of old Sports Illustrated magazines to shore up the broken leg on the sofa until he could make better repairs. Two of his less-important lamps had survived and were now sitting in their proper places on the end tables next to the couch and leather recliner.

  In the end, he’d had to retrieve several more garbage bags to handle all the trash. He carried the lot out to the garage, and when he returned to the cabin he realized she had not come back from the bathroom.

  As he walked down the hall, he noticed the red splotches she’d left in her wake. They ended in front of the bathroom, the last one partially scrubbed with the wet towel that sat in its middle.

  And the library door was open.

  Butch’s library was the one room in his cabin that he had taken special care in decorating. He’d built the shelves himself from a mahogany tree he’d driven all the way to Florida to select just for this purpose. He’d planed the wood, shaping each board to his exact specification, and in the cornice he’d carved a pack of wolves on the hunt. The library table was built with the remaining wood, and he’d spent three months looking for just the right chairs to complete the look he was going for.

  This room was his refuge, the place he escaped to when being alone in his cabin wasn’t enough. It was his solace and his peace. His sanctum sanctorum.

  When he caught sight of her running her hands along the spines of the books on a low shelf, her eyes alive with something besides fear, his breath caught. She walked around the room, pulling out books, then putting them back exactly as they had been. Her mouth was open, and he heard her gasp once or twice as she noticed what he assumed was a particular favorite.

  He watched as she continued around the room, his red flannel shirt hanging just below her knees, his socks sagging around her ankles as she examined each shelf as best she could. She reached up to pull a book from a higher shelf, causing the shirt to ride up a bit. Butch’s mouth fell open as that something stirred once again within him. She’d been naked for the better part of their time together, and yet the sight of her in his clothes, baring just that much thigh, was enough to make his jeans tight.

  And it felt…right.

  For the first time since that little wolf had stumbled into his world, he knew that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

  Chapter Fourteen

  M arcela was in heaven.

  The one thing her father had never denied her was access to books. He insisted on educating her, or rather, her educating herself as he wasn’t inclined to be much of a teacher. But he provided her with cassette tapes to teach her reading and writing, and he forced her to watch Sesame Street every day, his one exception to the “no TV” rule. “I’ll not have any daughter of mine be ignorant,” he was fond of saying. “Filthy beast or not.”

  Of course, if she failed at all in her studies, it was just another excuse for him to beat her, but once she figured it out, she took every opportunity she could to bury herself in whatever books he brought home from the library.

  Most of the time, they were way above her reading level, but that didn’t matter. She just worked harder to decipher them, reading with a dictionary at her side for the inevitable words she didn’t understand or couldn’t pronounce.

  But this? This was the most incredible thing she had ever experienced. All of these books, all in one place! Big ones, little ones, fat ones, skinny ones—even some she’d actually read. Every single one was a jewel in its own right, and she truly believed she had died, and maybe she wasn’t such a bad little wolf after all.

  Someone moaned, and Marcela jumped at the sound, remembering this was not her home, and these were not her things. She looked up to see the man-wolf staring at her, a strange look about him, though it wasn’t altogether menacing.

  That changed when she dropped the book she was holding, a first edition of Mark Twain’s “Tom Sawyer.” It landed on the floor with a soft thud, and she saw him flinch, his eyes narrowing a bit as she scrambled to retrieve the fallen soldier.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, stuttering out a few more apologetic words as she carefully replaced the book in its spot. For some reason, that only made him groan again. “I shouldn’t have come in here.” She wiped her hands on her borrowed shirt and turned to leave, but he wouldn’t let her pass.

  She took a step back, but he was still looking at her with that strange glow in his eyes, almost as though he were fighting his wolf.

  Note to self: stay out of the library.

  “I’ll just…go,” she tried again, but his large frame filled the doorway, and it was obvious he didn’t plan to let her off the hook that easily. She took another step back, but now he was stalking her, matching each step of her retreat with a forward pace of his own. When her heel connected with the bottom shelf of one of those fantastic book cases, she knew there would be no escape.

  His eyes were starting to glow for real now as he stared down into hers, and she was like a rabbit, frozen by his predatorial gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” she tried again, but that was the only thing she managed before the man-wolf lunged for her.

  Marcela tensed, prepared for the worst, but when his lips met hers, it was completely unexpected.

  His kiss was hot and urgent, and when she relaxed into it, he snaked his arms around her waist and picked her up, holding her close as he explored her mouth.

  Marcela wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and she pressed herself against him, driven by some inner instinct to be as close to him as she could get. It was powerful, magical, and she lost herself in the feelings shooting through her body like a Fourth of July fireworks display had been staged in her middle.

  When he released her it was sudden and complete. She found herself sprawled
on the floor and panting as the man-wolf marched himself out of the room without a backward glance.

  Marcela picked herself up, but it was several minutes before her breathing evened out and she was able to see properly.

  She didn’t know what had prompted it, or why he had departed so quickly, but as first kisses went, she supposed this one was more than adequate.

  Chapter Fifteen

  B utch ran through the cabin and out the door, shedding clothing in his wake. He was well into the woods when his wolf took over, the change grabbing him violently, driving him to the ground in a shift more painful than any he had ever experienced.

  The little wolf—Marcella—God, what was she doing to him? Never had he been so out of control, so at the mercy of the wolf that shared his soul. Never had he felt the need to fight the change, to rein in the creature that was driving him to do things he would never have considered.

  My God, I kissed her.

  With his wolf fully emerged, Butch rose from the forest floor, shook the debris from his fur and ran. This brought on another internal brawl, as the wolf fought to run back home—back to her–and Butch struggled to keep them running away, further into the woods.

  Human Butch won—barely.

  As a compromise to his wolf’s desire, they hunted.

  He soon happened upon a buck, one with a rack that far surpassed that of the one whose antlers had adorned Butch’s shattered lamp. It should have taken at least three of his brothers to help Butch take the monster whitetail down. His current mood being what it was, his wolf prevailed and they were dining on venison as the moon reached its zenith.

  He should have been concerned about leaving her alone in his house. He should have been afraid she might disappear into the night. He should have been worried about a lot of things, but in that moment, all he could think about was keeping his wolf occupied and away from her.