finally brought his image into focus was truly terrible. “You did not hurt me,” she said shakily.
His face, already drained of color, went perfectly blank. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. “Why do you weep, then?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.
She didn’t want to tell him. What would it change to tell him? Would he even believe her? She scarcely believed it herself, and yet she had only to look at him to feel, deep in her soul, that he had touched her as no other ever had. He cared for her. He had thrown away his only chance of breaking the curse upon him because he could not bear to see her hurt. He had lavished her with his passion and given her wondrous pleasure in return.
He hurt. She could only begin to imagine what torment his existence had been to him. He needed her as badly as she needed him.
“I do not know,” she lied.
He knew instantly that she was lying. Pain flickered in his eyes, contorted his features. “I can not help the beast I am,” he snarled, staring down at his hands as if he hardly recognized them as his own.
Bronwyn stared at his hands, as well, and then glanced down at herself, spying the deep red marks from their rough lovemaking, the beginnings of bruises. “Nay! You are no beast to me!”
He shook his head. Turning, he strode to the window and leapt upon the sill.
Bronwyn’s heart seemed to stand still in her chest. She couldn’t allow him to leave believing he had hurt her! Scrambling from the bed, she raced toward him. “I was weeping for us, beloved!” she cried, grasping his hand in both of hers and demanding that he look at her. “I love you, Nightshade,” she gasped breathlessly when his gaze met hers.
He snatched his hand back as if hers had burned him, stared at her wordlessly in shock for a split second and then his face contorted as if he were in terrible pain and he tumbled from her window.
Stunned, Bronwyn stared blankly at the thick snow falling beyond the window for many moments before she gathered her wits to look out. She could see nothing but the falling snow however and after a moment, shivering with both the cold from the storm and the coldness that had begun to creep inside of her, she closed the window and retreated to her bed, cursing herself for ten kinds of fool.
* * * *
Pain tore through him, pain such as he could not recall feeling in his memory. It blinded him, clawed at his mind so that he could not think. It was instinct that guided him to try to catch the air currents with his wings as he felt himself plummeting toward the ground below, but he had no control. Briefly, he felt an uplift of his body as if his wings had caught a strong updraft, felt the slowing of his descent, and then nothing.
He struck the ground with stunning force, a force that punched the air from his lungs and shut down thought for an unaccountable time. As he lay stunned, staring up at the white flakes fluttering down to powder his face, tangling in his eyelashes, he began to feel as if his skin was on fire. His teeth began to chatter together so loudly that the sound finally penetrated his preoccupation with the burning.
He was cold!
Stunned by that realization, he struggled in the shifting drift and finally managed to push himself upright. His hands, he discovered when he lifted them to see why they were stinging, were scraped and cut. He stared in disbelief at the abrasions as the bright red blood seeped to the surface and dripped to the snow.
Finally, he dropped his hands and pushed himself to his feet, looking around to get his bearings. A frown of puzzlement knit his brows when he realized that he could scarcely see for the dark and the pelting snow.
After a moment, he lifted his head and stared upward. Dimly, he could see the glow of light from a window high above him.
He’d fallen.
He’d injured himself in the fall.
He pondered that, staring at his palms
His face, already drained of color, went perfectly blank. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. “Why do you weep, then?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.
She didn’t want to tell him. What would it change to tell him? Would he even believe her? She scarcely believed it herself, and yet she had only to look at him to feel, deep in her soul, that he had touched her as no other ever had. He cared for her. He had thrown away his only chance of breaking the curse upon him because he could not bear to see her hurt. He had lavished her with his passion and given her wondrous pleasure in return.
He hurt. She could only begin to imagine what torment his existence had been to him. He needed her as badly as she needed him.
“I do not know,” she lied.
He knew instantly that she was lying. Pain flickered in his eyes, contorted his features. “I can not help the beast I am,” he snarled, staring down at his hands as if he hardly recognized them as his own.
Bronwyn stared at his hands, as well, and then glanced down at herself, spying the deep red marks from their rough lovemaking, the beginnings of bruises. “Nay! You are no beast to me!”
He shook his head. Turning, he strode to the window and leapt upon the sill.
Bronwyn’s heart seemed to stand still in her chest. She couldn’t allow him to leave believing he had hurt her! Scrambling from the bed, she raced toward him. “I was weeping for us, beloved!” she cried, grasping his hand in both of hers and demanding that he look at her. “I love you, Nightshade,” she gasped breathlessly when his gaze met hers.
He snatched his hand back as if hers had burned him, stared at her wordlessly in shock for a split second and then his face contorted as if he were in terrible pain and he tumbled from her window.
Stunned, Bronwyn stared blankly at the thick snow falling beyond the window for many moments before she gathered her wits to look out. She could see nothing but the falling snow however and after a moment, shivering with both the cold from the storm and the coldness that had begun to creep inside of her, she closed the window and retreated to her bed, cursing herself for ten kinds of fool.
* * * *
Pain tore through him, pain such as he could not recall feeling in his memory. It blinded him, clawed at his mind so that he could not think. It was instinct that guided him to try to catch the air currents with his wings as he felt himself plummeting toward the ground below, but he had no control. Briefly, he felt an uplift of his body as if his wings had caught a strong updraft, felt the slowing of his descent, and then nothing.
He struck the ground with stunning force, a force that punched the air from his lungs and shut down thought for an unaccountable time. As he lay stunned, staring up at the white flakes fluttering down to powder his face, tangling in his eyelashes, he began to feel as if his skin was on fire. His teeth began to chatter together so loudly that the sound finally penetrated his preoccupation with the burning.
He was cold!
Stunned by that realization, he struggled in the shifting drift and finally managed to push himself upright. His hands, he discovered when he lifted them to see why they were stinging, were scraped and cut. He stared in disbelief at the abrasions as the bright red blood seeped to the surface and dripped to the snow.
Finally, he dropped his hands and pushed himself to his feet, looking around to get his bearings. A frown of puzzlement knit his brows when he realized that he could scarcely see for the dark and the pelting snow.
After a moment, he lifted his head and stared upward. Dimly, he could see the glow of light from a window high above him.
He’d fallen.
He’d injured himself in the fall.
He pondered that, staring at his palms
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