Blood Moon

Chapter Three

When I awaken, I’m not lying in the forest, amid the trees and dirt, like I thought; I’m back in the barn, in my clothes, wrapped in a warm, snuggly blanket. The hay scratches my cheek and itches, but it’s better than freezing my naked ass off. Glancing up, I catch sight of Ben, who sits at my feet and is watching me closely.

“Hey,” I murmur.

He smiles. “Welcome back, Princess.”

I smirk and look up at the rafters in the barn, contemplating last night’s events. Maybe it was a stupid idea for me to run off like that, after a wolf we know nothing about. We still don’t. All we’re sure of is that the wolf’s sidekick is some woman, who can turn into a flock of angry birds and summon black fog.

“I know what you’re thinking,” says Ben.

“Of course you do. We’re marked.”

He grins, but in his eyes, he looks exhausted. “That’s not what I meant.” He goes on, “I can’t stop thinking about last night; it was a little too weird for me. I’ve seen some strange shit in my day, but this doesn’t even come close. The magic she used is powerful. My family would love it; it’s what they ultimately want.” He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees and rubbing his hands together. “But what she said about us finding the original Ancient, the first person who conjured this magic, is what’s bothering me. What’s the price we have to pay? And why aren’t we ready? None of this makes any sense.”

I gulp away the knot in my throat. “What if all of this was a trap? What if Alaric knew we couldn’t handle the magic in this time period? He’s probably laughing somewhere in the future, wherever it was we dropped him off.”

“It’s like a bad dream I can’t wake up from,” says Ben. He stands up, walks a few steps, and lies down next to me. I share the blanket with him, and nuzzle up against his neck, entirely content for now.

“Where’d you get this?” I inquire, lifting the cover a tiny bit.

Ben chuckles. “It’s a horse blanket.”

I bolt upright. “What? Ew. Gross.”

“Hush. It’s better than freezing our asses off.” He tugs me down next to him again. “You know, we still need a plan.”

“Like, how not to piss off an Ancient, yet still be able to figure out who they are?”

Ben grunts. “Yeah, something like that.”

“We’ll just have to keep an eye out for anything unusual—behavior, people unaccounted for, strange occurrences, etcetera. But first, we need clothes to blend in with the rest of civilization, and food.” He rubs my side, which is slowly lulling me to sleep. I close my eyes and snuggle closer to him, half my body on top of his. “I’m so calm right now, I don’t even want to get up and do anything.”

“Okay, how about we take a nap, and then we can figure our next course of action?” he suggests.

I grin. “Sounds fantastic.”

Later, after we’ve rested, Ben and I wander toward the heart of Colchester. We’re still not entirely certain what we’ll do without money, but I’m sure we’ll figure out something. We need to blend in, not cause a scene. So Ben gets this bright idea of offering our services—cooking, cleaning, whatever—in exchange for clothing. Of course, everybody in this time period sews outfits by hand, and obviously Ben and I don’t have the knowledge or the means to do so. Luckily for us, the woman who owns the fabric store, Fiona, is kind enough to take us up on our proposal, though she never questions why we’re dressed the way we are.

“Ye can start right away,” she says. A tendril of brunette hair dangles in front of her face, having loosened itself from her bun, and she hastily tucks it behind her ear. “I need the floors swept, the materials organized, and the inventory inspected.”

Oh, inventory . . . I can do that. It reminds me of working at Livia’s Corner Closet with Jana, where she and I stocked clothing and checked inventory all the time. The brief thought of Jana makes me homesick, though. I wonder what she, Blake, and the others are doing at this exact moment.

You can’t think like that, Candra, Ben says, interrupting my thoughts. Whatever happens in the future depends on us and what we find out within the next few weeks or so. But we have to play our cards carefully.

Ignoring Ben, I tell Fiona, “I’ll be happy to help with the inventory.” She raises an eyebrow inquiringly. “I helped at another . . . fabric store in my old town, so I have experience.”

“Well, that settles it, then. And ye?” She pointedly eyes Ben. “What are ye good at?”

“Uh,” Ben falters, “I can sweep the floors, I guess.”

“’Tis not a man’s job to clean, ye know,” Fiona explains. She narrows her eyes. “Word on the street is the two of ye are not from around here. Thy clothes are unlike anything I have seen before. Is this”—she gestures toward our attire—“a new fashion elsewhere?”

“You could say that,” I respond.

She steps closer to me, observing my face suspiciously. “And thy language is unique, as well. Also naught I am familiar with.”

Ben clears his throat. “Well, that’s just how we speak back home.”

Fiona turns her attention to Ben. “And where is thy home?”

He and I exchange a cautious glance. We can easily step on peoples’ toes around here and get caught. That’s not something which needs to happen. Like Ben said before, we have to play our cards carefully.

Ben replies, “Connecticut.”

Fiona ponders his response, then says, “My ears have not heard of thy land. ’Tis near England?”

Shaking his head, Ben answers, “No, our land is far, far away.”

“I see,” says Fiona. “Then, how did the two of ye arrive here?”

“We just sort of . . . dropped in for a visit. We heard England is a nice place. I hope Colchester’s citizens will prove this to be true,” I say, wishing this woman will end her grilling. I’m sure all of Colchester is dying to know who we are and where we originated from, but the less they know, the better. We can’t have these people submerging their noses in our business; it’s too risky.

“Aye, of course we will. Ye shall see our kindness thyself, just ye wait,” Fiona says eventually. “Allow me to gather thy measurements first, and then ye can proceed with tidying this place up.”

True to her word, Fiona takes Ben and me into a back room of the charming boutique and calculates our sizes. I have no idea what mine is, especially in this day and age, but I’m willing to bet it’s nothing like the size I sport in my world. The strange part will be when Ben and I have to actually wear these new clothes. Let’s get one thing straight: I know nothing about corsets and skirts. I haven’t worn dresses since my mom used me as her personal baby doll when I was, like, five or six. Once I had a mind of my own, I was dead-set on being the neighborhood tomboy.

“That should do,” Fiona says, as she finishes with Ben. “Candra, ye can stay here and I shall show ye the inventory. Benjamin, the broom is in the front of the shop, alongside the entrance.”

“Thank you for doing this. You didn’t have to,” I tell her.

Her cheeks actually flush a rosy red. “’Tis the least I could do since ye are destitute travelers. I will say, I am envious ye are able to traverse different countries. It has always been my dream.”

“Well, maybe one day you’ll see your dream come true,” I say. “And maybe somebody out there in the world will be as kindhearted to you as you have been to us. You know, good karma and all that.”

Fiona’s eyebrows crumple together. “Karma?”

Ben pipes up. “It’s the universe making sure people get what they deserve, which means you’ll have something nice happen to you for helping the two of us.”

Fiona considers this for a moment, then smiles. “That sounds lovely.”

Counting inventory and sweeping the entire boutique doesn’t take long for Ben and me. As a matter of fact, we complete our jobs and then some before the day is finished. In the meantime, Fiona and her helpers labor intensively in the back room over our new clothing, certain they will have the project finished by tomorrow.

As the sun sets on another day, I realize Ben and I haven’t made much progress toward our ultimate goal—finding Alaric, Ulric, and Daciana, and stopping the curse. Should we encounter another witchy werewolf in the near future, though, I’m not entirely sure I want to find our ancestors. Not only is it creepy, it’s just downright bizarre. Since when does a person go from transforming into a werewolf to transforming into birds? If I had a power like that, I’d definitely screw it up, possibly turning myself into a flock of geese rather than sinister crows.

And if what Ben said is true, if the abilities used are far greater than anything his family conjured back in Hartford, we’re royally screwed. We can’t even begin to comprehend magic this dark, let alone try to stop it from ever happening. There’s only one option to take at this point: blend in with the rest of Colchester and see if we can find anything abnormal. Maybe we can locate Alaric and the others, follow them to wherever they live, unearth whoever is using the magic, and then figure out a way to stop them from ever causing this curse.

Before we end their practices, though, Ben and I need to figure out a way to get back home. I’m afraid they’re powerful enough to revoke our magical capabilities, and if they do, they’ll revoke all access to the past, present, and future. Which means Ben and I are stuck in the sixteenth century until we’re dead, and that’s undeniably not something I wish to think about.

Fiona’s employees have left for the evening, and Ben and I join Fiona as she locks up her shop. She turns around to face us, seemingly happy with the day’s work.

“Ye toiled with many chores today, and ye went beyond what I asked,” says Fiona. “Gratitude for thy help.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Ben says. “If you need anything repaired, or need anything else cleaned, let us know.”

Fiona smiles and nods, but then her features shift into serious mode. “I do not mean to trouble ye, but where are ye staying? A room at Murdock’s, perhaps?”

Ben and I exchange glances. This isn’t something we discussed, should we be asked.

“Um,” I begin, deciding that, since I gave a lecture about karma, it’s best to speak the truth, “we’re sleeping in a barn near the forest.” I point toward the horizon, where the countryside meets the densely-wooded area.

Fiona gasps, but collects herself, holding one hand atop her heart. “Nobody goes into the dark forest.”

Talk about theatrics! This lady can pass as an actress.

“And why not?” I try not to smirk, but this melodramatic performance is making it very hard not to be amused.

Expressionless, she says, “Because nobody comes out alive.”

Okay, seriously? If I hadn’t experienced the crazy witch-wolf last night, I wouldn’t believe her. This reminds me of those creepy movies where everybody tells the newcomers not to enter a specific vicinity, and then they do it anyway, only to discover they should’ve listened. Except, in mine and Ben’s case, we already know the dangers that lurk behind the wall of trees. Still, I pretend I have no idea what Fiona’s talking about.

I feign shock: eyes widen, mouth slackens, my hand mimics Fiona’s, which remains on her chest. “They all just . . . die? What, exactly, is in there?”

Cute, Princess. Really freaking cute, says Ben.

Shut it! She’s been nice to us so far, and she’s our only chance at surviving this place, so unless you have a better idea . . .

“The two of ye should join me for supper. I shall explain everything over hot fare—and we can get ye washed up. Come,” she says, using one hand to gently press between my shoulder blades and push me toward her home.

See, I enlighten Ben, she wants to help us. HOT FOOD, Ben, hot food! I’m so hungry and my stomach has been growling all day and . . . and . . .

All right, Candra, I get it. Mine has, too. The berries obviously weren’t enough.

Say it, then. Say, “You were right and I was wrong.”

No.

Ben!

“—are ye betrothed? Married?” Fiona says, yanking me out of my mental conversation with Mr. Sore Loser over here.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The two of ye,” Fiona repeats, “are ye betrothed? Or are ye married?”

Before I can respond, Ben blurts, “We’re married.”

I jerk my head around to face him. He shrugs.

“As I believed,” says Fiona. “I have an extra room the two of ye can share, until ye decide to continue thy travels.”

“We’d be very grateful for that,” Ben says. “Thank you.”

Suppressing my inner thoughts about mine and Ben’s fake marriage, I attempt to see the lighter side of things, like how we’ll have a warm bed to sleep in and a hot meal to eat. I’ll take anything I can get at the moment; it’s better than sleeping with horses. And it’s definitely better than sleeping near the same forest where strange events have occurred. I shudder when reflecting on the crow lady.

“Oh, dear,” Fiona says, “are ye cold? I shall have a bath made for ye after suppertime.”

I can already feel my muscles relaxing. “That sounds wonderful.”

Fiona’s home is on the other side of town, far away from the forest, and the barn Ben and I were sleeping in only the night before. The roof is made of what looks like hay, and the entire structure is composed of stones and wood. Inside, we’re immediately greeted by a table, a fireplace, and wooden shelves used for storing pots, pans, and tableware. Off to our left, three rooms are snugly joined; one straight ahead, the other two on the right, facing the front of the house.

“’Tis not much, but ’tis home. I want ye to meet my daughter.” Fiona beams affectionately. “Francine, dear! Come meet our guests.”

Fiona and Francine, how cute.

I wonder if she was named after France, Ben says.

Oh, my God. No. Just . . . stop while you’re ahead.

What? It’s not out of the realm of possibility. Fiona wants to travel, so she names her daughter after a nearby country.

A young girl of about fourteen emerges from the second room closest to the back. Her fingers are entwined and rest on her apron. Her eyes are downcast. This girl looks anything but happy to see us—not that she’s actually looked up and seen our faces. She comes to a halt at Fiona’s side, and Fiona reaches out to tenderly pet her hair.

“What do ye say?” Fiona squeezes Francine’s shoulder.

“Hello,” Francine says.

“Is she afraid of us?” I inquire.

Fiona seems confused by this statement, but then her features relax. “Ye mean, why will she not look at ye?” I nod, so Fiona continues, “She was born without sight.”

Well, now I feel like a shithead.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “If you need any help . . .”

Fiona smiles genuinely, adding, “’Tis all right. We have managed well thus far. Now, Francine, show our guests their room while I fetch the water from the well.”

Francine nods and begins walking down the short hallway. Her hand reaches out, grazing the wall, until she stops in front of the first room. “This is thy room,” she murmurs, her voice so soft I can barely hear it.

“Thank you, Francine,” I say. She doesn’t reply. Instead, she continues walking, disappearing into her bedroom.

Ben and I enter the small space. There’s a single bed in the corner, a brass-colored tub on the opposite wall, and a chest of drawers directly to our right. Three candle holders with white candlesticks balance out the quarters; one sits atop the chest of drawers, one near a small table beside the bed, and the other rests on the windowsill.

“I can’t wait to sleep,” says Ben.

“I can’t wait to take a bath and eat some food,” I counter.

We plop down on the feathered mattress. A handmade quilt is folded at the foot, and several down pillows are at the head. I’ve never craved slumber so much in my life.

Fiona appears at the doorway. “Supper shall be ready soon. I am sure ye are weary from thy travels, so I made additional portions.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I say. “You didn’t have to do this, you know, but we’re grateful.”

“Very grateful,” Ben adds.

Fiona smiles warmly, and her cheeks flush. “I shall just . . .” she trails off, pointing toward the kitchen in the next room. Her heels click on the floorboards as she walks the short distance to the hearth.

My stomach growls just thinking about a hot meal, and I rub it gingerly. “I’m so damn hungry,” I mumble.

“At least we don’t have to wait awhile before eating,” says Ben. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me tightly against him.

“Supper is ready!” Fiona calls. Francine passes by our room, her fingers trailing against the wall.

“I feel bad about what I said,” I tell Ben. “About Francine, I mean.”

“Don’t be. You had no way of knowing.”

“Sometimes my mouth just says whatever’s on my mind, like I don’t have a filter.”

Ben cuts me a deadpan glare. “Sometimes? How about all the time?”

“Yeah, okay. You know what I mean.”

We make our way to the dining-room-slash-kitchen area and sit down at the small table, which only has four chairs. Fiona scoops large spoonfuls of piping-hot stew into wooden bowls and places them before us, along with wooden spoons. Francine sits across from me, unblinking. Somehow, I wish there was a way to chat with her, to let her know we’re trustworthy. I have a feeling she’s quiet all the time, though.

“My hope is that ’tis sufficient,” Fiona says, as she takes her seat next to Francine.

Taking my first bite, I assure her it’s perfect. The broth warms my mouth, and I feel it slide all the way to my stomach. I haven’t tasted anything so hearty since we left Hartford behind—and Beth’s cooking.

Apparently, Ben approves, as well, if his grunting and moaning have anything to do with it. I nudge him with my elbow a couple of times so he’ll settle down. The dinner table is definitely not a place to exhibit porn-star qualities.

Though she’s blushing, there’s a smile working its way onto Fiona’s lips. She clears her throat. “I am happy ye find my fare pleasing.”

Ben nods several times, but never looks up from his bowl. He reminds me of the Beast from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, when he and Belle sit down to eat porridge, and he just buries his face in the bowl. That’s pretty much what Ben is doing right now. I elbow his ribs several times, but he’s too focused on the food, eating like an animal. Finishing off what’s left, he wipes his mouth on the collar of his T-shirt.

“That was fantastic,” he says. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

Fiona reaches across the table and collects his bowl, returning to the stove to fill it with seconds. Ben’s eyes twinkle like a kid who’s been told he can have cookies before dinner. When Fiona sets the bowl chock-full of stew in front of him again, Ben immediately digs in.

Searching for a distraction from Ben’s awful manners, I ask Fiona, “Will you tell us the stories of the dark forest now?”

She hesitates, pinching her lips together, then glances at Francine, who has not yet finished her stew. “Francine, darling, hurry up and eat so ye can say thy prayers and sleep.” She kisses the top of her head, as Francine obediently consumes her dinner.

After she tucks Francine in for the night, Fiona returns to her place at the table. “The stories began over a year ago. Some say they were fables to keep children out of the woods, others say they were as real as us.” She waves her fingers back and forth between Ben and me, and herself. “’Twas not until a couple of young lads ventured out for a hunt and never returned that the fables took new meaning. Most of Colchester chose not to believe that strange creatures lived nearby; they either believed the boys were lost and would one day return, or wild animals attacked them and naught remained. One thing is for certain: they never came home.” Her shoulders twitch as she stares down at the table, lost in the memory of those poor souls. “Then the howling came. At night, we could hear the wolves. They were so close, yet never showed their faces, always hidden and protected by the darkness and web of trees. Hunting parties searched for the creatures of the night, and not a single man made it out alive.” She hastily swipes away the tears from her eyes.

I realize something that’s been in front of me all along—Fiona’s husband has yet to show himself. From what little I know of history, it’s that women always married young and produced children. They always had a man to support the family, one who would put food on the table and be a handyman for household repairs. Fiona doesn’t have that.

And if I let my gut do the talking, if I listen to it, it says that her husband was one of the men who went after the werewolves and never returned.

“Oh, my God.” I gasp, covering my mouth with one hand. A spiky, nipping sensation pricks the backs of my eyes, and they begin to dampen. “Your husband . . .”

Fiona nods almost imperceptibly. “Aye,” is all she says. She quickly wipes away more tears. “Presently, ’tis only Francine and myself, and we manage very well. Nevertheless, I would be lying if I said I did not miss him every day.”

I reach out and place my hand on her arm. “Well, of course you do. I’m sure Francine misses him, too. I’m very sorry for your loss. If there’s anything Ben and I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask us.”

She nods rapidly, letting the tears freely descend her cheeks this time. “My gratitude.” She collects our empty dishes and places them in at the end of the table. “I shall go fetch more water to warm, so ye can bathe.” Grabbing a shawl from a nail tacked into the wood by the door, she wraps herself and steps outside.

Ben purses his lips in a straight, grave line as he tugs me into his arms. He technically may not be my husband, but I can’t imagine losing him the way Fiona lost her love, especially with a child involved. It’s too bad Ben and I can’t return to the past to correct Fiona’s husband’s fate, but if we tried this with all of the people whose lives have been changed because of a tragedy, we’ll never return to Hartford.

“C’mon,” Ben says, coaxing me toward the guest room as he stands. I don’t waver to follow him; my muscles, my bones, and my entire body is too tired, and the warm supper has left me in a relaxed mood. He and I plop down on the soft mattress.

Fiona pokes her head around the corner. “Apologies if I am interrupting, but I have to heat the water in the kettle before I can pour it into the washtub.” She motions toward the brass-colored bathtub across the room. “I have brought in several buckets so ye needn’t wait very long.”

“Want some help?” Ben asks.

“Nay,” says Fiona. “The well is just outside.” She disappears to the main room of the house.

Ben and I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Without looking, Ben’s hand searches for mine, and upon discovering it, he interlocks our fingers. This is the great part about mine and Ben’s relationship: we don’t need frills or gimmicks to be happy. The intense bond is already there.

“We got lucky, you know,” I whisper. “We could’ve been sleeping in that barn for the remainder of our time here.”

Ben inhales a deep breath and loudly blows it out of his mouth. “Yeah, but we’re not. Everything happens for a reason, right? Maybe we have some divine intervention working in our favor today.”

“Or maybe we just got lucky.”

He turns his head toward me, narrowing his eyes. “Tenacious.”

“Always,” I retort.

“Only a little more time!” Fiona calls from the other room.

I sit up, and Ben rises to his elbows. He closes his eyes, and the moonlight shining through the small window illuminates his face. My angel of the night, I think.

Am I now? he says, raising his eyebrows.

Leave it to Ben to ruin a blissful moment . . .

“Why can’t you just let me check you out when you aren’t looking?”

Grinning like a fool, he says, “Because that’s kind of creepy.” I smack him. “Borderline stalker-ish, even.” I punch him this time. “Jeez, I should just get a restraining order. I mean, look at you—you can hardly keep your hands off me.”

Dramatically gasping, I seize the opportunity to leap on top of him . . . just as Fiona enters the room.

“Oh, my!” she says, clutching at her heart again. “Apologies, I did not intend to interrupt.”

I scramble back into my sitting position. “I promise it’s not like that.”

Making matters worse, Ben mumbles, “Liar. You just wanted to get me out of these clothes.”

I can literally feel heat radiating through my cheeks. Am I . . . blushing? How can he embarrass me like this? Poor Fiona! She probably thinks we hump each other like rabbits. Meanwhile, we haven’t done anything of the sort; we’re too busy steering clear of the wrath of each other’s family.

Fiona finishes dumping the heated water into the tub, while I give Ben the stink eye. He’s too cocky for his own good, just sitting there, basking in delight. I’ll get him back. I swear I will.

As Fiona exits the room to warm more water, Ben reaches out and tenderly runs his fingers across my cheeks. “You’re flushed,” he says. “I can see that even with what little light is in here.” I smack his hand away and he chuckles. “We’re married, remember? Married couples do that stuff all the time.”

“Not in the sixteenth century! They had morals back then.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Fiona returns with more boiling water. She refuses to look at us. I feel so, so mortified. I can’t even begin to express my emotions into words.

“I shall allow the others to heat, and then thy bath shall be ready,” says Fiona. She leaves the room once again.

“Should we start undressing now, or . . .?”

“Ben!” I hit him. Hard. He deserves it.

Sniggering, he says, “Okay, fine. We’ll wait.”

A little while later, our bath is finally prepared, and Fiona retires for the night. Ben and I just sit on the edge of the bed, eyeing the tub like it’s about to magically grow legs and walk out of the room. Finally, I take the initiative to strip. I mean, it’s not like Ben hasn’t seen me naked on this trip already. And maybe, just maybe, I can hold this over his head. Payback’s always a bitch.

I begin with my jeans and shirt, socks and shoes follow, and then my undies and bra. Feigning a seductive air, I turn to him and say, “Aren’t you going to join me?” He doesn’t hesitate; his clothes are off in a fraction of the time it took for me to remove mine. I step into the hot water, allowing the warmth to seep through to my bones. It feels amazing, not only because it’s so chilly outside, but because I haven’t had a bath in two days. Gross.

Ben slides into the tub opposite me, his eyes never leaving mine. They start to glow a deep, rich amber, and that can only mean one thing—he’s completely turned on. Inwardly, I throw a victory party.

But I’m not finished yet.

Oh, he wanted to put on a show, so now he’s going to get what’s coming to him. I rise to my knees and progressively travel to where he sits, allowing him a full view of my exposed torso. Licking his lips, his eyes skim over my body, from head to waist and back up again. When he ogles me once more, there’s no denying the hunger.

“Candra,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Yes, baby?” I dip down and allow my lips to linger just above his. “Is this what you wanted?”

He shakes his head. “No, I want you.” His arms circle my waist so hastily, I react by squealing in surprise. Water sloshes in the tub, like waves crashing against a shore. Ben’s lips crush mine, reckless with passion, as if he’ll never have the chance to kiss me again. My skin prickles underneath his fingertips—even in the steaming water—as they caress my arms, the sides of my breasts, down, down, down my waist, my hips, my thighs, eventually trailing upward from my legs and settling on my rear. He digs his fingers in and yanks me closer. Inadvertently, I moan. Ben gently separates our lips. “Ah, Princess, do you know the affect you have on me?”

Words jumble in my mind, refusing to form on my tongue.

Ben perceives my silence as confirmation that I have no idea what I do to him. He draws me closer by the throat, gripping it tighter. My eyes half-lidded, I gaze at his curved mouth drawing nearer and nearer to mine. Our lips meet again. My eyelids close on their own accord, and I open myself up to him. His searing breath heats my mouth, delivering more luscious shivers up and down my spine. When his tongue slides out and flicks my lips, leaving a wet trail, my entire body smolders with longing. Every inch of me is ablaze from within.

“God, Ben, please don’t stop,” I plead. This doesn’t even sound like the Candra I know. Who am I, and where did this voice come from? Am I actually begging Ben to do anything he wants to me? I really have lost my mind. But people say love makes a person do crazy things. I believe that.

He chuckles against my throat, gruffly, sending yet another wave of pure bliss across my skin. I honestly don’t know how much more I can handle. One minute it’s my plan to seduce him, the next he’s seducing me. How did this happen?

“As much as I want you,” he says, languidly sweeping his tongue up and down the side of my neck, “I don’t think it should be here, while people are sleeping in the next room.” He pulls my surprised face toward him, until our foreheads meet. With one final kiss, he coaxes me to turn around, my back against his chest.

I’ll admit it: I’m disappointed. My hopes and dreams just came crashing down with one swift blow from Benjamin “Virtuous” Conway. Who knew he could be so honorable? Instead of moping, I shrug off the incident. I’m sure there will be plenty more where this came from.

Distracting me from my thoughts, Ben scoops up the bath water and drizzles it over my shoulders, kissing me where it cascades. His hands rub every inch of my body, and my back arches every time he massages near a sinful area. I even let a couple of throaty groans escape. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“You said we couldn’t do this,” I tell him, unsure how I found my voice.

He sweeps my hair aside, planting delicate kisses on the back of my neck. “I said we couldn’t do that”—more kisses—“but I definitely didn’t say anything about this.”

I shiver and attempt to pull away, but he forcefully grabs my waist, palm even against my lower abdomen, and jerks me against him. I can’t move; he’s too strong.

“Uh-uh,” he playfully scorns. Lips brushing against my ear, he whispers, “You wanted to seduce me, but that didn’t work out so well, did it?”

I endeavor to wrestle out of his grasp. “You read my mi—?”

He flattens me against him, even more intimate than before. “You haven’t done a very good job,” he continues, “especially when I can do it better.” One of his hands covers my mouth, while the other slides lower underneath the water, finding the source for my internal fire. I squeal against his hand, but he tugs my head so it rests on his shoulder. “Hush,” he murmurs against my ear. My hands press against the tub’s walls distractedly, but they begin to slide off as soon as Ben finds his rhythm. Water churns in cadence with him, and I’m left at his mercy. God help me, though, because I don’t want him to have any mercy on me. At all.

Every nerve ending in my body is about to explode. There’s an inferno raging in my lower stomach, and I’m doing all I can to stifle moaning. Ben’s not helping, either; he licks and sucks on my earlobe, then initiates a full-blown grunting session. It’s all I can do not to scream out. Not only are his hips moving with the stroke of his hand, but mine are moving against him. My fingernails dig into the skin on his forearm, part of me wishing he will end this wicked torture immediately, the other part needing him to finish. I reach behind me, finding him, moving my hand in tempo with his. His growls become agonizing, like he’s offering me a silent plea to end his agony.

“F*ck yes, I want you to end it,” he says through gritted teeth, not even bothering to lower his tone.

I honestly don’t care at the moment. I don’t care if I scream his name and all of Colchester hears me. Right now, nothing else in the world matters but him and me. Together.

Ben’s pleas become desperate, and his actions become more fervent. I can hardly keep up with him, and my inner fire is scorching, nearly sending me over the brink of physical and emotional rapture. His hand, which previously cupped my mouth, slips down my upper body and molds itself over my chest, squeezing my soft flesh. Sheer pain coupled with extreme pleasure gives me a high like none I’ve experienced before. Between tugging my breasts and roughing up my lower region—and nipping my neck—I feel as if my soul has left my body. Blood has drained from all regions and pooled in the pit of my abdomen, leaving the rest of me tingling.

“Ah, Candra”—he growls and then quickly bites me—“you’re killing me.”

His final taste of me causes all the mounting pressure to rupture, triggering a quake through my entire body. I cry out as Ben continues kneading long after I’m spent. He makes no effort to silence me, as if he enjoys the fact that I’m suffering at his hand. Blood gradually returns to my limbs, and I continue to tremble. A couple of grunts later, Ben joins me in pure euphoria, throwing his head back against the frame of the tub. His fingers cease all movement as I relax against his chest, our pants slowing to normal.

“We’re going to do that every night from now on,” Ben says.

I grin lazily. “Maybe. If we haven’t been kicked out for being so noisy.”

He softly chuckles. “Then we’ll do it elsewhere.”

I don’t have the strength to smack him. My body is gloriously exhausted, and all I want to do is curl up next to Ben and achieve a restful night’s sleep. As soon as Ben and I stand to dry off, though, the same chilling wolf cry we heard the night before rips through the air. He and I share a meaningful look, one that’s comprised of fear. We know what lurks in that forest, and we know the battle in the coming days will be far greater than we’ve ever encountered on our home turf. One simple mistake, and Ben and I may not make it back to Hartford after all.