Barbara Hancock - Legendary Shifter

Those that come and go from the Ether are forever changed.

She’d seen dishonor walking with the witchblood prince. Romanov seemed its opposite in every way. Yet she couldn’t help if an insistent thrill of fear electrified the blood in her veins. He wasn’t what she’d expected. He was cursed by a dark enchantment she couldn’t imagine having endured for so long, but he was also undeniably attractive. Her urge to hunt that wouldn’t ease might well be blamed on the memory of the almost-kiss. He’d seemed so hungry for contact and so determined not to succumb. Still, she had to focus on the black wolf, not his master. She could fight Grigori without Romanov, but she couldn’t win without the alpha wolf.

A wolf hunt loomed, but Elena’s knee throbbed and she was cold to the marrow of her bones. She released the key and ignored it and her memories of Romanov’s nearness as she took off her long underwear. She was alone. The door was locked. She couldn’t resist soaking her whole body, including her knee, while she waited for the right time to leave the tower. There was no doubt that she would. She had come to Bronwal for a wolf champion. She wouldn’t leave without finding him first.

* * *

It was probably not wise to wander around a strange castle after midnight looking for a witch-eating wolf. Sometimes wise wasn’t an option when you were hunted by a witchblood prince and running out of time.

Elena had dried herself with rough towels the servants had left near the tub. She’d pulled on the one change of clothes she’d packed—underwear, jeans, a T-shirt and a loose-knit sweater. Soft-soled sneakers completed a look that was practical and completely out of place. If the servants had presented a hodgepodge of passing centuries that had briefly influenced castle life, she was fairly certain she would be the first person to walk Bronwal’s halls in jeggings.

Even after the bath, her body was exhausted. She might have opted for a quick nap before she left the tower to refresh herself if it wasn’t for the possibility that her sleep would be disturbed as usual by nightmares.

She wasn’t a swan.

She was a woman.

And hiding in a tower wasn’t going to solve her problems.

Her knee still ached, but she washed several pills down with a bottle of water she’d also packed in her bag. Patrice hadn’t thought to offer her food or drink and Romanov hadn’t returned with a tray. Thank God. She couldn’t handle another tête-à-tête with or without bars between them. Eventually, moonlight filtered through the wavy glass that must have been an extravagance when it was installed in the narrow tower windows. Had it been placed by magic before Vladimir’s betrayal? The whole castle was evidence of enchantment later darkened by the curse. The wavy stained glass glowed beautifully by the light of the moon while hungry ravens circled perpetually outside.

When Elena decided it was relatively safe to leave the room, she pulled the chain over her head and used the key to unlock the door. The sound of the tumblers moving in the lock echoed down the stairs with loud metallic clinks. She placed the chain back around her neck while she paused to wait for a reaction. No one came to stop her. From the top of the winding stair, she could only see torch-lit shadows flickering on the walls. Distant sounds came to her ears. Singing and sighs and soft sobbing from somewhere far away. The castle didn’t sleep. The atmosphere was one of restlessness and regret. Patrice wasn’t the only one who wandered. Romanov had warned her that it wasn’t safe. She risked running into Light or Dark Volkhvy or humans caught up in the curse and driven mad by their endless returns to the Ether.

Yet it was running into Romanov again that she most feared. His magnetism was at least as strong as the original pull that had drawn her to the mountains, but the curse had changed everything. She had to be careful about the darkness she’d found, in Romanov and in his castle. He was right. She had to resist her attraction to her host, but she also had to find the alpha wolf. Her resolve to resist Grigori was useless with no power to back it up.

* * *

Elena Pavlova would leave tomorrow. The training courtyard was the emptiest, most hollow place he had to endure during a Cycle and tonight it was rapidly becoming covered in a frigid blanket of snow. Nevertheless, Ivan had trained in it for hours. He rarely wasted a Cycle with sleep, but this time his restlessness had another cause. He would be haunted by her small, perfectly formed breasts for the rest of his days on earth. Her nipples had been hard from the cold and damp. Their rosy darkness had been vivid against the thin white silk of her unusual undergarments. He’d had to force himself to look away. And now he needed the snow and exertion to keep him sane.

She had been completely innocent of her inadvertent seduction. Not in the manner of a child, but in the manner of a woman who had more urgent matters than seduction to attend to. She had said she was a dancer. It showed in her every move. Even her limp was graceful, a careful shifting of weight and form. He was captivated by her manner of movement and her urgency. She’d flushed when she’d noticed his reaction to her disrobing. It had been a simple, practical removal of wet clothes not intended to shatter him completely.

But it had.

And then to pile torment on top of torment, she had paused in her desperate bid to ask for his help to tremble and stare. Her eyes had widened. She’d held her breath and captured the soft swell of her lower lip in her perfect white teeth. He’d been alone for a long time, but he knew the signs of desire when he saw them. Especially when he was burning with it himself.

First, she’d looked at him like she was searching for something he could never be. Then she’d looked at him as a woman looks at a man, and he’d wanted to respond to the hunger that had risen in her eyes.

He’d been blissfully numb before she came. He couldn’t remember the last Cycle where he’d felt anything but the growing wish to fade away. He’d gone through the motions. He’d cared for Lev and Soren. He’d endured the “honor” of the Volkhvy Gathering that was, in fact, a celebration of his eternal torture and the aura of power released by the Ether every materialization. But it had all been done in a haze of endurance as if he ran a marathon of epic distance with one stride more, then one more, then one more before the final finish line.

His haze had been cruelly lifted.

He struck again and again at the scarred oaken practice figures in the moonlit courtyard with the sapphire sword. The gem in its hilt was flat and plain. It was an enchanted sapphire, but it was only moonlight that occasionally caused its surface to glow. The Light Volkhvy queen, Vasilisa, had given the sword to his father as a gift for his mate. When Ivan’s mother had wielded the blade, the power in its gem had been dazzling. Now it was dulled by the curse.

The dead stone was doubly cruel because its moonlit dark blue reminded him of Elena’s serious gaze leveled on him with expectation and hope.

He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t revive the sword. His blows rained down on the oaken cross that had once been used to train the Romanov guard. Clouds of white burst into the air as every blow shook the wood and kept the snow from settling. They were all gone now. The Ether had eaten them. A devora. It had taken his father first. Perhaps justly, for it was Vladimir Romanov who had tried to betray the Light Volkhvy queen, Vasilisa. It hadn’t been strictly a political betrayal. It had been a betrayal of the heart. Ivan’s mother had been killed by the Dark Volkhvy king. Afterward, his father had become Vasilisa’s lover. But his father had craved more power. He hadn’t wanted to be a mere champion. He’d wanted to rule.