wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Nothing
good results from anger—or comes without a price. The lovely woman
learned the hard way. Her wolf came, but it was too late. The curse
had begun.”
Bronte waited, wanting more knowledge, but nothing.
“Please tell me more, Azelda!”
“The pale-haired lass lives deep within your heart.
You are chosen to conceive because of a promise made,” Azelda said
in a hushed tone. “Understanding will come when you are willing to
accept it.”
An acrid smell pierced her senses as an oozing
sensation floated over her. She tried speaking, but nothing came.
Blackness overcame her.
Chapter 6
“CAN I GET you anything, Mr. Roark?”
Roark lifted his throbbing head. Miss Deveraux stood
in the open doorway to his bedroom. “What’s that?” he asked. He’d
been lost in writing in his journal and hadn’t heard her approach,
which was very unlike him.
“I asked if there’s anything I can get you.”
“No thank you, Miss Deveraux.”
She glanced at Bronte’s sleeping body. “I’ve never
seen one sleep this long under the medicine. Two days.” She shook
her head. “And you sir, you haven’t left her side. You need your
rest too.”
“She’ll be fine, and I’m ok,” he said. “I don’t want
her to wake up and be frightened.”
“You’re a true gentleman.”
“Some would beg to differ, Miss Deveraux.” He heard
her leave but kept his eyes on Bronte. She’d fallen into a deep
sleep at Azelda’s. He’d carried her home in his arms on Seed Demon
and laid her in his bed. He knew the potion that the witch had used
would put Bronte out for a while, at least until her body had time
to recover from the shock. Sometimes remembering history exhausted
the emotions.
He was curious what she remembered. If she was
ready, she’d know everything.
Laying the journal down on his lap, he shifted in
the large leather chair, resting his head back on the cushioned
headrest. He couldn’t seem to remove his gaze from Bronte. She was
lovely and looked peaceful. Her long hair was spread out across the
pillow, and looked like black velvet against the red blanket he’d
covered her with. He half expected her to wake up cursing a string
of four letter words. She was certainly a feisty one, he’d give her
that. She had the soul of a fighter.
Glancing down at the worn book, he’d written in it
almost every day and his heart was heavy. He’d just finished
writing what he’d witnessed at Azelda’s. As he’d watched the witch
cast her magical spell on Bronte, he’d wanted to drag her away from
the shack. The witch couldn’t be trusted, but for now, only she
knew what transpired one-hundred years ago. Roark hoped Bronte
remembered everything, even the answers he didn’t know. She’d only
accept as much as her heart would allow her in such a short time,
and apparently she’d shut down before the entire story could be
told. He wished he could tell her the truth, but she wouldn’t
believe him. If she blocked him out, their future would be
hopeless. He grew weaker each day and he still wasn’t sure if he
could save his family.
He opened the book and flipped through pages until
he came to the entry he wanted. The curse . It was written in
his words as told to him by the witch. He was growing sick of the
hex hanging over his head like a dark and deathly cloud. The poison
rushed through his veins, making him frailer with each breath. His
body was failing him.
Something slipped from the pages and fell at his
feet. He picked it up and held the neatly folded letter, yellowed
with time, in his hand. He didn’t need to read it because he’d read
the scrawled writing so many times that he’d memorized every word,
every letter, every pattern of character, like it was etched into
his mind, branded like an incurable disease. He believed he could
still smell her scent lingering on the paper.
The rustling of sheets brought his attention to the
bed. He quickly pushed
good results from anger—or comes without a price. The lovely woman
learned the hard way. Her wolf came, but it was too late. The curse
had begun.”
Bronte waited, wanting more knowledge, but nothing.
“Please tell me more, Azelda!”
“The pale-haired lass lives deep within your heart.
You are chosen to conceive because of a promise made,” Azelda said
in a hushed tone. “Understanding will come when you are willing to
accept it.”
An acrid smell pierced her senses as an oozing
sensation floated over her. She tried speaking, but nothing came.
Blackness overcame her.
Chapter 6
“CAN I GET you anything, Mr. Roark?”
Roark lifted his throbbing head. Miss Deveraux stood
in the open doorway to his bedroom. “What’s that?” he asked. He’d
been lost in writing in his journal and hadn’t heard her approach,
which was very unlike him.
“I asked if there’s anything I can get you.”
“No thank you, Miss Deveraux.”
She glanced at Bronte’s sleeping body. “I’ve never
seen one sleep this long under the medicine. Two days.” She shook
her head. “And you sir, you haven’t left her side. You need your
rest too.”
“She’ll be fine, and I’m ok,” he said. “I don’t want
her to wake up and be frightened.”
“You’re a true gentleman.”
“Some would beg to differ, Miss Deveraux.” He heard
her leave but kept his eyes on Bronte. She’d fallen into a deep
sleep at Azelda’s. He’d carried her home in his arms on Seed Demon
and laid her in his bed. He knew the potion that the witch had used
would put Bronte out for a while, at least until her body had time
to recover from the shock. Sometimes remembering history exhausted
the emotions.
He was curious what she remembered. If she was
ready, she’d know everything.
Laying the journal down on his lap, he shifted in
the large leather chair, resting his head back on the cushioned
headrest. He couldn’t seem to remove his gaze from Bronte. She was
lovely and looked peaceful. Her long hair was spread out across the
pillow, and looked like black velvet against the red blanket he’d
covered her with. He half expected her to wake up cursing a string
of four letter words. She was certainly a feisty one, he’d give her
that. She had the soul of a fighter.
Glancing down at the worn book, he’d written in it
almost every day and his heart was heavy. He’d just finished
writing what he’d witnessed at Azelda’s. As he’d watched the witch
cast her magical spell on Bronte, he’d wanted to drag her away from
the shack. The witch couldn’t be trusted, but for now, only she
knew what transpired one-hundred years ago. Roark hoped Bronte
remembered everything, even the answers he didn’t know. She’d only
accept as much as her heart would allow her in such a short time,
and apparently she’d shut down before the entire story could be
told. He wished he could tell her the truth, but she wouldn’t
believe him. If she blocked him out, their future would be
hopeless. He grew weaker each day and he still wasn’t sure if he
could save his family.
He opened the book and flipped through pages until
he came to the entry he wanted. The curse . It was written in
his words as told to him by the witch. He was growing sick of the
hex hanging over his head like a dark and deathly cloud. The poison
rushed through his veins, making him frailer with each breath. His
body was failing him.
Something slipped from the pages and fell at his
feet. He picked it up and held the neatly folded letter, yellowed
with time, in his hand. He didn’t need to read it because he’d read
the scrawled writing so many times that he’d memorized every word,
every letter, every pattern of character, like it was etched into
his mind, branded like an incurable disease. He believed he could
still smell her scent lingering on the paper.
The rustling of sheets brought his attention to the
bed. He quickly pushed
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