Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(55)

“I’m a healer. I took it.” He shrugged. “I just did.”

Sudden understanding leaped into her eyes. “You took it. You literally took it for your own.” Her calmness shattered, and she leaped to her feet, whirling on him.

Lifting a single finger, she traced the path from his left cheekbone nearly to the corner of his mouth. He jerked back.

“That’s the one, isn’t it?” she said. “That’s the scar from the wound you took from me. It’s yours now. When you take a wound, you keep the scar.” Her eyes widened. “Your face . . .”

Wulfe grabbed her hips, lifting her out of his way as he stood and brushed past her.

But she followed. “My god, Wulfe, how many people have you healed?”

“It’s not important.”

“You must have healed hundreds.”

He turned on her. “I didn’t,” he snapped. “I’m no hero. I healed two. Just two.”

She stared at him, her mouth slowly dropping open. “Out of all those scars, only one is mine?”

His jaw clenched hard, but he nodded.

“The other person . . .” Her eyes filled with pain. “Who was it?”

He didn’t want to talk about it. He’d never talked about it, not with another living soul, and he wasn’t starting now. She’d demanded truths, and he’d given them to her, enough for one day. More than enough. With long strides, he headed for the door.

“I hadn’t figured you for a coward, shifter.” Natalie’s cool words stopped him cold, and he looked at her over his shoulder, everything inside of him clawing to reach the door.

“It’s none of your business.” He’d meant to sound fierce, or at least certain, but he heard the plea that rang in his voice.

As she moved toward him, he found himself unable to turn away, not when the annoyance slipped out of her eyes, leaving only pain.

“Wulfe.” Natalie stepped in front of him and reached for him, laying her palms against his scarred, miserable cheeks.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispered. But he couldn’t pull away.

“Tell me what happened. The story is festering inside you. It’s poisoning your soul. Share it with me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” Her thumbs stroked his cheekbones, a featherlight touch that raked furrows in his mind even as it caressed his heart. With one hand, she pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead, her touch like the softest down, and his wolf whined with pleasure.

She said nothing more, made no more pleas, no more demands, as she stroked his face and his hair, pulling him completely under her spell, shattering his defenses. He didn’t want to tell this story. He didn’t even want to think about it himself. But he was helpless to deny her when she stared at him like that, with a softness bordering on adoration. And when she stroked him so tenderly.

“Her name was Liesel.” The sound of her name after all these years felt like a punch to the gut. He pulled away and stepped past Natalie, needing to put some distance between them before he spilled this miserable tale. Moving to the window, he gripped the frame with both hands, looking out over the front yard, seeing only the past.

“Long before I was marked to be a Feral Warrior, in my early years of adulthood, the mortal daughter of one of the Therians came to live with the enclave where I’d been born. Liesel was pretty, though not as pretty as you. And I . . . I wasn’t scarred in those days. The women thought me beautiful.”

“You’re still beautiful,” Natalie murmured.

He didn’t know what to say to that obvious lie. “All of the males of the enclave became smitten with her. But I was the only one who interested her. And my interest in her was primarily . . . physical. One day she cut her hand, a small cut across the palm, and I stopped the bleeding as I’d done with mortals a few other times. But it still hurt her, so I held it tight and willed it away, completely away. Suddenly, it was on my hand, but it healed within moments, leaving a scar as no other wound before it ever had. I was stunned. I spoke to the enclave’s mystic and was told I had a rare Daemon gift. Any strange gifts in my enclave were called Daemon gifts. The mystic told me the gift would only work on mortals and that I should never use it. No good would ever come of it.”

Wulfe ran a hand—the one that still had that faint scar—across the back of his neck, feeling the dampness of perspiration. The words felt like glass in his throat. He heard Natalie’s soft footfalls as she crossed to the window, then felt the light pressure of her slender hand on his back, stroking him. He tensed, wanting her to move away, to put distance between her and this ugliness. But her sweet scent filled his nose, easing the terrible pressure, calming him. And all he wanted was for her to stay.

His gaze glued to the trees outside, he continued his tale, keenly aware of the woman at his back.

“Liesel was too young for sex, only eighteen, but she enjoyed my kisses, and I enjoyed kissing her. Several times, we snuck into the woods together. She was a pretty thing, but my mind was on more important matters. Despite my own relative youth—I was in my thirties—I was not only the biggest male, but the finest fighter in the enclave, and our clan chief had told me I had what it took to be a leader.

“One afternoon, I promised to meet Liesel in the woods after the midday meal at our usual rendezvous point. But before I could slip away, our chief took me aside and told me he wanted to make me his second-in-command, a tremendous honor. I followed him into his hut, where we talked for hours.” He shook his head. “I was so full of myself and my own self-importance that I completely forgot about Liesel.”