to prevent its closing. The lock clanked home as her hands gripped the iron vines. She pressed her face to the space between the bars. Romanov stood inches away from her, separated by the thick oak of the bottom of the door and the scrolling iron at the top, but also by centuries of experience that had left him jaded and untouchable.
Roses. She saw them closely now. Dozens of iron roses “grew” along the vine-shaped bars. The door was an ancient artisan’s masterpiece and a horror at the same time. She was trapped. The only thing that kept the scream from rising up from her gut was the absence of bloody feathers. As long as she was still herself, she could fight.
“You can’t keep me in here,” Elena protested.
Romanov leaned down. The firelight illuminated his face once more. He leaned so close that his raven hair brushed her cheek through the bars. He was older than she could imagine, even though he looked barely older than she was. He was more savage than anyone she’d ever encountered with his leather and furs and several white jagged lines from battle scars on his face, but he was also fiercely handsome. His rough, masculine beauty caused her to gasp at the sudden intimacy of his closeness. The door was between them but it felt like nothing at all.
She’d come looking for a legend, but he was real. She breathed in the scent of wind and snow held in his hair. And then she held her breath to keep from appreciating the wild bouquet. Of its own volition, her gaze cataloged every scar, every dark eyelash that lushly rimmed his eyes and the oddly vulnerable swell of his sensual lips. His eyes were hooded and hard, but the tenseness in his jaw eased when he noticed her catch her breath and hold it. He must have seen her sudden surprise at the physical attraction she felt for him in spite of her desperation. His gaze tracked over her face. She held her body still. She bit a lip that suddenly tingled because his were so kissable and so close. His attention dropped to her lips and then to her tight-knuckled grip on the bars. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.
“I’m not locking you in the tower, Elena Pavlova,” he said softly. His voice still vibrated against her even though they weren’t touching. It was deep, low and raw with some restrained emotion she couldn’t name. He looked back up, into her eyes. His gaze held her for long moments so that when he lifted an iron key scrolled with tiny vines and roses that matched the bars, she released her breath in surprise. The key dangled from a delicate silver chain and it bumped her hand again and again through the bars while he waited for her to move. She released the bar to open her hand for the key. Her fingers were shaking. Rather than dropping the chain, he lowered it slowly down into her palm to pile on top of the cool key in a slow, lazy coil of precious metal. For several seconds, his large hand rested over hers. His touch was light and warm. He stilled her trembling. She’d thought she knew his story, but his tale was still unfolding right before her eyes. She’d become a part of it, and it was a tale rife with danger.
She’d responded to the call. She’d come to the mountains for a legend and his wolves.
She’d found a man.
“The tower is for your protection. You hold the key while you’re here. Don’t be fooled by your pretty book. This isn’t a fairy-tale castle. Bronwal is cursed. Those who come and go from the Ether are forever changed and even while we’re in this world the Ether isn’t fully dispelled. Whatever you do, don’t consider this a refuge. The Volkhvy, both Dark and Light, aren’t to be trusted and neither am I. The Romanov curse is real...and deserved. Don’t forget that while you’re here,” Romanov said. He was warning her away. He wanted her to keep her distance. But he uttered the warning only after he’d leaned down until their lips were even closer together—nearly touching—between the iron bars. The door was nothing. It didn’t seem to exist at all. She looked up into his eyes and rather than repel, they caught and held her more thoroughly than any cage.
Perhaps it wasn’t the castle that was the magnet.
She’d been wrong. He was worn, not jaded. And he was touchable. Very touchable. It took all her self-control not to touch him now when he seemed to invite it.
“Sometimes the month passes in the blink of an eye and sometimes it stretches on in an endless trial. But however our time passes, it ends with a Volkhvy Gathering. If you came here to escape a Volkhvy prince, it was a mistake. They all come to dance on our graves. Or wasn’t that bit a part of the tale you were told?” Romanov whispered. “The Volkhvy, Dark and Light, are drawn to power. And Bronwal glows cruelly and seductively with power to their eyes. You’d do well to stay locked in this tower until the storm passes and you’re strong enough to leave.” His voice had dropped even lower and one sigh would have brought her to the taste of his lips. She held very still. She didn’t move. He dared her to greater intimacy, but she refrained. Because she could see that he was only torturing himself. He had no intention of kissing her. She wondered if he knew how much he tortured her too. His body was pressed to the outside of the door and hers was pressed against the inside. She could have sworn their body heat mingled even as they were kept apart.
“When you’ve caught the attention of a witchblood prince, there isn’t any place safe on earth,” Elena said. “I thought I was looking for refuge, but I’m not. I’m looking for a fighting chance.”
She straightened back from the bars and lifted her chin. She hadn’t come here to tempt a legend to kisses. She’d come to find a wolf and she didn’t intend to give up.
Elena placed the key’s chain around her neck and let her means of freedom dangle down between her breasts like a pretty bauble. She couldn’t leave the tower immediately to hunt for the black wolf. She didn’t want to follow Romanov and the other wolves down the stairs. After the moments of intimacy through the bars of the door, she thought it best if she avoided the alpha wolf’s master. He wanted her to go away...and he didn’t at the same time. His actions didn’t match his words.
She found herself wanting to prove to Romanov that he was still alive. As if he could be woken from his stubborn vigil of despair by a kiss or a touch or an embrace. She hadn’t expected to find that sort of temptation at Bronwal. Romanov was a dangerous distraction she couldn’t afford. The pain in her knee was also a distraction she couldn’t afford. She always carried supplies to deal with her injury. In her backpack, she had first-aid cold packs, pain medication and a neoprene sleeve to offer support when she overdid.
Mountain climbing definitely qualified as overdoing.
She needed to treat her knee before she tried to do more. The strange compulsion that had called her to Bronwal now seemed to urge her on the hunt. She needed to resist that compulsion until she was sure that Romanov was farther away from her room.
Patrice surprised Elena before she could pull on the orthopedic sleeve. She opened the door with a key on an iron ring that hung from a braided leather belt around her waist. She led the way in front of a haphazard team of servants. They carried a large hip tub and a seemingly endless supply of steaming pitchers and pails full of hot water. Two large men in mismatched livery placed the wooden tub beside the fire. They both nodded in her direction before they left the room. Patrice gestured and the other servants walked forward one at a time to pour the water they were carrying into the tub.
Observing the procession was like watching time pass before her eyes. The people had hair and garb from varying centuries and all of them looked worse for wear. Elena’s chest tightened in sympathy. The curse had punished all of the Romanovs’ people, from the head of the powerful family to the tiniest chambermaid. It looked as if anyone who was able chipped in to do the work that had to be done even if it hadn’t been his or her original specialty. The liveried men had obviously been something other than maids in the past.
