Into the Fire 01 - Thrust by Mia West

Author:Mia West [West, Mia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2014-08-13T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Wolf lay before the hearth, staring at the thatch. Marc slept on the bed as peacefully as if Wolf had knocked him unconscious. Wolf had wanted to sleep there too, to curl himself around Marc’s solid body, but Marc hadn’t invited him to.

Not the way he’d invited Wolf to use him. It seemed like a fever dream now, that command and the others that came after. The feel of Marc’s skin under his hands, the weight of his body moving against Wolf’s. He never would have used Anna that way. She wouldn’t have understood what had come over him—he hardly understood it himself. She might have been able to withstand it; he had chosen her partly because she’d been forged from hardy stuff, after all. Because he had thought he wouldn’t break her if he touched her.

But he had anyway.

At the first sign of dawn, Wolf drew on his breeches and boots, and shifted the table away from the door. Marc slept through the scrape of furniture on the floorboards. Wolf slipped outside.

He strode to the bandit’s body first. Ignoring the mess he’d made of its head, he took up its ankles and dragged it far into the forest in a direction he never otherwise roamed. After a brief survey for anything useful, Wolf left the body unrobbed of clothing or trinkets. It had come from the forest, and the forest could damn well take it back.

When he knelt at the stream to wash his hands, morning sun highlighted spatters of gore on his shirt. Wolf tore it over his head and plunged it into the water, scrubbing the fabric against itself. He’d had the shirt on last night. He’d touched Marc wearing another man’s blood and brains and gods knew what else. Bile rose in his throat. He was a brute, little better than a rabid animal. No wonder Marc had avoided his eyes when he’d sunk onto the bed the previous night. He’d been disgusted. Whatever had possessed him to offer himself to Wolf, he had regretted it later. Now that he thought about it, Wolf was surprised Marc had slept in the hut—had slept at all. How could he feel safe near such a savage? And after he’d already been attacked.

Wolf wrung out his shirt with violent twists and pulled it back on. The clammy fabric clung to him, making him shudder. He needed to work. He needed to hit something (not fuck something) and with purpose. He would stoke the forge, and do something useful.

Finally.

Half an hour later, he stood before his anvil, steam rising from his shirt, eyes focused on the blade before him.

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