Untamed Hart by Kim Faulks

Author:Kim Faulks [Faulks, Kim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-12-19T06:00:00+00:00

9

Hart

He carried her scent on his skin as he left. His boots were heavy, dragged down by the overwhelming need to turn around…to head back to that cabin and find the Fae once more.

He sensed her in the alley, just as he sensed her in the woods. It was more than her scent, more than her movements behind him—he knew her like a faint echo, like a forgotten friend. He knew her and he felt her…even now as he walked away.

He was doing the right thing by leaving. This place was no place for someone like Ondine. She deserved the sun and the beauty, not this darkness…not his place of hopelessness.

He raised his head and stared across the clearing to the small trail that would lead him back to the pit of hell he once came from. Power breathed across his skin as he left the soft blades of grass for the trees. Twigs snapped under his boots. He didn’t care if she heard him. He didn’t care if she readied for his return.

He’d been twelve the first time he saw her. Twelve and alone, living off the streets. He’d been the son of a lone wolf, the son of a wanderer. It was the only life he’d ever known, until she came along with her whispers of a better life—if only he knew the price he had to pay.

Hart…my Hart.

Her voice echoed through his head, bringing back memories of dark rooms and broken bones. Darkness consumed him as he trod the familiar path. He clung to the memory of the Fae, dragging her into Hell with him in memory alone.

He could still feel the faint brush of her hair, still hear the catch of her breath. His strides lengthened as though he were running back to her. One lunge and he picked up pace, spearing his way through the thickets and the towering pines.

He sucked in the frigid night air and felt the burn all the way to his lungs. Inside his head, the little Fae marked his shoulders with her nails and cried out against his ear.

He loved that sound. Loved everything about it—the urgency, the desperation, even now he felt her consume him.

Nails clinked against the side of the glass jar as he shoved a low-lying branch aside and rounded a clinging brush. The jar was the only thing he had to protect himself. The only thing he had to fight this bitch—power with power. His hand brushed hard steel and stopped.

He skimmed his hand along the wrought iron posts and stared into the night. By the low light of the moon, he found the boundary, and he was thrown back into that moment where he broke through, desperate for freedom and covered with blood.

The Mistress’s blood. And yet here she was calling him once more.

Her power seeped from the ground, lingering around his boots like the incoming rush of fog. He felt her just as strong today as he did all those years ago. “Why can’t you just stay dead?”

Are you ready to reap what you’ve sown? The Seer’s words echoed.

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