Wolf in Sheep's Clothing: A Tale of Beauty and the Beast (HighTower Beauty and the Beast Book 2) by Jacque Stevens

Author:Jacque Stevens [Stevens, Jacque]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: sjacquebooks
Published: 2020-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

Even after the visions of Howl faded, rain fell on the farmhouse roof. That was probably what had triggered the dreamlike memory. The events of the last night were harder for me to remember. I had been in so much pain; I longed for Howl to hold me. And now that someone was, parts of my traitorous body responded before I caught my wits again.

“Howl?” I asked, though by now I should know better.

“Shh . . . your ankle is really swollen and your fever’s back.” Jean cooed and purred over me. First, he rubbed my ankle and then some new bruising on my wrists.

I whimpered. Sometimes, I faked such reactions, but this time, the wound was so raw, and I was still so tired that the pathetic sound was completely genuine.

It was a good ruse because it was so often true.

“I’m sorry,” Jean said, and he did sound it. I didn’t know or care if he meant it. “I shouldn’t have left you alone so long. I could take care of you if you would let me.”

That was why I didn’t care for his apologies. Because, according to him, my continued pain was brought on by my stubbornness just as much as anything else.

A residual spark of resentment cleared my head faster than any herb. I now knew not only where I was, but that I was still locked in the same pattern that had filled my last few . . . hours? Days? It was so hard to tell. Jean sporadically fed me herbs, causing the fever to rage through me in waves, receding for a few clear moments, then building up inside me again when the last dose faded. He dressed my swollen ankle and did me other favors when I was “good.”

But I must have been “bad” the previous night because my fever had been raging. My dress was damp with sweat, though now I felt cold. My new bruises stung. The room was fuzzy with heat, and it took me longer to sort out my dreams from reality.

Outside of fever dreams, there could be no way to mistake Jean for Howl.

Jean made tea without burning himself. He made dinner too. Strange. Jean grew up in an inn, but mostly when I saw him, he was out in front parading around and ordering others about. I never expected him to be so willing and capable of doing the work himself.

And when he finally sat down, he carved into Ghost’s corpse with his own knife. I guessed he skinned and stuffed all his animal trophies himself as well.

It seemed so surreal. At the castle, I was the one who cleaned—even when injured. Howl tried, but despite his matchless enthusiasm, I always had to instruct and supervise. He had no skill for anything domestic or “human.”

Jean was very skilled. Not all of his endless bragging and the praise of the village had been misplaced, and it seemed such a waste. He really could have made someone a good husband.

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