Hemlock Veils

She found herself recoiling from it, from the reminder.

“I…took this yesterday,” he said, appearing extremely uncomfortable. “That’s really what I wanted to find you about. The clasp on the pendant was broken, and of course the chain, so I…had them fixed.” That was why the chain looked more delicate: it was a different chain all together.

Her heart felt a handful of things all at once, while his eyes avoided hers. “I don’t want it back,” she said. She walked around him in an attempt to hide all it triggered, facing the wall. The vine’s leaves danced with the patter of rain.

“Take it.”

“Thank you, really, but I don’t want it.” Heat scorched her eyes, the vines swimming in her vision.

He turned her around, and his voice was determined but soft. “You have to.”

She was tired, too tired to hide it, and looked up at him, his body close. She could barely get out, “Why?”

“Because, Elizabeth, you’re not you without it.”

Her eyes widened at the sound of his voice saying her name. It stu

While she stared, he unfastened the hook and eye and stepped closer as he fastened them behind her neck. He stood so close she could feel the cool, moist air attached to his skin, so close she could smell him—that same musky scent that reminded her of the forest. The burden of her locket around her neck felt lighter than expected and he kept one hand there, where his fingers slid down the necklace’s delicate chain and cradled the locket.

He inched closer and her breaths were shallow—from the cold air, from the wetness of her body, from the way her chest became heavy with a warm, euphoric weight. His head bowed, his hair dripping into hers as he stared at the pendant he held, low on her chest. With every inhalation, the skin over her heart touched the warmth of the back of his hand, and she recognized what it was in his hooded eyes she’d never seen before.

Desire.

They didn’t just stare at the locket; they moved all over her. In that moment, and for the first liberating moment she could recall, she didn’t want to cover herself. She lifted her face toward the warmth of his breath, and the racing of her heart stole her own.

“Henry.” He met her eyes with every ounce of his soul exposed. The man here was the man she’d been falling in love with, and she desperately whispered, “Tell me what you want.”

As though first names were all that was needed to break the formal barrier between them, he met her mouth with a sigh of surrender, moving his hand eagerly to her neck. His lips, his breath, his tongue: she never knew such gratification could leave her with contradictory want. The long overdue satisfaction of hunger made them press against each other at once, and she couldn’t seem to kiss him deeply enough.

Heat melted through their wet clothing, the lowest part of her abdomen heavy, and that heat intensified when he backed her into the wall, her hair mingling with vines. With a tortured-sounding exhalation, his lips parted from hers, just barely. “Elizabeth,” he breathed, and her pulse faltered at the sound of it. He drew down her lower lip with his thumb and kissed her again, slow and sensual and passionate.

With a murmur, his movements grew slightly aggressive. He thrust her more firmly against the wall and, with his fingers around her neck, she gasped. She arched, offering her flesh to his hand. Such aggression should have frightened her, but her trust in him freed her of fear; it was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She wanted it to overtake her. She wanted to overtake him.

She pulled him against her by his belt loops, aiding him, and while his tongue thrust deep inside her, the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her abdomen. She sighed at the feel of it, her head and heart faint, and his hand moved down her neck, over the base of her throat. His thumb stopped over her artery, her pulse rapid beneath it. Perhaps even in his human form he desired her quickened heart rate.

His hands became tremulous. Then, almost as abruptly as he’d shoved her against the wall, he broke the suction of their lips, gasping. His grip relaxed, but he kept his open mouth against hers, their breath mingling, laboring together. She didn’t open her eyes for fear she would see hesitation, or even shame, in his.

“Come home with me,” she said into his mouth, on the faintest breath, and he sighed. She dared to open her eyes and swallowed her fear as she caressed him, feeling the soundness of his chest. She’d never wanted anything more in her life. “Please.”

With a scrunch of his eyes, he lowered his head, fighting as usual. “We can’t,” he managed, his voice gravelly, and emerging from between his teeth. “I can’t.”

She relaxed her spine against the wall as her heart sank. “Henry,” she began.

Scrunching his eyes tighter, he stepped away, his chest heaving. And the absence of his body made her own ache in all the parts she wanted him. He walked away and, when he reached the corner of the stone barricade, he finally had the courage to meet her eyes. His brows pulled together. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t…” She almost followed him, but he held out a hand, stopping her. He appeared to be in a great deal of pain.

“This was a mistake, Ms. Ashton,” he said, his tone formal again.

Then he was gone.

She watched the empty corner, the empty forest—not sure how even the cold, unfeeling Mr. Clayton he pretended to be could walk away from such a moment, with a bond so cosmic and a chemistry so pure, it fulfilled her mentally and spiritually, not just physically. With her chest heavy, she buried her face in her hands, willing that ache to leave her. Begging it to.

***

Henry pushed open his glass doors and moved to the back steps, bringing a bottle of bourbon whiskey to his mouth. He took a long pull, not bothering to wipe his lips when he lowered it. It was almost gone, this bottle lasting only days rather than the usual weeks. The setting sun hid somewhere in the trees, but the clouds in the dusk sky showed their usual pinkness. It had stopped raining only an hour before, and already the gray had dispersed.

Thoughts of Elizabeth haunted him: the way she tasted, the way her body had pressed against him, how exhilarating it had been to touch her. The way the sight of her in the afternoon rainstorm had filled him with a want he could hardly tame. Briefly, he fantasized about what would have happened had he accepted her invitation. He bought the bottle again to his mouth.

The whiskey did its job well, his body tingling and his head in a buzz: the conditions that made his transformation that much easier. Just when he expected them, throbbing tremors began to tear through his heart, changing it. It took his breath and his pulse heightened as he reminded himself, as he did every night, that he deserved this.

He placed the bottle on the top step, his hand trembling. At the same time he descended them, he removed his pants, letting them fall to the weeds. His broke

And at the sensation of being ripped apart from the inside out—rolling until every extremity had a taste—heat radiated from his skin. With a grunt, he leapt over the stone wall, where the paws of the monster hit the forest floor.

Chapter 20

Elizabeth rested her elbows on the railing, staring into midnight shadows. She knew he wouldn’t come. Part of her didn’t want him to. The part that felt angrier than she’d ever been. The other part, however—the part that would always ache for him—prayed that this time he would realize he didn’t have to be scared, not of her and not of him.