Chapter 4

THE MORRíGAN

Well. I know what she should do.

My Ciara is a sensitive soul though, and if she were the kind of person who was capable of rending a soul from limb to limb, then I doubt that this Robert would have latched onto her in the first place.

They're cowards, you see, these men who beat their wives. I speak not of those who indulge in such things in the bedroom—but that is all quite different.

Ciara still smells of fear, and it doesn't lessen, even when she's stroking my fur.

She fiddles around with some plastic thing, and I see a picture appear in the box across the room, a play of sorts, caught inside. It seems diverting enough, and the dialogue is such that I hope for that shining laughter again, but I'm not sure she even sees it.

She sits, staring off into the distance, eyes far away.

This is better than the vomiting—which is overwhelming for my sensitive wolf's nose—and better than the crying—which makes me want to destroy something—but it's still sad.

And I don't want her to be sad.

And I don't know how to fix it.

If I were in my humanshape there are certainly things I could do that would distract her from how she feels, but they're not appropriate actions for a wolf. Besides, she doesn't even know who I am.

She calls me Red.

It makes me smile, that innocent nickname. It's not a color that people usually associate with; I'm known as the Dark Goddess, the Raven Queen. But my wolf is red, and I like that the color Ciara most associates me with is one of passion.

It's also the color of vengeance, and if Robert returns, I shall have mine.

I notice when she yawns, and enough is really quite enough. I clamber down, stretch out, and then with my teeth, gently tug at the bottom of her trousers. They are loose and flowing, and at first, she doesn't notice, but when she does, it certainly rouses her.

"Red, no! Don't bite my clothes!"

I let the fabric drop as soon as she speaks, and when she looks, she sees that I haven't torn anything; I just wanted her attention.

"We need to get you a bell or something," she mutters to herself. "So you can summon me whenever you deem it necessary."

I ignore her sarcasm—it's been a trying day, after all—and instead sit up and wait for her to stand.

The cottage is small, but I can smell where the kitchen is, so there is only one door through which her bedroom must lie. Once she's standing, I stalk over to the door and wait.

She's so tired that Ciara doesn't even question how a wolf would know which room is her bedroom. She just looks sad and broken, and nods. "You're right, Red, I should sleep."

When Ciara pushes the door open, I wait, patiently, for her to invite me in.

She doesn't notice at first, but after returning from the bathroom, she sees me sitting by the door.

I could have gone in, and I don't think she'd mind, but it feels like this should be a choice that she should make—even if she doesn't know the whole truth about me.

"Oh, you planning on sleeping on my bed? That's a significant step up from the kennel." I don't say anything, but my tail wags slightly, as if it has a mind of its own. I'll feel better if I'm in there with her. I can keep an eye on her, and an eye out for him.

"Come on then."

Ciara changed in the bathroom, and she's wearing silky bed clothes that don't look like they could possibly keep her warm. It may be summer, but this is éire, after all. The material is a dark green that reminds me of the forest surrounding this cottage, and all of a sudden I'm beset by the vision of her, clad in nothing but green leaves.

It's so sudden that I almost stumble in the doorway, but she smiles sweetly at me and I recover enough to follow her in.

The bedroom is small, and the bed takes up almost the whole space, aside from some storage for clothes. She gets in and goes to pull the blankets over her, but I climb up and nudge her over, until I'm in between her and the door.

"Red, seriously," she says, but her frustration doesn't seem real, and there's amusement tinging her voice. "I know you're my protector and all, but I don't need protecting from my living room."

I ignore that, because she clearly doesn't know how to keep herself safe, and I've grown accustomed to her company. I don't want to have to train up another human, if something happens to her.

Apparently, putting my paws atop her is too much though. She shoves me off her, not hard, and when I yip, she growls at me.

She. Growls at me.

It is possibly the most adorable thing I have ever seen.

I want to nip at her, to scruff her and shake her playfully, but she's human and far too fragile for such rough-housing. Instead, I huff my amusement and nudge her head with my nose.

She likes that, I can tell.

Not in a way that's anything more than comforting, but the fact that I can do even that little brings me comfort.

I've never been a people person, and I'm known even now—centuries after the fact—for trusting people who didn't deserve it, but there's something about this woman that I like. Ciara is smart. She's quiet. She's beautiful. And I can't tell what I want more: to bring her small moments and happiness; or to push out into living more vibrantly than I think she feels is possible.

What I do know, however, is that Robert won't go away. Those kinds of men never do. And I swear that if he comes back into my forest, approaches my cottage, threatens my Ciara, I will end him.