Chapter 8: The missing spot

The lock clicked shut behind me, the sound as familiar as the pounding of my own heart. I stood in the center of the room, my body humming with the encounter in the grotto. The steam had clung to me, stuck to my clothes and my hair, carrying his scent. I could still feel the pressure of his thumb against my lips, the pressure of his fingers on my arm. My body betrayed me, quivering with a restless tension that was not about fear and all about the glint in his eyes when he talked about breaking the rules for me.

The next day, the lock clicked again, but this time, it wasn’t Rylan bringing me my good, it was Garrick.

He loomed in the doorway, wearing tight-fitting black pants and a plain black tunic that stretched across his broad shoulders. His hair was damp, and his face looked like it was chiseled from stone. The raw intensity from the grotto was lost, buried beneath an ice so thick I wondered if I imagined it.

"Come," he said, his voice flat and his face blank.

I didn't move. "Why?"

"Your actions have consequences. You violated a rule. You ventured into a restricted area yesterday." He sounded like he read it in a book. "You will learn the price of rebellion."

I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "The price? I'm already a prisoner. What other price is there to pay? This is not a room, Garrick. It's a cell."

He didn't blink. "Your words won't change anything. You're under my roof, under my authority. I can't have you breaking my rules, especially not under the watchful eyes of my pack. If they see you disobey without consequence, they'll think my authority is weak. They'll think the rules are malleable, I can't have that notion spread."

"So this is for effect?" I moved closer, my own temper equal to his chill. "You have to humiliate me to make a point with your wolves?"

"Your punishment will be a reminder to all," he said, his eyes refusing to back down. "To you, of your place. To them, of my strength. Now, follow me, I will not ask twice."

He turned on his heel and walked out, and I had no choice but to follow. The audacity of it, the raw assumption that I would comply, outraged me. But what was there to do? I could be held prisoner here in this room, or I could go along with what he had in mind. At least beyond these doors, there was hope to fight back.

I followed him along the corridor. He did not look back, his strides easy as he led me through the serpentine passages of the Lodge. We descended stairs, farther into depth from living areas and into the working lower levels of the fortress. The air became chilly, filled with the smell of damp earth, hay, and animals. The stable rattled ahead of us, the muffled whicker of horses and rattle of hooves on stone.

He led me through the middle stable, a big darkened room with stalls on either side. There were some pack members there, mucking out stalls, currying down horses, their work stopping as we came in. All their heads swiveled round to us, questioning and fearful. This was his audience.

Garrick stopped in the middle of the aisle. He stretched up to take a brush with stiff bristles and a large wooden bucket perched on a pile against the wall. He held them out to me.

"You'll groom my horse, Thor," he said, his voice echoing clearly through the quiet of the stable. "Every inch, with care, and you won't stop until I'm satisfied."

Some of the pack members looked at each other. It wasn't a punishment to groom a horse, it was a simple routine task. But the context made a difference, he wasn't asking me to help. He was putting me on display like a servant and forcing me to perform servile labor in front of his pack members, and in front of him.

Thor was a gigantic black stallion, his coat gleaming like polished jet even in the dim light. He was known for his short temper and was only tolerating of a few groomers. This was part of the humiliation too, the possibility of getting kicked or bitten.

I grabbed the brush and the bucket. I gripped my fingers around the twisted wood. I could say no, I could fling the bucket at his face. But I caught the challenge in his eyes, he wanted me to crack, he wanted a reason to use his will more brutally.

So I walked away from him and went over to Thor's stall. The horse snorted, pounding a massive hoof on the ground. I spoke to him softly and soothingly, just as I always did with animals. I opened the stall door and stepped in slowly, keeping my movements slow and predictable so I won’t startle him.

I could feel Garrick's gaze searing into my back. I heard him lean against an exterior post, arms crossed over his chest. He was going to observe every single moment.

I got to work, the work was physical and demanding. Thor stood tall, and I had to stretch up to be able to reach his back and sides. I started with a curry comb, combing in circles to get the dirt and sweat out of his coat. The rhythm was musical, the scraunch of the comb, the weight of the horse's shifting weight. The air in the stalls was hot and thick with horse smell, leather and hay.

Minutes passed and grew into an hour. My arms ached, a numb burn radiating along my muscles.

Sweat dripped down my back and I was acutely aware of every movement Garrick made, every rustle of his clothing, every slow, deliberate breath. The air between us was thick, charged and dense.

I moved to brushing, the rough bristles scouring the loosened dirt from Thor’s skin. The motion was almost a meditation, but there was no peace in it. Not with him standing there. His eyes were a living tension, a pressure against my skin. My mind kept creeping back to the grotto, to the heat of his body against mine. The image was so vivid that it was a physical ache.

I leaned over to brush Thor's muscular legs, and I felt the line of the neckline on my dress slightly gape. I quickly straightened up, but not in time, because I saw the movement from Garrick's position. I risked a look. His eyes were fixed on me, dark and intent. The cold mask remained on his face, but the purpose of his stare was altered. It was the same level of intensity he had in the grotto; hungry and predatory.

I got back to work, my heart pounding. I circled the horse, putting his broad body between me and Garrick for a moment. It was only temporary, when I emerged on the other side, our eyes locked.

"Does this amuse you?" I growled, my voice tight. "Watching me struggle?"

"I'm ensuring the work is to my standard," he said, his voice flat.

"Your standards, or your entertainment?"

A flash of something dangerous passed over his face. "Be careful , Anika. You're walking on thin ice."

"Am I ? What is left for you to do to me?" I brushed Thor's side harder than I needed to.

Garrick pushed off the post and took one step towards the stall door. The space narrowed in on us at once. "You have no idea," he whispered, his voice lowering so that I alone could hear. "The things I can do to you have nothing to do with punishment and everything to do with that fire in your eyes."

The words lingered in the air, a stark confession. I took a long breath. Thor shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension. I forced myself to keep my hands in motion, to preserve the smooth, linear movement along the horse's side. But all my focus was on the man standing a few feet away.

I finished brushing and proceeded to the horse's face with a soft cloth. This meant standing close up, softly talking to him to calm him down. I was intensely aware of my own body, the clinging of my dress on my damp skin, the arch of my neck inclining upwards. I felt Garrick's eyes trace every movement, every line.

When I was done, Thor's coat shone. He stood perfectly still and quiet, his head slightly lower as if in gratitude. I packed up the tools and left the stall, putting the brush and bucket back on the heap. I did not glance at the other pack members who had all wandered off, their curiosity satisfied. I turned to face Garrick.

"It's done," I informed him.

He did not look at the horse. His eyes were on me, sweeping from top to bottom, drinking in the mess of my hair, the sheen of sweat on my brow, the smudge of dirt on my face. His eyes were a caress, a soft, measured stroke.

"Not precisely," he puffed. He came in close, but not to touch. He plucked one lone straw from my hair. He sat it between his fingers, studying it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

And when our eyes met, the air became heavy. The stable, the horses, the entire world faded away. There was nothing else but the space between us, heavy with a tension so thick that it was hard to breathe. The memory of his lips inches from mine, the feel of his hands on me; all of it came rushing back.

He moved closer, he was so close I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes and feel the warmth coming from him. His voice was low and raspy, a burning whisper curled deep in my belly.

"You missed a spot."