Wicked lessons with the coutesan

Getting what he asked for

*Oliver*

As the howling wind tears around me and the rain lashes at my upturned face, I stagger to the edge of the cliff, brace myself against nature’s wrath, and hurl the empty whisky bottle into the blackened abyss that contains monstrous waves thrashing against the rocky, sandy shore.

My harsh laughter is carried out to sea as my black greatcoat whips around my calves, and I wonder why I even bothered to wear it. The brutal rain has drenched me. The wind threatens to shove me right over the edge. But I stand my ground.

And tremble. Just as I trembled uncontrollably that fateful night when my world changed completely. There was a storm then as well, as harsh and unforgiving as the one I face now on my tiny, secluded isle. Where I come to escape the horrific memories.

Only they refuse to leave me in peace. They batter me as vehemently and with as much fury as the tempest that surrounds me. And if I can’t escape them, I can at least teach myself to ignore them, to send them into the darkest corners of my mind where they might lose the power to plague me.

Consequently, I stand there stoically and refuse to allow them victory, to force me into scurrying back to the residence where a warm fire and another bottle of scotch wait. Where I could hide from the unfortunate truth that I’ve gone mad.

Stark raving mad.

Oh, I do a bang-up job of giving the appearance of being the same as those who surround me. Moving among the members of the high packs, as I did in the before time, with a confidence, an easy smile, and a bold laugh. I flirt with the she-wolves, dance with them, even charm them. Many are hopeful of becoming mated to the Alpha of Claybourne’s heir, of bearing me children. None know I’m no longer worthy of inheriting my father’s title, of carrying my own courtesy one.

However, I think my family is beginning to suspect the truth. In a few days, I will see them and pretend that I am again as I once was.

They’ll pretend as well. Pretend to believe me when I tell them that I come to this island to study the stars. That I require the isolation and solitude in order to devote myself to my new passion for the sky… since I’ve abandoned my passion for the railway.

As soon as the mating Season concluded the previous August, while everyone else departed for their country estates and pack houses, I came here… where a small stone castle has withstood the rigors of time and, with diligent devotion and my own hands, has become once again inhabitable. I have no companionship, no one with whom to break the monotony. No one visits me without an invitation… and I issue no invitations.

And if there are nights when the loneliness devours me, I endure it. I do whatever is required to protect my secret. For the sake of my family. I do nothing to bring my parents shame when it has taken so long for them to be accepted by their peers. I will not undo all their efforts to belong by revealing the truth that I no longer do.

But of late, the loneliness is worse than ever. Insatiable. Strengthening. Like the tempest, until it possesses the power to destroy all in its wake. To destroy me.

Yet what I yearn for most desperately at the moment is not within reach: the warmth of a she-wolf’s soft body, the flowery fragrance of a she-wolf’s flesh, the gentle lullaby of a she-wolf’s sighs, the sweet taste of a she-wolf’s lips. Still, dropping my head back and glaring at the black and fathomless star-hidden sky, I bellow, “A she-wolf! A she-wolf! My kingdom for a she-wolf!”

Lightning flashes with such brilliance, turning night into day, I have to avert my gaze, look away… look down.

And that is when I see her.

Lying face down and motionless on the beach, bare arms outstretched as though she’d been reaching for salvation, but fallen short, waves ebbing and flowing around her, trying to lure her back into the dangerous depths. With naked legs clearly visible, any dress appearing to be absent, she is unmoving, her moonbeam hair… like tendrils of seaweed… spread Medusa-like over and around her. Have the Fates answered my cry? Or is my drunken and demented mind even more lost than I’d surmised, conjuring an apparition that appears real enough to steal my breath?

Blackness swoops back in to conceal her. She’d been detectable for only a second, maybe two. Surely it had been a sea creature of some sort, a dolphin or an infant whale, washed upon the shore, and I’d seen only what I wanted to see: a mermaid, a siren, Neptune’s daughter. What I am suddenly desperate to find: someone to ease the wretched ache of loneliness that has taken up residence in my soul.

I raise my lantern, but the light it provides is not enough to conquer the darkened abyss where she lies crumpled. The low glow strictly adheres to its purpose of ensuring I know where to place my foot when I take my next step.

Then lightning again defiantly zigzags across the sky, and it is as though every speck of illumination in the heavens touches her as I want to. She is no apparition but flesh and blood. How the hell has she ended up marooned on my shore?

She moves not at all. Has she drowned?

Pivoting, my greatcoat flaring out, I race toward the path that will lead me down to her. Perhaps she’d been a passenger on a ship. In this storm, it would have been destroyed. I imagine her flailing about in the rough seas, desperate to reach land, her sodden clothing and hair dragging her down. The salty swells filling her mouth, her lungs, until she no longer has space for air. What a ghastly way to go.

I am far too familiar with ghastly ways to die.