Page 98 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

Roses.

They were everywhere, spilling onto a slate floor and stretching in every direction. Stone tables held rows and rows of them, the blooms seeming to go on forever. The tables were arranged like risers, each row taller than the one in front of it. The effect was a waterfall of roses—a riot of natural beauty that started at the top of her head and swept all the way to the ground. After the gloom of the rest of the house, the bursts of color were almost blinding. Reds, pinks, and yellows assailed her, the furled petals vivid against bright green vines and stems.

Mouth agape, she brushed past Bard and stepped into a wonderland. Immediately, her gaze was drawn upward, where a glass roof soared overhead. That explained why it was so bright. Moonlight filled the space. The walls were glass, too, their sparkling lengths decorated by tall, narrow windows with stained glass panels that made splashes of pale color on the floor.

She went to one and stood before it, her blanket stirring dried rose petals on the ground. The panel showed some kind of animal—maybe a bear—standing on its hind legs. It stared down at a woman in a long gown. She held a rose, her arm extended as if she offered it to him.

“The wolf and the maiden,” Bard said beside her. “It was my mother’s favorite.”

Haley tilted her head, her gaze on the panel. “It doesn’t look like a wolf to me.”

“That was by design. Elder Lake might be a werewolf town, but Mom didn’t want to be too obvious. So she told the artist to depict a beast of some kind. That’s what he came up with.”

“The beast and the maiden,” she murmured. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said.

She turned to find him watching her. Heat crept up her neck. With his eye patch and scarred face, he should have looked out of place among the roses. Yet he didn’t. She lowered her head, her gaze falling on a cluster of deep red blooms. She traced her finger down the edge of a velvety petal. Beneath the bloom, thorns marched along the flower’s stem.

“That’s why,” she said to herself.

Bard observed her, his attention on her fingers stroking the rose. “What?”

She looked up. “The roses remind me of you.”

His gaze was steady, but a subtle emotion crossed his face before he checked himself. His mouth tightened, and his voice turned hard. “No one’s ever compared me to a flower before.”

Vulnerability. That was what she glimpsed on his face. He thought she mocked him. Is that why he kept pushing her away? Like a wounded animal, he lashed out at anyone who dared to get too close. His scars ran deep.

Much deeper than his skin.

Her heart squeezed and she spoke in a rush to set the record straight. “Not just any flower. A rose.” Shyness gripped her, and she looked down, her gaze on the rose once more. She curled her fingers under the head, the petals cupped in her hand. “Most people can’t grow roses. They’re temperamental. They have sharp thorns that will cut you if you’re not careful.” She ran a thumb over the curve of a petal. “But anyone who overcomes the challenges will tell you they’re worth the trouble.”

He didn’t reply. A hush settled over them, over the rows of flowers and tangled vines. Through the glass, snow continued to fall, the flakes swirling in a dizzying dance that turned the conservatory into a life-size snow globe.

When Bard spoke at last, it was in a low, quiet voice. “You should eat.”

She froze, her hand still curled around the flower. Then . . . pop. The frail trial balloon of hope she floated burst. It was her birthday party invitations all over again. Her foster parents’ whispers when they thought she was asleep in her room. The other trainees asking for a bathroom break when they were partnered with her for sparring.

“You don’t even have a Gift.” Hadn’t Bard reminded her of that just hours ago?

How silly of her to forget.

But he wasn’t entirely correct. She was a master at handling disappointment. No one managed it better. If she had a Gift, it was making the best of things.

She drew on it now, lifting her chin and offering him a tremulous smile. “I was just thinking that.”

18

God, he was so bad at this.

Bard watched as the fledging hope in Haley’s face was snuffed out, replaced with hurt and then a false cheeriness. She was terrible at hiding her emotions. “Wearing your heart on your sleeve” his mother had called it. Haley wore hers like a flag, waving it almost carelessly. Inviting anyone to wound her.

Well, he’d done that.

“You should eat.”

She’d told him flat out he was a challenge worth taking on. She said it poetically. Elegantly. After everything—his rejection following their kiss and his cruel insult about her lack of a Gift—she was willing to give him a chance.

---