Page 19 of Spooked
The manor is eerily quiet, emergency lights now fixed, casting skeletal patterns on the walls as I pad down the grand staircase.
I'm not even sure where I'm going, just following the pull in my chest. I notice an entrance to additional stairs that I don’t remember from before, and decide to descend. At the bottom, a sliver of warm light spills from beneath a door at the end of a narrow hallway.
As I approach, I hear faint sounds of movement—the scrape of metal tools, the occasional soft curse.
Wolfe’s voice.
The door’s ajar and I hesitate, my hand hovering inches from the weathered wood. This feels like crossing a line, invading his privacy. But the magnetic pull he has on me is too strong to resist.
I peer through the gap.
Wolfe sits hunched over an oak table, a bright handful of candles illuminating his project. His back is to me, broad shoulders flexing beneath a simple black T-shirt as he works. He’s unmasked, his thick hair tied back in a ponytail at his nape. From this angle, I can see the scarred left side of his profile as he concentrates on whatever he's crafting.
He’s absolutely beautiful.
Careful not to disturb him, I push the door open slowly another inch. The workshop is a creative's paradise: shelves stocked with materials, half-finished masks and props in various stages of completion, sketches and designs pinned to walls. Props litter other tables with gargoyle claws, skeletal phantoms, and werewolf fur. It smells of clay and paint and…Wolfe.
He's making a mask—not a horrific monster but something hauntingly lovely. His hands move with remarkable delicacy, sculpting and smoothing what looks like a forest spirit or elemental being. Leaves and vines intertwine around eye holes, the face appearing to emerge from nature itself.
I'm transfixed, watching an artist at work. This is the real Wolfe…not the Beast of Marsden Manor, but the artist, the creator, the man who transforms his trauma into something marvelous.
My foot nudges something metallic, sending it skittering across the floor.
Wolfe whirls, instinctively raising a hand to shield his face before recognizing me. His eyes widen, a complex mix of emotions flashing across his features.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, stepping fully into the room. "I couldn't sleep."
"So you decided to spy on me?" There's no real anger in his voice, just a husky tension that sends a shiver crawling down my spine.
"I wanted to see you."
He doesn't reach for his mask, though it sits within arm's reach on the table. Instead, he watches me approach, his green eyes intensifying as I step into the pool of light.
"You're seeing all of me." His voice is rough, challenging. "Still think I'm sexy?"
I move closer until I'm standing directly in front of him, between his spread knees as he sits on the stool. Slowly, I raise my hand and trace my fingertips along the scarred side of his face.
"More than ever," I breathe.
His entire body shudders at my touch. I learn the texture of his scars—ridged in places, smooth in others, a topography of survival etched into his skin. He remains still, his breathing shallow, as though afraid any movement might frighten me.
"Ash," he whispers, my name a warning. His throat bobs.
I silence him by leaning forward and pressing my lips to the worst of his scars, just below his left eye. His hand shoots up to grip my wrist, not pulling me away but holding me there, anchoring himself.
“What are you doing to me?” he groans.
“Exploring you,” I answer against his skin.
With a low growl, he pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that's pure heat. It’s raw and desperate and hungry, and as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, I feel claimed…possessed. I meet him with equal ferocity, my fingers threading through his hair, releasing it from the tie.
His hands slide up under my T-shirt, touching my bare skin, and I gasp.
“Damn your soft skin…” he groans, then sucks on my bottom lip. "You can tell me to stop, Ash," he pants against my mouth.
"Hell, no," I reply.
“Thank god,” he chuckles huskily. In one easy movement, he stands, lifting me with him, and sets me on the edge of the worktable. Clay tools, his work-in-progress, and a handful of sketches are swept aside as he sits back down on the stool, pushing me to lie back.
