The Intruder Part 2

 

"Shelter," I said, the word dripping with dark amusement. "How fortunate that you found your way to my door. And how... coincidental that you happened upon the one garden on my estate, the one bed in that garden, the one rose that blooms brightest of all."

His face went pale under the dirt and rain stains. "I... it was the most beautiful. My daughter, she... she asked me to bring her a flower. Just a simple flower, nothing expensive or elaborate. And when I saw these roses blooming so impossibly in autumn, I thought..."

His daughter. The words hit me like cold water, dousing some of the rage that had been building in my chest. A daughter who'd asked for flowers. A father desperate enough to steal beauty for someone he loved.

The parallels weren't lost on me.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice still hard but lacking the killing edge it had carried moments before.

"Montgomery," he said quickly. "Charles Montgomery. Of London, originally, though we're... relocating to Wales. To Ravenwood, actually. A family property."

Ravenwood. The name stirred something in my memory—a minor estate on the edge of human civilization, close enough to my territory that I'd kept track of its ownership over the decades. The last inhabitant had been a recluse named Edmund, dead for several years now.

"Edmund Montgomery was your relation?"

"My uncle." Charles's grip on the rose loosened slightly, hope flickering in his eyes like a candle in wind. "Did you know him?"

Know him. Such a simple word for the careful détente that had existed between the hermit of Ravenwood and the monster of the northern mountains. Edmund had been one of the few humans who'd suspected the truth about my nature but had been wise enough to keep his distance.

"We were... neighbors," I said carefully. "He kept to his boundaries. I kept to mine."

"Then you understand," Charles said, seizing on what he mistook for sympathy. "How a man might find himself in reduced circumstances, forced to make difficult choices. My family has lost everything, you see. Everything except hope and each other. And when my daughter asked for something so simple as a flower..."

His voice trailed off, but I could read the rest of the story in his posture, his scent, the desperate way he clutched that stolen rose like it was salvation incarnate. A man who'd gambled away his fortune and was now paying the price. A family torn from their comfortable life and thrust into uncertainty.

A daughter who still believed her father could bring her flowers.

The rage in my chest shifted, transforming into something more complex. This wasn't simple theft—it was the desperate act of a man trying to preserve some fragment of beauty in a world that had become ugly. I understood that desperation. Had lived with it for twenty-seven years.

But understanding didn't mean forgiveness.

"Your daughter," I said, stepping closer until he had to crane his neck to meet my eyes. "What's her name?"

"Catherine." The word came out soft, reverent. Whatever else Charles Montgomery might be—gambler, fool, thief—he loved his child.

Catherine. The name echoed in my mind like a bell, stirring memories I couldn't quite grasp. Something about roses and prophecies and dreams that had been growing stronger with each passing night.

"And she sent you out into the storm to bring her flowers?"

"No!" The denial came swift and sharp. "No, she would never... it was my idea. A small gesture to show her that beauty still exists in the world, even when everything else seems dark."

Nobility wrapped in theft. Love disguised as violation. The ironies were so thick I could taste them on the night air.

I reached out slowly, deliberately, and closed my hand over his where it gripped the rose. His skin was cold and clammy with fear-sweat, but he didn't pull away. Either he was braver than he appeared, or shock had paralyzed him completely.

"This rose," I said softly, "is not just a flower. It's a memory. A promise. A piece of my soul made manifest in thorn and petal."

His eyes widened, understanding flickering behind the fear. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

"Of course you didn't know." I tightened my grip, feeling his bones shift under the pressure. "How could you? You're merely human. You see beauty and assume it exists for your pleasure, your taking, your small needs and smaller understanding."

The wolf was stirring again, drawn by his fear, by the scent of blood where the thorns had pierced his palm. It would be so easy to let the change take me, to show him exactly what happened to thieves who violated sacred ground.

But something held me back. Some instinct that whispered this moment was more significant than it appeared, that the man trembling before me was part of a larger pattern I couldn't yet see.

The rose will bring her.

The prophecy echoed through my mind with sudden urgency, and I found myself studying Charles Montgomery with new eyes. A man with a daughter named Catherine. A man desperate enough to steal roses in autumn storms. A man whose family was moving to Ravenwood, practically on my doorstep.

Coincidence? Or fate finally making its move?