The Intruder Part 3

 

"Tell me about your daughter," I said, my voice deceptively calm while my mind raced through possibilities that felt both impossible and inevitable.

Charles blinked, confusion replacing some of the terror in his expression. "Catherine? She's... she's twenty-two. Beautiful, intelligent, far too good for the circumstances we've fallen into. She's been trying to hold our family together while I..." He swallowed hard. "While I've been failing them."

Twenty-two. The right age. The right situation. A daughter whose father was desperate enough to steal roses from cursed gardens, moving to a property that bordered my territory.

The prophecy whispered through my mind again, more insistent now: The rose will bring her.

"And you thought this stolen flower would somehow help her?"

"I thought..." Charles looked down at the rose in his hand, its petals now stained with his blood. "I thought it might remind her that beautiful things still exist in the world. That not everything has to be about survival and sacrifice and making do with less."

The words hit closer to home than I cared to admit. Beauty as defiance. Hope as rebellion against despair. It was why I'd kept these gardens blooming through decades of loneliness, why I'd tended Lydia's roses even after the memory of her touch had begun to fade.

But theft was still theft, regardless of the motives behind it.

"And what," I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper that carried more menace than any shout, "did you imagine the owner of this rose might want in return for your... borrowing?"

Charles's throat worked as he tried to swallow. "I... I hadn't thought... that is, I assumed the estate was abandoned. The mists, the lack of any visible inhabitants..."

"Abandoned." I let the word hang in the air like a noose. "How convenient for you. How easy to justify taking what isn't yours when you can pretend no one will miss it."

The rage was building again, fueled by his casual assumption that my home was empty, my gardens unprotected. That I was somehow less real, less deserving of consideration, because I chose to remain hidden from human sight.

I released his hand and stepped back, letting him see the full effect of my displeasure. The evening shadows seemed to deepen around me, and I felt my control over the change begin to slip. My canine teeth felt sharper, my fingernails longer. The wolf was close to the surface now, drawn by the scent of blood and fear.

"You've taken something precious from me," I said, each word carefully measured. "Something that cannot be replaced, cannot be bought, cannot be undone. What do you imagine would be appropriate compensation for such a theft?"

Charles opened his mouth, then closed it again. His survival instincts, dulled by whiskey and desperation, were finally beginning to understand the true nature of his situation. This wasn't a simple case of trespassing on an abandoned estate. This was something far more dangerous.

"I... I have money," he said finally. "Not much, but whatever I have, it's yours. I could work off the debt, perhaps. Manual labor, gardening, whatever you might need..."

Money. The very thing he'd lost through his own poor choices, now offered as if it could purchase absolution. As if the value of Lydia's roses could be calculated in pounds and shillings.

"What makes you think," I asked softly, "that I have any need for human currency? Or human labor? Or anything else you might be capable of providing?"

The question hung between us like a blade. Charles's eyes darted around the garden, taking in details he'd missed in his haste to steal—the too-perfect blooms, the impossible vitality of plants that should have been dormant, the way the very air seemed to thrum with barely contained power.

"What are you?" he whispered.

What, not who. At least he was beginning to understand.

"I am the lord of this domain," I said. "I am the guardian of these roses, the keeper of memories you've chosen to defile. I am the consequence of your actions, Mr. Montgomery."

The scent of his fear was intoxicating now, sharp and clean in a way that made my wolf pant with hunger. But underneath it, carried on the night wind like a promise, was something else. Something that smelled of woman and roses and destiny.

Catherine.

The name echoed through my mind again, and with it came a certainty that felt like madness and fate wrapped together. This broken man with his bleeding hands and desperate love wasn't just a random intruder. He was a catalyst. A key turning in a lock that had been closed for twenty-seven years.

The rose will bring her.

I reached out and plucked the stolen flower from his trembling fingers, noting how he didn't resist. The thorns had left deep punctures in his palm, and his blood gleamed dark against the crimson petals.

"There will be a price," I said, my voice carrying the weight of prophecy and inevitability. "There is always a price for taking what doesn't belong to you."

"What... what kind of price?" Charles stammered.

I smiled then, and watched him flinch at whatever he saw in my expression. The wolf was very close to the surface now, my human mask wearing thin in the face of ancient magic and approaching destiny.

"Payment," I said, the word coming out as much growl as speech. "You will give me what I require, when I require it. And you will be grateful for the opportunity."

The shadows around us seemed to thicken, and somewhere in the distance, my pack began to howl.