THE WEREWOLF'S SERVANT Thorncliff Towers is done up for Christmas, secure against wind and wolves. But Karina Petri is shut out, too, and the gypsy witch wants what's inside. She envies the gifts, the feast, the pretty clothes, of course. But her true desire is for the love of Constantin Stoica. Her smolderingly handsome childhood friend agreed to serve Lord Draven after his brother was caught stealing last year. He suspects Karina was involved—and it would take more magic than she possesses to make him forgive. . . Constantin has always been drawn to Karina's dark curls, flashing eyes, and reckless ways. But trusting her has proven dangerous before, and this night holds more to fear than most. The wrong decisions could cost him his job, his safety—even his life. But letting Karina go could cost him his heart. . . Praise for Beauty and the Wolf "Dynamic and sensual, paranormal readers will gobble up this sexy read." —Donna Grant, New York Times bestselling author of Midnight's Warrior " Beauty and the Wolf is a deliciously dark retelling of the classic tale that will make you fall in love all over again." —Erin Quinn, author of The Five Deaths of Roxanne Love 19,200 Words
Release date:
November 1, 2014
Publisher:
eOriginals
Print pages:
65
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Much had taken place since the accident at the tree. Constantin had grown into a conscientious man. Karina had blossomed into a curvaceous woman. And their Gypsy tribe had migrated from Romania to England, although Constantin no longer considered himself a member of it.
The worst part was, he hadn’t had a choice in the matter.
Fat snowflakes drifted from the sky and landed on his shoulders. As he stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking a village called Dunwich, loneliness—as thick as the fog rolling in—closed over him.
Selfless. Charitable. Generous. Words used to describe him as a child could be used to describe him today. He was willing to go the extra mile for others. And because he always strived to make peace, he never did anything amoral.
Today is Christmas Eve. He shuddered.
Selfless, charitable, and generous were adjectives used to describe the spirit of the holiday, too. That’s why confusion filtered through him.
Why do unfortunate things happen to me on Christmas Eve?
Nine Christmas Eves ago, Karina had shattered his leg. Two Christmas Eves ago, his grandmother had passed away. And last Christmas Eve, his younger brother, Viktor, had been caught stealing food from Thorncliff Towers.
Constantin turned and scowled at the very same manor looming on a nearby hill. As punishment for his crime, Viktor had been forced to leave their Gypsy tribe and work at Thorncliff Towers for the house’s owner, Lord Winthrop. In Constantin’s eyes, Lord Winthrop was a bastard—a man Constantin had no pity for, even though Winthrop suffered under a black magic curse. Ironically, the curse had been cast by Constantin’s own Gypsy clan. According to talk around the campfire, Winthrop transformed into a blood-lusting werewolf beneath every full moon. And since he’d had been vicious and half-mad before the spell was rendered, his curse would linger forever, unless he changed his heartless ways.
It had been suggested that Lord Winthrop’s beautiful wife, Isabella, was in the midst of increasing the earl’s capacity to love. But Constantin doubted she could.
Considering his brother to be in danger, Constantin had done everything in his power to persuade Winthrop to allow him to take Viktor’s place. Winthrop had finally agreed—but not without a fight.
“No one steals from me!” the stone-hearted earl had thundered during that confrontation. “I demand that the debt your brother incurred be repaid in full!”
An eye for an eye.
One brother for another.
Two punishments for a single mistake.
That’s what Winthrop had insisted on.
It wasn’t fair. Still, Constantin thought, here I am, stuck at Thorncliff Towers . . . risking my own life under the threat of Winthrop’s werewolf shadow.
Christ. He picked up a pebble and tossed it over the cliff. There was only one person to blame for his predicament: Karina Petri.
“I’ve always said she was nothing but trouble,” he murmured.
Like day contrasts night, Karina and Constantin were opposites. He wasn’t the most boisterous man in the room, but he was decent and good. Karina, on the other hand, was mischievous, bold, and stubborn. God. Why the hell couldn’t he shake the memory of her from his mind?
Because they’d been friends since they were children, that’s why. Karina always claimed Constantin was a stick-in-the-mud that never bent the rules. And he would tease her that her knack for trouble might land her in prison one day. But the teasing was always done in jest. They’d been best friends, comrades in adventure. At one point, he’d considered making Karina his girl.
At remote Thorncliff Towers, Constantin missed her dark, flashing eyes, her beautiful face, and the excitement she brought to every situation. More than that, he missed their strong friendship. For years they’d shared a bond of trust.
All of that had changed when Karina talked Viktor into stealing food from Lord Winthrop’s kitchen.
Constantin shook his head. “Forgiveness” was one notion that couldn’t be likened to himself and Christmas.
There was a gentle tug at his coat hem. He looked down. “Grace Ann!”
An adorable six-year-old girl smiled up at him. He smiled back.
“Hello, Constantin.” When she reached her chubby hands toward him, he picked her up and gave her a cuddle.
“Whatever are you doing out here, my dear? And without a coat.”
“I just had the most delicious hot cider.” She dropped her grin a moment later. “And the most disgusting fruitcake.”
He laughed. “Usually Mrs. Tidwell is a better cook than that.”
She hugged him tightly around his neck. “I do like her game hens. I’ll miss them when I leave next week.”
“Yes.” He pushed a lump down his throat. “Back to London it is, eh?”
Grace Ann nodded. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“You and Lady Winthrop are the only nice people here.”
“I was nice enough to give you horse riding lessons, wasn’t I?” he teased.
“Oh, yes! Thank you for letting me practice on Sugarplum.”
Constantin’s l. . .
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