Chapter Four

Dans Les Bras d'Un Loup

The two stood in silence a long while, regarding each other with wary gazes.

"No?" Arella finally asked. "Then if you'll excuse me—I've laundry to do." She walked briskly back to the large tin tub and began scrubbing the mud stains from his pants with a rather wild abandon. She kept giving him her back, taking her eyes off of him; she was either innocently naïve or incredibly stupid. Possibly both, he decided.

Unable to stomach being so not only ignored but totally unconcerned with, as if he wasn't a dangerous warrior, Jonathon stormed back inside, slamming the door behind him, rattling the frame. He almost tripped over the linen pants that crazed, closed-mouth slut had made. She had hemmed them too long, overestimating his height. Just to be spiteful, he sat back in her mother's chair, scowling as he dug gouges out of the soft wood with his fingernails. He took pleasure in the pain he received from splinters as they gouged the skin of his fingertips, making one bleed. If she was telling the truth, and damn her she probably was, what was he to do? How was he to get the truth from her?

He snarled, cursing her (and her mother) thoroughly. That out of the way, he decided the best—and only thing really—to do was to make her want to tell him. Tell him everything. He slid lower in the chair, a slow and enticingly wicked smile spreading across his kissable lips. That he could do. He knew very well how to be charming. He would break her yet. And enjoy doing so, that was for certain.

~*~

Arella paused outside the door, gathering her courage as her heart thudded wildly against her ribs. She had, rather rashly, told him to kill her. That she had been made for him. Was she stupid? Surely she must be, for she had vowed to herself she would never let Valentine's plan see fruition—that she would prove that evil man wrong. She had spent the past year, since her mother had died and she had read the journals, the ones her mother had kept hidden, trying to break the brainwashing Valentine had done to her. And, until she had told that damn man what she had said she would not, she had thought she had done a good job. Not good enough, apparently.

She gritted her teeth and walked inside, arms full of line-dried sheets and Jonathon's now-clean pants. Funny. She was already acting like his keeper—wife or mother. Everything she had sworn never to be. Not to him. She felt a migraine coming on.

He stood when she came in. He had started a fire and was crouched by the fireplace. She couldn't read his expression, but it had lost the hostility from earlier. Perhaps he was sorry for having threatened her? No, Arella cautioned herself, she must not fall for any game he played; he was, after all, Valentine's son.

"Here," he said, walking to her. "Let me. If I'm going to stay long enough to fully heal, I'm going to be as light a burden as I am able."

She looked at him warily, eyes narrowed as he took the pile from her. "And then you'll leave?"

"If that's what you want," Jonathon said, casually shrugging, as if he didn't care either way. He flinched visibly at the action as if it had pained him, his ribs clearly complaining. Arella frowned, quickly taking the load back. It wouldn't do if he kept injuring himself carelessly.

"Stop it, Jonathon. I'll do this. You rest," her voice, when she spoke, was almost gentle. It was as if she couldn't help but take care of him when he was in pain. He had counted on that. He smiled inwardly, glad his little ploy had worked so well. This was going to be easier than he thought. She clearly had strong maternal instincts. He could play on that.

Jonathon pulled them away. "No. I can do this."

"With one hand?" she asked bluntly, uncaring how he might not want to be reminded of the fact. One look at the color draining from his face and her voice, when she spoke again, softened, "Here—we'll do it together. Okay? Just let me carry half the load. There's no need for you to further aggravate your wounds."

She pulled some of the sheets from him, ignoring his sulking frown. She walked past him quickly and with a lithe grace, almost floating as she went up the stairs, sans another word. Jonathon scowled at her back, but quickly mastered his expression. It would take patience, but he was definitely going to get on her good side. He was going to make her trust him, and then he would destroy that fragile bond, demolish it absolutely. And, he thought, grinning, he would enjoy seeing her crestfallen face when he did.

Jonathon, of course, began trying to put the sheets on the slender bed himself once upstairs, ignoring the expression on Arella's face. She snapped at him.

"Are you trying to hurt your ribs even more? Go sit down! I'll do this."

He frowned at her, making sure his expression was none too severe. "I'm not weak. I can help, Arella."

Arella froze at her name on his lips. She looked down and swallowed, her hands seeming to tremble slightly. Why? she asked herself, before she gripped her hands into tight fists and met his eye, glowering.

"Sit down, Morgenstern. It will be faster if I do it anyway."

Jonathon finally sat in the rocking chair, trying to appear calm, perhaps a little hurt as he contemplated what her expression could have meant. He said nothing, but gazed out the window. The sky was clearing up, from what he could see. And then she was done, heading for the door, in what had seemed like no time at all. Then again, she had probably made that bed thousands of times.

"Wait," he said, surprising them both. She paused, blinking large blue eyes at him a color that could rival the sky. She waited in silence for him to continue.

"Ah…where are you going?"

Arella allowed him a half-suspicious look. "Downstairs. To finish cooking dinner. Why?"

He shifted in the rocking chair, suddenly uncomfortable in its wooden frame. Why, indeed? He doubted she would believe it was because he didn't want to be alone. He wasn't even sure himself if that was the reason.

"Where am I meant to shower? I could certainly use one," he said, making a slight face at the way he smelled.

"If you hadn't noticed, what with me washing your things by hand outside, but I don't have running water. Your father didn't think of that, when he built this place." She paused, giving him a queer look, half-shy, half-accusing, as if she wanted to ask him something but couldn't work up the nerve.

He sighed, exasperated. "Then how do you clean yourself? How am I to clean myself?"

She smiled at him, perhaps a little too sweetly.

"Why, the same why I clean the clothes and the dishes, Morgenstern. In a tub. Outside."

He looked startled, his dark eyes wide. "What do you do when it rains?" he asked before he could censor himself.

"The same thing I do when it snows. I bring the tub inside and am very, very careful."

Arella shrugged and crooked a finger at him. "Come on; I'll heat up a bath for you."

~*~

Arella had set up the bath, and Jonathon was relieved to find, that it at the very least had curtains, to keep away prying eyes. Casting one last suspicious look over his shoulder, he lowered himself slowly into the steaming water. The scent of lavender overwhelmed him, lavender and something else—whatever it was, he decided, dropping down so the water met his chin, was lovely. He had never felt so…pampered. He wasn't sure how he felt about that—this…pampering.

Forcing himself to focus and ignore the sweet-scented haze washing over him, Jonathon reached down to retrieve the soap outside the tub. Of course it too smelled so very feminine, but he was able to place the other scent finally, as he rubbed the lather over his skin. Vanilla. He was going to smell like a dessert when he was done. He knew how he felt about that—mildly disgusted. At least, he contented himself, he would no longer smell of mud, sweat and blood. Normally he not only could stomach the stench of blood, but rather enjoyed it—that is, when it wasn't his.

The mixed perfumes rose in the steam, lulling him, relaxing him. His eyes drooped; his body, so very sore, relaxing in the hot, fragrant water. With a soft sigh, he leaned back, allowing himself the luxury of dozing for a moment. He needed a moment of rest; his fever, he felt, was returning.

~*~

He awoke to the loud noise of a splash and sloshing of water, and to choking. Something grabbed him and heaved him up, shoving him half-over the rim of the tub. A few well-placed slaps on his back and he was breathing again, coughing, sputtering out the water he had swallowed and breathed in. He must have fallen asleep, then sunken into the water. His eyes blinked, trying to see past the water streaming from his white hair down his face. Arella was beside him, in the tub, her clothing soaked, her expression at once a mask of fury and intense concern. He stared at her, gathering his wits as she sat back, shoving a shaking hand through her lemony hair.

"Damn you," she said, breathless. "Don't have me save you, go through all that effort, just to have you drown in my damn tub."

Her eyes, he noticed, were too wide; her face too pale. She looked like she had seen a ghost.

Jonathon laughed shakily, which sent him into another fit of coughing so violent, he vomited the water he had swallowed. The taste of bitter lavender and sweet vanilla overwhelmed him, had his head spinning. He slumped forward, only to meet Arella's waiting arms. He heard her curse heartily, so heartily it almost pleased him, to hear the profane come out of such pretty, angelic lips.

"Did you know," he half-gasped, bordering on delirious, "that your name—it means Angel?"

"Yes," she said tersely, hoisting him up and struggling beneath his weight as she helped him stand. "And you can blame your father for that one as well."

"Are you my sister?" he asked, his head swimming as he hung upon her, unable to stand, his limbs trembling.

She looked pale at the thought. Her jaw clenched and she met his blurry eye. "If I said yes, what would you think? What would you do?"

"Kiss you," he said with a fevered laugh, "it only seems to make sense. I've kissed the other one, why not you too?"

"Come anywhere near me with those lips and I swear to the Angel, I will remove them from your person. Come on, lift your leg over the edge, I can't do that for you."

Together, they managed to make it over the tub and up the stairs back into the cabin. Instead of trying to get him to the top floor, Arella helped Jonathon to the bed she had been using, tucked him in. She had, rather blushingly refused to meet his eye until his body was fully covered.

"You keep stealing my bed," she muttered to herself, putting a towel beneath his head so he wouldn't dampen the pillow.

He chuckled again, his body shivering from a fever. He closed his eyes and when he felt her weight lift off of the bed, his good hand reached out and snaked around her wrist, stopping her. His eyes, black and glittering as onyx, rested hazily on her face, still a little scarlet from having to, by necessity, deal with him in the nude.

"Tell me the truth, Arella," he said slowly, his lips feeling a little thick, "Are you my sister?"

She stared at him a beat too long, then looked away. She tugged her hand free from his slippery grasp and shook her head once.

"No. No, but sometimes I almost wish I was."

He stared at her image as it began to splinter, to become hazy. Jonathon watched her standing there, regarding him just as intently, for as long as he was able. But sleep soon overtook him, and he fell into a cool and lonesome pool of pitch.

A/N: If there's anything you'd like specifically to see in this little fanfic, just leave a comment with your idea/request. Also, if you have any constructive criticism, feel free to leave it. I'd love to hear from you, even if it's just "enjoyed this".

- QS