Free Lone Wolfe by Kate Hewitt Page A

           ‘I
… I can’t.’ She took another step away, and then another. Jacob didn’t say
anything; in the shadowy room she couldn’t quite make out his expression. And
she suddenly didn’t want to know it, didn’t want to wait for his mocking reply.
So she did the only thing she could think of, the only avenue left to her.
                 She
ran.
                 Jacob
watched Mollie flee the room, heard the distant slam of a door. He pictured her
stumbling through the gardens, tripping on tree roots, her hair a molten stream
behind her.
                 What
a mess. What a mess he’d made. And he’d done it intentionally, out of a sense
of self-preservation so basic and elemental. It had been a warning, both to her
and himself : don’t
get close to me. I don’t know what I’ll do. What I’m capable of .
                 Sighing
heavily, he pushed away from the desk and nearly stepped on the parchment
Mollie had dropped in her surprise and distress.
                 The Mollie Rose.
                 Jacob
had no idea what had possessed his father to preserve the rose like some
child’s drawing; all he could think was that his father had been in one of his
rare, sweetly lucid moments. Like when he’d built them a tree house, or brought
them Christmas hampers from Hartington’s. Moments the children had revelled in
with hesitant incredulity, they’d been so rare. Of course, when he’d burned the
tree house down a week later, or destroyed the hamper’s contents in a drunken
rage, Jacob was the one left picking up the pieces, taking the hits.
                 Until
that one night, when he’d refused. In that moment of defence— defiance —he’d ended one life and changed
everyone else’s for ever.
                 He
sighed again, the sound halfway to a groan, hating that these memories still
claimed him. Over the years he’d pushed them so far down he could almost
pretend they didn’t exist. Had never happened.
                 Almost.
                 In
dreams they taunted him. They claimed him and made him their captive.
                 And
now, back at Wolfe Manor, it was worse than ever. He felt them rise up inside
of him, felt the ghosts clamour around him, whisper their taunts in his ears.
                 You’re a thug. A drunk. A murderer. There’s no good in you at all. You hurt
everyone who comes close .
                 And
he’d proved that yet again, when he just tried to seduce one of the sweetest,
most innocent women he’d ever met. He recalled the look of astonishment and
even hurt in Mollie’s eyes when he’d suggested their no-strings affair, the
exact thing he’d intended not to do, knowing Mollie would refuse. Knowing she’d
be bewildered, offended. Knowing it was wrong .
                 And
yet he’d done it. And Jacob knew why.
                 She’d
asked too many questions. Drawn too close. Seen
something inside of him he wouldn’t even acknowledge to himself.
                 Jacob—
                 She’d
reached for him, and he’d almost wanted to go, to find comfort and safety in
her arms. What a joke.
                 So
he’d done the one thing he knew would make her back off. Run away, even. He’d
propositioned her.
                 Jacob
straightened, shaking off the thoughts and recriminations. He closed his mind,
allowed a comforting, controlled blankness to steal over him in a numbing fog.
He felt his heart rate slow, his body still. He took a deep breath and let it
out slowly. Better .
                 Striding
from the room with grimly focused purpose, he told himself what had happened
was a good thing. At least he wouldn’t be seeing Mollie Parker for a while.
                 Mollie
ran all the way home, her chest heaving, her sides
aching. She didn’t stop