Free Becoming Bad (The Becoming Novels) by Jess Raven, Paula Black Page A

was an arrogant bastard, forcing her to his bed when sleep made her helpless. Her eyes were aching from the salt of her tears, raw and gritty under the rub of her knuckles. The last time Ash had cried herself to sleep was that damn night when Connal broke into her house, making the wolf-symbol of her nightmares a reality. She’d recoiled from him then. Now? What wouldn’t she give for a do-over.
    She glared at the sleeping predator, itching for a pillow so she could just …
Gah, I want to smother him! That would end all my problems. Or get me killed quicker.
Settling for stealthing the pillows from under his head, Ash returned to the fur rug and fluffed her stolen luxuries.
    Better to sleep on the floor like a dog than be the King’s bitch.
    Said king flopped over, making the wood posts creak. Ash kicked her foot out to the base, frustrated. The creaking stopped. Satisfied he’d shut up, she figured she could sleep some more, while she waited for him to wake and leave.
    The bastard was one of the monsters, but he was the monster she knew right now. A prisoner of her own fear, Ash was still lost. Her escape hadn’t gone to plan and she’d been punished by the foreign desires that took her over.
    Her next escape would end so very differently.
    She couldn’t stay. When they started their plan to turn her into Mother Of The Year, she’d be better off dead. Her imagination played out scenarios in cringeworthy detail, and none ended well. Fomor was overrun with wolves, not a place to wander around unescorted, especially for a woman. She'd seen what they did to Red Shoes, and as much as it affected her, Ash refused to be a chew toy for their appetites. They'd devour her and she'd lose herself forever.

    As days passed, it became a ritual of sorts. She’d fall asleep on the rug she’d claimed only to wake snuggled into MacTire’s warmth as he nuzzled her hair and growled in his sleep. Ash always eased herself free and settled back on the floor. As a show of defiance, it was pretty pathetic. She’d drift back into dreams with her head full of escape plots and wake again, captured in his bed. Truth be told, the floor was not as comfortable, and she had bruises and aches from laying too long on one side, but she refused to give in. He didn’t have the right to hold her, or share the intimate trust that came with sleeping beside another person. She didn’t trust him.
    While her nights, or what passed as night in this sunless realm, were filled with broken sleep, her days were stuffed full of him. When Mac could be with her, he was. He fed her sweet roots and some sort of meat she was too hungry to refuse. He seemed to take pleasure in the task. The meals were haphazard creations of whatever they’d managed to bring down at the full moon and what they somehow cultivated in the wasteland. Her ‘
What is this?
’ was always met with a slow smile and a wink. ‘
Just try it, you’ll like it.
’ And since he didn’t die, she ate it too.
    He did his best with her. He curbed the asshole in him, telling her stories of his youth, the funnier antics of his
skuldalid
and the tragedy of the aptly named Knutr who was locked in the dungeon for his own safety. He was trying, and she tried her hardest not to antagonise him, biding time and gathering information.
    She behaved, sometimes, but the endless darkness incited violent frustration. The days when she was caged in his rooms, alone, were when she snapped, leaving his chambers destroyed on more than one occasion. He’d greet her with a tight smile and usher the
thegn
to clean up her mess. Then he’d stonewall her with his silence, leaving her with her own thoughts. Mac was an ass at those times, but she learned quickly that he could be soothed when she allowed his touches; the brush of his fingers through her hair or the sweep of his palm up her spine, the possessive way he’d grip her around the waist when they passed another wolf. He was never cruel, never pushed her for