Beauty and the Wolf Read Online Free Page A

needed was the scent of Isabella’s blood filling the hallways of Thorncliff Towers . . . tempting him. Provoking him.
    Ironically, he had written Isabella multiple letters at the start of their separation—begging her to return. Because he never received a reply, he came to the conclusion that she was too scared to come back. He could hardly blame her, yet he couldn’t chance a public transformation while he traveled to London to fetch her.
    At that point, he’d been forced to send someone after her. The fearsome ruffian Draven hired had arrived on Isabella’s doorstep as instructed, but she had refused to accompany the strong-arm back to Dunwich. Draven realized then that nothing short of kidnapping Isabella would ensure her return.
    As his bloodlust grew more urgent, he had sequestered himself away from the world.
    A knock at the door worsened his mood.
    “Who is it?” he roared.
    “It’s Rogers, sir. Are ye in need of anythin’?”
    “God’s balls, Rogers! I told you: I’ll ring for you.”
    “But ye haven’t had yer supper, m’lord—”
    He fisted his hair. “Bloody hell, man. I said ‘go away’!”
    “As ye wish, m’lord.”
    When the valet’s footsteps faded, Draven pushed open the window and breathed in the cold night air. A strong draft raked over his body as he studied the rain descending in sheets over the house. It was a depressing scene—one that matched his sense of self-loathing. There was no denying he was a vârcolac now, as the Romanians called them. A werewolf born from the depths of black magic. He had learned that an all-powerful rauna curse held its victim captive until that unfortunate soul offered proof of his penance. It was an identity he—and all his male heirs—were bound to unless he could change his selfish ways and gain compassion. In the meantime, if Draven tasted human blood—even a drop—he would stay a beast forever, with no chance of seeing his human form again.
    He’d always blamed the crime he committed in that Gypsy camp for sealing his fate, but now he was beginning to realize that the instigator was his bullheaded arrogance.
    He pulled the window shut with a scowl but the crunch of wheels over gravel caught his attention. Pressing his face to the cold glass, he saw a coach come to a halt in the center of the courtyard.
    “Isabella . . .” he murmured.
    Heart thundering, Draven watched his wife materialize from the coach. As she tipped her bonnet back, he was reminded of how beautiful she was. Thick, auburn locks haloed her oval-shaped face and her dusty-pink lips curled charmingly at the corners. She was a natural beauty whose indescribable radiance had seized him the instant they’d met at that dull party.
    When he had spotted her amid a sea of guests, he had presumed that she was far from a dowdy matron beneath her conservative dress. His suspicion had been confirmed on their wedding night. With her outrageous mane freed from its chignon and her delicious curves on display beneath her silk negligee, Isabella had done more than impress him. She had beguiled him.
    Of course, there was another, less chivalrous, reason Draven had proposed to her. He’d come across a newspaper article telling of the cursed amulet Sir Harris Farrington found in Egypt and subsequently passed on to his only daughter. The article had inspired Draven to travel to London to seek out Isabella. He figured that if his curse ever came to fruition and his beastly alter ego grew out of control, it would be her fate to stop him. By becoming part of the Egyptian prophecy that destined Isabella to kill her lover, he had gained “insurance” as it were.
    He marched to his desk, jerked open one of its drawers, and withdrew the newspaper article in question. After giving it a quick glance, he crumpled the article and tossed it into the roaring fire.
    He wanted Isabella to kill him—put him out of his misery—but she was doomed to take her life afterward. Thus, he had been incredibly