Chapter Twelve

 

The whore was married.

That wasn’t Hudson’s first thought when his gaze had locked with hers across the crowded market. No, at first his mind was simply a black, empty void. It was his heart that leapt in his chest like a fawn over a fallen log. The powerful lurch had him staggering, hand flailing for balance, breath a sharp knife in his throat. Even before he knew what he was doing, he’d half run down the street chasing after this elusive woman that he’d only ever seen on the cusp of his dreams. Even after he’d stopped and watched the wagon with a symbol of a high-ranking Elder painted on the side roll down the dirt path and out of sight, he hadn’t understood his reaction.

Then as if a sword was drawn across an overfilled wineskin, memories burst forth with a violent crash inside his head. Images whooshed toward the black spaces in his mind like rushing water filling holes.

This was his Lake. His wife. This woman was why he’d tattooed a female’s name on his chest because at one time, she’d meant everything to him. He remembered she’d meant more than his next breath. Meant more than his farm, house, even more than his men's lives. He had planned his days around her smiles. He’d woken each morning happy and fell asleep each night thinking he was the luckiest son-of-a-gun alive.

And yet, there was evidence, plain as day, that she hadn’t felt the same.

Hudson wasn’t stupid. He recognized the signs of a personal driver, team of nice horses, special logo painted on the sturdy wood of the wagon. He recognized the deep, purple scarf that was draped over his wife's pretty little head, so that the sun wouldn't freckle her delicate skin and the odors wouldn’t bother her gentle senses.

He'd show her delicate.

The range of his emotions scared him. His heart seemed to go from the heady heights of joy only to nosedive to the hell-like depths of jealousy. In one moment, he was soaring through the clouds, only in the next to go plummeting to the earth.

He had pieced together what might have happened the night Lake was taken. Vonn had told him that Lake was taken as a prisoner. That she’d been held against her will, but there’d been no signs of his wife being treated as a prisoner or a servant. There’d been no chains or guards. No, Lake seemed quite content to enjoy the freedoms of a rich man’s wife by spending the day shopping. No wonder her face looked as if she had seen a ghost. It would be really hard to explain to husband number two why husband number one was still alive. If he wasn’t mistaken, adultery was still a beheading offense.

But it was worse. His beautiful, loving wife hadn’t just spread her legs for any man. No, any man Hudson might…might have been able to see past the burning rage of jealousy that filled his gut and strangled his throat. After all, being a single wasn’t really an option for a woman. And if she had found some shred of happiness, after all he now remembered she’d been through, then he’d have to suck it up and be the bigger man.

But no. No! She’d given herself to an Elder. An Elder! The same people who’d killed her parents, burned his home, slaughtered his men, and left him for dead.

Why had she done it? It had been two years, yes, but two years was nothing compared to the love he had for her. If it was him, he would’ve waited a lifetime. Forever.

He knew why he hadn’t gone after her. He’d had a brain injury, for goddess’s sake. He hadn’t remembered what she meant to him. How much he had—who was he kidding—still loved her. What was her excuse? Had she’d forgotten him so quickly? That hadn’t seemed like the Lake he remembered, but how much could he trust his faulty memory? All he had to go on was the evidence before him.

Could she have been forced into the marriage? But for what purpose? Why would an Elder marry a prisoner? And if so, then why not come to him when they recognized each other? No, instead she’d looked him straight in the eye, then coldly turned her back and rode away with her head, high and protected, in that pretty little scarf of hers.

Maybe she’d done it for comfort? He’d lost everything. All he could provide now was a dirty little room on the outskirts of the city. Maybe she’d gotten sick of eking it out as a farmer’s wife, sleeping with a husband who got his hands dirty for a living.

The thought made him sick, hallowed him out like he was less of a man. He had given everything, gladly would’ve given his life, and she had turned away as if he meant nothing to her.

Anger scorched his insides as his fingers dug at the tattoo on his chest. No, he’d put his Mark on her, and he’d put her Mark on him. He'd get her back. Of that, he had no doubt. He'd done it before when she’d left him for the Rebellion, he'd especially do it again after she’d left him for another man.

If she was foolish enough to think her riches and high walls would protect her, she had another husband coming.