Wicked lessons by the rogue

What he found in the mud

*Lupo*

With my hands shoved into my coat pockets, I stroll along the path that borders the river. When I was a lad, I used to come here and sift through the mud, searching for little treasures that could fetch some coin: a fancy button, a scrap of silk, a shoe without its partner, or even a watch. The pocket watch was my most prized discovery, but I made the mistake of showing it to my father, who snatched it away. I often wonder how it ended up in the sludge by the river.

I wasn't the only child hoping to find something of value in the mud. We were known as mud-larks. Sometimes, I still feel as though the mud clings to my skin, clinging to my clothes.

Perhaps that's why Miss Odette manages to irritate me. When she gazes at me, it's as if she sees the filthy child I used to be. The child who was starved to stay thin enough to squeeze through basement windows or climb down chimney flues to gain entry into wealthy homes. I would carefully slip through the darkness and open the door for my father, a towering brute.

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see my father's reflection. I lack the polished elegance of the nobility. No matter how well-tailored my clothes, refined my speech, or impeccable my manners, I can never forget my humble origins in the mud.

However, tonight, more than ever, I feel in danger of being sucked back into it.

What on earth was I thinking when I kissed Miss O? She truly gets on my nerves. Perhaps it's because she dislikes me so much that I want to give her a solid reason to see me as unworthy. As far as I know, I've never mistreated her. I can't think of any reason for her animosity toward me other than my birth. In her social circles, I suppose that's enough.

Within that small alcove, the shadows enveloped us, creating an intimate space that concealed our differences. She and I were nothing more than a male and a female. And her enticing scent overwhelmed me amidst the various fragrances that surrounded us all evening. Her orchid fragrance called to me like no other. I imagined her skin heated with passion, damp with desire, causing the scent to bloom and unfold. Her skin felt silky beneath my rough fingers. And those eyes, those captivating green eyes, hinted at hidden secrets.

I would wager my soul that she is a complex she-wolf, layered with complications. And for some inexplicable reason, I am tempted to unravel them, to witness what would happen when I disturbed her calm facade, when I melted her icy demeanor.

What happened instead was that she slapped me. And rightly so.

If only I could forget the taste of her, perhaps I could ignore her in the future.

Sadly, forgetting events from my past has never been my strong suit.

Crossing over the low barrier that marks the path, I make my way down to the water's edge. Dim streetlamps barely illuminate the area, while wisps of swirling fog dance about. I resist the urge to revert to old habits, to crouch down and dig my fingers into the cold, slimy muck. Tonight, my soul feels as dark as the river, all because of her.

‘Boy, fetch me some champagne.’

"Boy!" I had intended to show her that I am not a boy, but in my attempt to do so, I hadn't exactly revealed myself as a gentleman either. Stupid pride, stupid...

A faint moan catches my attention, immediately putting me on high alert. It's not uncommon for people to sleep outdoors; not everyone has a roof over their head. Nor is it rare for thieves and troublemakers to lurk in the shadows. However, they don't usually make noise to attract attention. Could someone have been attacked before I arrived?

The mewling sound returns, and I cautiously take a step towards its source. However, the fog distorts sounds, making it hard to determine their origin. "Hello?"

I strain my ears, picking up the gentle lapping of water against the shore, the splash of a fish, and the scurrying of tiny feet. Amidst these sounds, there is a harsh, rattling cough.

With each step towards the source of the cough, I berate myself for not bringing a lantern. Nevertheless, I know this part of Blackrock City well. I could navigate it blindfolded. Besides, I find solace in the darkness. Despite my wishes, I am not one to shed light on things. Miss Odette had seen through me: I bear the soul of a blackguard.

Spotting an incongruous mound in the surroundings, I hasten my pace. The feeble moaning returns. It is a she-wolf, partially washed ashore, her skirts billowing in the water's ebb and flow. Kneeling beside her in the darkness, all I can discern is her pale hair, though it is obscured by mud. I gently touch her shoulder, which feels icy to the touch. I give her a small shake. "Ma’am?"

Silence. No sound, no reaction.

Glancing around, I see no sign of anyone nearby. Placing my fingers beneath her jaw, I detect her faint pulse. If she is to have any chance of survival, I must warm her up quickly.

Swiftly, I remove my coat and drape it over her, hoping to share some of my body heat. Slipping my arms beneath her, I struggle to rise from the mud's grip, as if it tries to reclaim her, to keep her captive. I refuse to let it. I have salvaged many trinkets from the river's banks, but never have I saved a she-wolf. Now that I have found her, I won't let her die.

She is completely drenched. How did she end up in the river? That question can wait until she recovers, and by the Goddess, she will recover. I curse myself for not having a carriage nearby, but I had felt the need for a long walk.

Luckily, my residence isn't too far away, but with the water and mud, she weighs as much as an elephant. I consider taking a moment to remove her clothing, but how would I explain a naked she-wolf if I were stopped by a constable? And where in blazes is a constable when I need one?

I can only hope that my chest is providing her with some much-needed warmth. She murmurs something unintelligible.

"It's all right, sweetheart. We're almost there. Won't be long now."

I quicken my pace, extending my stride, grateful for once for my size and bulk. Despite the weight, despite the distance, I possess the stamina to cover the ground swiftly.

Due to the late hour, there's no one around. It's just the two of us: her and me. I won't let her down.

Focusing on the task at hand rather than the considerable distance I must traverse, I begin to map out my plan. Get her to my residence, warm her up, and send for the physician, Bill Grimley. A she-wolf found in a man's residence would be compromising, but Grimley can be trusted. He's an old friend of the family, and he'll exercise discretion.

The residence comes into view, and I release a sigh of relief because she's still breathing, albeit with tiny shudders. Hastily, I open the gate, stride down the short path, and ascend the small set of steps. With some difficulty, I retrieve my key and unlock the door. Once inside, I kick it closed behind me and climb the stairs to the next floor, where four bedchambers await. Luckily, I had left the gaslights burning low before I left. Since I recently purchased the residence, I haven't had much time to set things right.

Only one room contains a bed: mine.

I walk into it now, approach the massive bedstead, and gently lay her down.

"Sweetheart?"

I gently pat her muddy face, but she remains unresponsive. She is cold, so unbearably cold. As detached as possible, I remove her clothing, surprised by the exquisite quality and craftsmanship. She is no commoner, no resident of the streets. Perhaps a Alpha’s mistress who has fallen out of favor.

As I discard her petticoats, chemise, and stockings onto the floor, I notice a few bruises, but nothing appears to be broken. To the casual observer, it might seem as though she had taken a leisurely swim.

Once every garment is removed, I cover her with sheets and blankets. I stride over to the fireplace and begin preparing a blazing fire, hoping to warm both the room and her. The room does seem to respond as I find myself starting to perspire. I remove my jacket and waistcoat, tossing them onto the floor, before returning to the bed. She hasn't stirred at all.

I should fetch Grimley, but I hesitate to leave her alone. I could wake a neighbor, I suppose, but my peculiar hours have prevented me from getting acquainted with any of them. I haven't hired any servants yet, as I don't spend enough time here to justify the expense.

Most of my time is spent at Full Moon club. I have apartments there, and they serve me well during long work hours. But I bought this place because I felt a need for something permanent.

Walking over to the washbasin, I pick up the pitcher and place it near the fire to warm the water. Then I grab a cloth and the washbasin, returning to the bed. Carefully, I sit on the edge and dip the linen into the water, wringing it out.

With gentle motions, I begin wiping the mud from her face, carefully moving aside her tangled hair. It reveals an oval face, not round or square, but long and slender. A delicate, dainty chin. High cheekbones and a narrow nose that slightly tilts upward.

My hand freezes as I gaze at the features my cleaning has unveiled. I know those features, I know that face. What in the devil's name?

I have just rescued Miss Odette.

Tentatively, I pat her cheek. "Miss Odette?"

"No," she murmurs. "I don't want you to touch me. No. Don't!" She begins to flail about.

Quickly, I step back. "No, I won't touch you." My words must have reached her, as she instantly calms, her breathing becoming shallow and her face softening, hiding the usual arrogance that marred her otherwise pleasant features. Even in her sleep, she seems to recognize my voice, remembering that my touch repulses her, that I am beneath her, something to be scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

The disgust that surges through me almost tempts me to toss her back into the river.

Shifting my gaze to her pile of clothes on the floor, I realize that I need to try to remove some of the mud from them. She won't be able to put back on the stiff skirts and petticoats if I don't wash them. Miss Odette will surely throw a tantrum because I've touched her undergarments.

Damn it! I wish I had already hired a servant to attend to these mundane tasks, to put my house in order. Of course, if I did have a servant, as soon as Odette woke up, she would boss the poor girl around, giving orders and finding fault with the bathwater temperature, the crispness of the toast, or the softness of the eggs. So easy to judge without ever having walked in a servant's shoes.

I turn my attention back to Odette. She lies as still as death, as quiet as a grave. I should fetch Faye, see if she can determine why her dear friend was rolling around in the muck. But it's Faye's wedding night, and while she might be willing to help me, I suspect her husband would find inventive ways to make me suffer in her absence.

No, one does not disturb a couple on their wedding night for a spoiled she-wolf who likely carelessly slipped from a pleasure barge into the river. Probably intoxicated, lost her balance, and over she went.

Tomorrow morning will be soon enough to bother Faye. However, they're leaving for their honeymoon at first light, heading to the continent for a couple of weeks, as far as I know. No, the situation isn't dire enough to disrupt their plans. But perhaps I should take the risk and fetch Grimley.

It has never bothered me before to reside in solitude here, but suddenly I find myself wishing I had an entire army, or at least someone who could deliver a message for me. I consider shaking her, but I don't want to upset her again. It's probably best to let her sleep.

Suddenly, her eyes flutter open, and I gaze into the depths of her green eyes, expecting a slap, a screech, or a horrified outburst upon finding herself in my bedchamber.

Instead, she blinks, blinks again, and slowly surveys her surroundings before returning her gaze to me. Despite her position, she manages to tilt up her pert little nose quite well. "What am I doing here?"

Her tone suits her perfectly: demanding, entitled, accustomed to being answered.

"I fished you out of the river," I state, secretly wishing I had left her there. I doubt she will appreciate me rescuing her, which begs the question: Why on earth did she need rescuing? "How did you end up there, anyway?"

She presses the fingertips of her left hand to her temple and squeezes her eyes shut. "I don't know."

"How can you not know?"

She shakes her head slightly and opens her eyes. "My head hurts."

"I haven't had a chance to examine it."

"Are you a physician?" she asks pointedly.

I scowl at her. Her attempt to hold me accountable is quite infuriating, especially when I'm trying to be helpful. Can she never put our differences aside? "Of course not, but I can feel for a bump if it's there. Let me see."

The haughtiness seems to drain from her. "Alright. Yes."

Yes? Is she willingly allowing me to touch her? I suppose she realized she doesn't really have a choice. Carefully, I move my fingers through the tangled mess of her hair, gently massaging her scalp. I graze against a knot, and she winces. "Sorry," I say. "You do have a small bump there." I withdraw my fingers. "It doesn't appear to be bleeding."

"That's good, isn't it?" She asks.

"No bleeding is always a good sign. I've hit my head before. I imagine you'll be fine after a while."

She glances around again, taking her time as if she's meticulously noting each imperfection: the faded and peeling wallpaper I haven't replaced, the c***k in the mantel I haven't fixed, the absence of rugs, draperies, or paintings. Everything I plan to rectify when I find the time. Her eyes narrow, and I brace myself for her caustic comment about all that's lacking. "This room... it doesn't feel right, doesn't seem like it would be mine."

Staring at her, I try to comprehend her words. Perhaps the bump I felt is more serious than I thought because she seems terribly confused. "Of course it's not yours. It's mine."

She jerks her head towards me, studying me with a deeply furrowed brow that, if her head wasn't already hurting, would surely ache now. "Why would you bring me here? Who are you?"

What game is she playing? "You know who I am. Lupo Tempest."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. I don't know you," she whispers.

"That doesn't make sense. You've known me for a while now."

Slowly, she shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. I'm not usually disconcerted, but a weeping woman tends to unsettle me. Neither the Luna of Greywinds, nor her daughter, Faye, tend to cry. They are strong, courageous women, so when faced with tears, I'm at a loss. And with Miss O, I'm even more at a loss. The last thing I ever imagined was wanting to console her, but at that moment, it's all I want. I want it more than anything because I can't stand to see her cry. I want her to feel safe and secure. Despite the likely scolding I'll receive, I decide to use a nickname I've heard Faye use on occasion. Hopefully, the familiar endearment will bring her some comfort.

"Dotty."

"Dotty?" A question. "Dotty." An answer. A distant look in her eyes as if she's trying to grasp something just out of reach. "Dotty. It's familiar." She nods, then looks directly at me. "That's my name, isn't it?"

Something is terribly wrong. Slowly, I step off the bed and move to the foot, putting some distance between us as I try to unravel what's happening. "What do you remember?"

A crease forms between her brows as she tilts her head from side to side. "I don't remember anything."