“What is this?” she asked, leaning back to gain a better view.
“A tattoo.”
She furrowed her brows, tracing over the design—a dog of some sort. “I’ve heard of such things but have never seen one.”
Her fingers dusted over the thick black mane, over to where the beast’s ears flattened back. A linked chain wrapped around its muzzle, around its head, around its neck. His fangs were bared in a snarl, his mouth clamped on…a wrist, a delicate hand limply hanging from the beast’s jaw, as if he had swallowed a woman whole.
She looked back at Ash, and his deep blue eyes swirled but gave none of his emotions away. “What does it mean?”
“It is Fenrir, a monstrous wolf in Norse mythology.” He glanced away, looking out at the water. “He symbolizes untamed chaos, destruction. No matter how the gods tried to chain him down, his devastation could not be stopped.”
She traced over the woman’s fingers, and his skin quivered beneath her touch. “Why do I get the feeling that this Fenrir has a deeper meaning when it comes to you?”
He swallowed, his throat rippling, and her eyes caught on the movement. And then he turned to face her, and when his eyes met hers again, this time the emotion was clear: tortured.
“He is a reminder. Of who I am, of my sins.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his lips pressed in a firm line.
His sins… “And the woman’s hand?”
“It is my late wife’s.” His eyes dulled, flattened, just as his tone did.
Her brows tightened, and the words Colborn hurled at Ash in the library flitted through her mind.
Oh, like you never forced mother to sleep with you… Like you never harmed her.
“Why your late wife’s…?” She waited with bated breath, seconds slowing to a glacial pace.
The tension radiating from his frame had her heart thrumming in her ears. Something about the moment gave way to an unbearable anticipation, one leading to a discovery she, for some reason, didn’t want to know.
And when he answered, it was the last thing she could have ever expected to hear.
“Because I killed her.”
She reeled backward—in complete and utter shock at how utterly preposterous the notion was. He flinched at her retreat, and pain contorted his features.
She was back in front of him in an instant, on her knees before him, turning his face to hers.
“Explain. I do not believe for a minute you killed your wife, Ash.” She had never been more certain of anything in her life. There wasn’t much in this life she was sure of anymore, but this…killing his wife? Absolutely not. She knew in her soul it wasn’t true.
His mouth worked, and she shivered at the eerie sound of bone against bone as he ground his teeth. This man seemed set on living a life filled with self-flagellation. And for sins she was sure were as made up as the mythical monster tattooed on his back.
She squeezed his jaw and gave it a light shake. “Ashley James Stuart, out with it. Now.”
His eyes flared wide, and his jaw slackened in her hand at her unyielding tone, at her use of his full Christian name. His full name that had flowed much too easily off her tongue, in a way that felt like she had done it endless times before. Like she a reprimanding wife and he a chastised husband.
He remained silent. She arched a brow and narrowed her eyes, attempting to glare it out of him. If he thought he would win this battle, he was sorely mistaken. A part of her, deep inside, whispered that she wasn’t just referring to this conversation.
A sigh exploded from him, and he looked off in the distance, breaking away from her hold. He delved a hand into his hair and tugged.
“I confessed to you that my late wife and I did not possess any love for each other. It was not just limited to matters of the heart. There was very little intimacy at all. She made it very clear that she did not desire my attentions, that she endured them simply for the purposes of producing children.”
She studied his tense profile, his sharp jaw.
“I did my best not to bother her with my attentions, and once she desired no more children, my visits ceased altogether.”
She glanced down at where his hand rested close to hers on the forest green blanket. She inched her fingers across the wool until they rested over his. His chin dipped in her periphery, and she knew he was staring at their nearly entwined hands. It amazed her how different this man was to who she had expected him to be, how different he was from his son.
“I fell head-over-heels in love the moment I held Pandora in my arms,” he said softly. “For the first time, I was connected—bonded—to someone. I wanted more of that feeling. I wanted another daughter. Winifred had reservations, but eventually, she came around to the idea. But I think I was projecting my own yearning for another child onto her, seeing a mutual want where there wasn’t one.”
