King of the Wilds - Tasha Black Page 0,34

fortune had gone to humane shelters across the country. The foundation she formed also gave generously to veterans’ funds, elder care, food banks, conservation programs and medical and arts foundations. It gave money to dig wells and educate children in places where books and water were scarce.

And at last, the purchase of the mansion and the land it was built on was finalized, and then it was donated to the Rosethorn Valley Historical Society.

Miranda stopped when it was clear there was enough left in Mr. Ward’s funds for him to be wealthy, but not dangerously so, if he ever returned. Enough for her actions to be unusual, but not completely suspicious.

But she knew he was never coming back.

The months of researching and giving had been incredibly rewarding as well as a lot of hard work. Each moment of helping others gave her some small respite from the agony of missing Bron. He loved living things - it would have warmed his heart to know she was doing his work as best she could in his absence.

Miranda knew it was time to move on from the part of her life dictated by Cullen Ward.

But it was impossible to see a future without Bron in it.

She looked over the ruined land.

The historical society had held a huge fundraiser to replant the whole area. Tiny trees dotted the landscape. One day they would grow strong and tall again and flowers would bloom once more.

It was beginning to look a little better already. Months of rain and sunshine were doing their work.

She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling as though she might fly apart with the pain of missing her king.

“Oh, Bron,” she whispered. “The only person I’ve ever really wanted to compel is you. Please. Come back to me.”

There was a murmur in the air, and she sensed movement before her.

Miranda’s lips parted in wonder as she saw tender shoots of grass poking up from the muddy ground.

The little trees burst with leaves before her eyes, and the foliage surrounding the scarred land began to blossom with beautiful flowers.

It was as if the earth itself were coming alive around her, springtime moving in fast forward, filling the air with the lush scent of flowers and new life.

She caught a glimpse of a giant stag, leaping among the new growth, then dashing out of sight.

“Bron,” she breathed.

She turned, barely daring to hope.

“Miranda,” he said, smiling down at her with twinkling eyes.

His big body was naked and perfect. He was so beautiful she couldn’t speak.

Instead she fell into his arms, weeping.

“I’m here, my queen,” he said into her hair.

“Where did you go?” she sobbed. “Why did you leave me?”

“I would never leave you,” he told her. “But I depleted my powers. I had to sleep again.”

“You were hibernating?” she asked in wonder.

“I guess you could say that,” he said. “Life is reborn in the springtime. Though sometimes it gets a little help.”

“I compelled you,” she said, realizing.

“You compelled me,” he agreed. “And I’m glad. I was ready to come home.”

“I could have done that at any time,” she moaned.

“No,” he told her. “It wouldn’t have worked until spring, until the wilds were ready to return.”

“Please don’t ever do that again,” she said, relishing the feeling of his strong arms around her, wishing he would never let her go.

“I have no plan to be even an inch away from you, ever again,” he declared.

She went up on her toes and pressed kisses to his cheeks and eyelids.

He swept her up in his arms and carried her through the field.

Miranda watched the world spring to life all around them. Every place Bron’s feet touched the earth, greenery burst from the ground, spreading outward, covering the hillside in beauty.

At last they reached the creek, where older trees still stretched their branches overhead like a ceiling.

As the blossoms unfurled around them, so did her heart, seeking the radiance of her king.

23

Bron

Bron held Miranda in his arms.

Pleasure surged through his body. He had not only returned to the mortal realm, but he had been renewed - his powers were at their peak.

His heart ached at the sorrow he’d caused her. He’d disappeared without a chance to tell her where he was, or if he would return. Even one cycle of the seasons must have seemed like an eternity.

But he could see by the inky black vines, still dark against her pale finger, that her love for him had not faded.

He placed her gently on the bank.

“I am sorry that I