Enchanted By The Wolf

And now he stood, knees locked and fingers flexing nervously at his sides. The suit was tight across his shoulders and it was hot. He wanted to scratch at the starched shirt collar but wasn’t sure his fingers could perform the move because they felt so far away and detached from his body.

Kir couldn’t concentrate on the words the officiant spoke because beside him stood her. The woman soon to be named his wife. And after that they would dance and drink, and, well, he’d heard there was a honeymoon cabin erected not far from here.

Something sweet, like flowers or fruit, or maybe even sugared fruit topped with flowers, tickled his nostrils. The petite woman who stood beside him, the crown of her head below his shoulders, smelled like dessert.

He did like dessert.

He didn’t want to like her. Because that would mean he was cool with this stupid agreement. One that stuck him with a woman he didn’t know or want.

For the rest of his life.

Werewolves could live three centuries or more. That was a hell of a long time to spend with one woman. Especially a woman he had not chosen.

He wanted to look down—the top of her head was capped with flowers and fluttery butterflies that seemed to hold the veil in place—but he dared not make the blatant once-over with the audience behind him. He’d remain stoic and say all the right things. His pack was watching. He was doing this for them. They had better appreciate his sacrifice.

The ceremony officiant rambled on about loving the other until death did part them and enduring magic most vile and exquisite through eternity.

Vile magic? What the...?

Kir closed his eyes. His heart did a weird dive and then free-fell within his rib cage. It didn’t land with a splat, though, because something distracted his imaginary death-dive. She smelled really good. His mouth actually watered, and he cursed inwardly for not having eaten all day. Too nervous.

There would be food later. And drink.

There was not enough whiskey in this realm to get him to the point where he could accept this situation.

Behind him, he felt the gentle sweep of wings as the woman beside him shifted on her feet. As she’d walked down the aisle, she had worn a long sheer pink veil over her head that fell over her body and to her bare feet. Her feet were decorated with bright arabesque violet designs, like some kind of mehndi artwork. Her wings were unfurled to display gorgeous violet and red gossamer with darker shading in the veins. Her hair was dark. He could see that much beneath the veil. But he could not determine if she was pretty.

They’d wrapped her up as if she were a gift, and he didn’t like it.

Suddenly feeling as though he was forgetting something important, Kir lifted his chin and focused as the officiant announced the twosome had been joined in matrimony by the authority of the Unseelie court. And later they must seal that promise by bonding.

What a way to start a marriage.

When he had, at the last minute, thought he’d need to buy a ring for his new bride, the liaison harpie, who had arrived early to ensure the details had been handled properly, stated rings were an offense. Mortal metals must never be worn by the sidhe. All that was required was that the two bond as Faery decreed.

A ring would have been so much easier.

“Join hands,” the officiant announced. “And bind yourselves to one another.”

What? Right here? The bonding? Kir looked over his shoulder and caught Etienne’s eye. The elder wolf nodded. And beside him stood his mother, Madeline, with a tear in her eye.

Oh, this was not cool. He couldn’t—

His new wife lifted her hand beneath the pink veil and Kir took it, deciding it was fragile and felt too light. He might break her bones if he squeezed. Awful thought to have. He would never harm a woman. But he felt as if she were something that must be protected and watched over.

He didn’t have time for watching over a tiny faery. She had better be able to care for herself.

Her head did not tilt up to look at him. He breathed in through his nose and exhaled in preparation. If they had to bond before an audience—and his mother.

Pushing aside the veil, the officiant wrapped a red silk band about their joined hands, draping the ends over their wrists. As he recited some words that Kir assumed were in the sidhe language, he traced an elaborate symbol in the air above their hands.

Behind them, the audience of sidhe began to...hum. It was a beautiful, wordless melody that twinkled in the air and stirred the leaves. Animals scampered nearby in the forest and Kir felt the hairs on his body prickle with vital awareness. Connection to nature. Elation expanding his lungs, he noticed a design began to show on the top of his and his new wife’s hands. A gorgeous, delicate tracing that wound in and out and curled and arabesqued like something etched upon a Moorish ruin. Or perhaps it was similar to the designs on her feet and ankles. It didn’t hurt and, in fact, felt as if a piece of ice was being traced under his skin. The tracing crept over the side of her hand and Kir felt the design spread across his skin.

“Bonded,” the officiant announced.

With applause from the sidhe court, the design on their hands suddenly glowed brightly, then faded to the pale etching. But seriously? That was the bonding? Whew! Kir could not be more thankful that Faery’s means to bonding was different than his breed, which meant having sex.

His new wife dropped her hand and then her attendant pulled the veil away from her head. Slowly, the pink fabric glittered under the glow from the faeries overhead, and her dark hair, woven through with tiny blue flowers, was revealed. She looked up at him with a small smile. It was forced.

Not so pleased about this marriage, either, he guessed. Poor woman.

Poor, gorgeous woman. As a consolation he had gotten a pretty one. And yet, what color were her eyes? Pink?

When the officiant said they should kiss, the audience clapped and cheered. Kir felt a blush ride his neck, and that disturbed him. Performing for an audience? Yikes. And, yet, the kiss was a standard wedding tradition.

With a smirk, his wife reached up and bracketed his head with her hands, boldly bringing him down to her level. And then...

She kissed him. It was soft and tentative at first but quickly warmed and grew bold. Her lips were soft and pliant. Sweet to taste, as sweet as her scent. And quietly stunning. She knew how to kiss, and parts of him stood up and took notice. He could kiss her all day. If he hadn’t an audience.

So there was a bright moment to this horrible day.

And when she opened her eyes, he saw that, indeed, they were not the usual sidhe violet but instead pink. Which indicated she was a half-breed.

Kir’s heart suddenly did drop to his gut. What the hell had he married?

* * *

Following the vows, and that unexpectedly delicious kiss, Bea had danced the expected dance with her husband. It was an ancient sidhe dance that required barely holding hands and walking down an aisle of fellow revelers. It involved bows and hops and all that ceremonial nonsense that her elders so adored.

Her new husband’s name, which she had only learned during the ceremony, was Kirnan Sauveterre. And his hand, when it had finally touched hers, had felt warm but shaky. Nervous? Surprising, coming from a big, bold wolf such as he. The man had filled the air beside her with a reluctant confidence. Yet she sensed he was a force when not out of his element, such as they both were now.

After their kiss, he’d barely spared her more than a few glances. And during the dance his eyes strayed everywhere but onto her. Was she so hideous to look upon?

After the dance, Bea excused herself to find something to drink. Her husband had let her go without a word, turning away to quickly find and chat with one of his pack mates.

Perhaps he was as freaked by the whole event as she was. She guessed that, because he’d stood stick straight amid a swarm of congratulating friends, his eyes unfocused as he nodded mechanically. And she suspected that tiny smile was more a what-the-hell-have-I-done? smile than of genuine nuptial bliss.

Pity. The wolf was sexy. Tall, too. She liked them big, tall and strong. And now that he’d relaxed a bit, he radiated a stoic command. The dark brown beard wasn’t her favorite, but he kept it neatly trimmed, and the mustache, as well. She’d have sex with him if she had to.

And she did have to.

“For the rest of my freakin’ life,” she muttered, and grabbed a wooden goblet of mead from a passing waiter’s tray.

Downing the sweet amber liquor in one shot, Bea winced at the honey bite. The bees that had made that batch must have gotten into a patch of thistleberry. Always gave the drink a tang. Then she grabbed another to have something to hold in her hand while she wandered among the well-wishers and those who had imbibed far more mead than she had.

“Let the drunken debauchery begin,” she declared to no one but herself. “Might as well celebrate the end of my life with a good ol’ rainbow yawn in the morning. Not like I expected something better in life, eh?”

Princess though she was, growing up in Malrick’s household had been a lesson in endurance. Bea had never strived for more than survival among her dozens of sidhe siblings; the majority of them were full-blooded faery. She, being a half-breed of dubious heritage, had received the brunt of Malrick’s disdain.

So to stand now amid the revelers and receive their congratulatory handclasps only increased the nervous roil in her belly. It was a show they put on, a product of much mead and the desire to please their king. They cared little about her.

As did her father, who was, not surprisingly, absent this evening.

The hum of voices and laughter receded from her thoughts. Bea understood the French language with ease. The sidhe could assimilate any mortal realm language merely by listening to it. Fortunately, France had always interested her. If she were to visit any place in this realm, she was glad she’d landed in this country.

Wandering to the edge of the merriment, she found and followed the flower-petal-laden path that twisted through the dark forest depths until the laughter and conversations grew to but a murmur. A trio of sprites danced in the air before her, sprinkling the path with their violet dust. Beyond an arch of fern fronds, she followed the sprites to the nuptial cottage, which had been erected for their wedding-night bonding. The walls were formed from plane trees growing high, and their branches curved and spread out thick leaves to fashion the roof. It was private, save for the narrow alcove nestled near the doorway, where she knew the witness would be positioned while she and her husband did the deed.

Yes, someone had to witness their wedding-night bonding. Bea shivered at the thought of performing the sexual act with a witness. Faeries were big on ceremony and the observance of royal deeds. And since her father was the Unseelie king, that made her wedding a Big Deal.

Not that she’d ever felt remotely princess-like. Shouldn’t a girl’s father, at the very least, show up for her wedding?

She ran her fingertips over her embroidered and bepearled pink gown. Beneath the gossamer layers she felt the blade she always wore strapped to her thigh. Growing up in Faery as a half-breed should have been a wonderful thing. The sidhe embraced half-breeds; they even sought to procreate with most other breeds to create such progeny. With all but the darkest, which included demons and vampires.

Bea’s non-sidhe half—of which she wasn’t clear what it was, though certainly she’d assumed it vampire—had made her a pariah among her own. Through his inattention, her father had made it very clear she disgusted him. Which explained why he’d been so eager to offer her as a seal to this bargain with the Valoir pack.

“Unwanted and unloved,” she whispered. “And now I’ve been thrust into a realm that frightens me and will be forced to live with a wolf I don’t know.”

A shiver traced her skin and she wrapped her arms across her chest in a hug that felt more pitiful than comforting.

There was a bright side to look at. She’d always dreamed about escaping her father’s household.

“Perhaps I’ll like the mortal realm,” she decided. “And maybe my husband will even grow to like me.”

Turning to gaze back toward the celebration, her wings fluttered and she had the thought to fold them away. Wings and sex, well...she wasn’t ready for such soul-deep intimacy with the new husband. Stones, she just hoped to get through the evening without saying something stupid or landing in an awkward sprawl on the bed.

She spied her husband near the feast table, speaking confidently to another wolf she guessed was a good friend, for he had stood beside Kirnan during the ceremony. Kirnan Sauveterre. She wondered about his surname. What did it mean? It felt honorable and bold as she whispered it.

Kirnan stood the tallest amid the crowd save for a few sidhe. He held his head proudly, shoulders back. Soft brown hair curled about his head, and a slightly darker beard and mustache framed his long face. A regal nose. And ears tight to his head. No points, though, Bea noted as she stroked the gently pointed tip of her ear. So she’d learn to like him despite that physical fault.

A hand-tooled black leather vest stretched across a broad, muscled chest, and his leather pants wrapped muscular thighs that she imagined often ran through the forest, both in man form and as a wolf. The sprig of dandelion in the boutonniere he wore at his breast pocket portended faithfulness.

If only she could get so lucky. She touched the blue anemone in her hair. Chosen for luck.

Bea sighed. Her husband looked like every woman’s dream of the rescuing knight. All he needed was the white stallion and a suit of silver armor.

And perhaps he should look into that set of armor. Because she was armed and would not allow anyone to harm her. If he turned out to be an aggressive, demanding wolf, she would have to put him in his place. No one from this realm was going to mess with her. She’d had enough practice sticking up for herself that she never took a step without first casting a look over her shoulder.

After wandering into the wedding cottage, Bea sighed and plopped onto the end of the massive bed. She stroked the bond mark on the back of her hand. The first seal. Sex would close their bond.

She inched her gown up along her leg, and, from the thigh strap, she tugged out a gleaming violet blade and stabbed it into the tree branch that formed the canopy bed frame.

“Please let him be kind,” she whispered.

Chapter 3

Kir stumbled into the wedding tent. He’d put back a few drinks but hadn’t thought he was drunk. Must have been that tree root at the threshold. Although, the honey mead had been some powerful stuff. Whew! He and Jacques had done a couple mead shots before Etienne had suggested he go seek out his bride.

His bride. The words felt foreign tinkering about in his brain.

Tilting back his shoulders and taking things in, he could only marvel. How this makeshift tent slash honeymoon debauchery cottage had been erected was beyond him. The walls grew up from the ground—mature trees that had long ago rooted—and the branches bent over to form a roof as if they’d grown that way decades earlier.

And it smelled great in here. Like flowers, honey and sweet things, and...her. Yeah, she’d smelled like candy. And her scent had found a place in his nose. And that was a bit of all right.

The new wife stood on the opposite side of the cottage, fingers nervously tracing the bed linens. Clad in sheer pink silk that imitated flower petals, she looked like a lost girl, veiled in black hair with bright eyes. Her wings weren’t out, or maybe they were folded behind her back.

What was with those eyes? Pink? Kir had thought all sidhe eyes were violet. And if she was a half-breed, then he wanted to know what her other half was before they got too cozy. He didn’t do creatures like vampires and demons. There was a vast range of “other” she could be if she were not full-blood faery.

Either way, you have to do this. Right. What a way to ruin a good drunk. Sex with a stranger, who would then follow him home. And stay there. He’d thought getting the mark on his hand was the whole bonding ritual. Not so, Brit had explained to him, when he’d asked after his bride after losing sight of her at the revelry.

“Hey.” She waved at him. She remained by the bed, perhaps as nervous as he about this? Surely the idea of having sex with a man she’d known all of a few minutes could not appeal to her.

At least, Kir hoped that kind of sex didn’t appeal to her. A fast-and-loose faery wasn’t his idea of perfect wife material.

Ah, heck, why was he being so judgmental? They were in this together. And if his guess about her nervousness was right, then he’d do what he could to alleviate some of that worry. Starting with a firm attempt at clinging to the last vestiges of his sobriety.

“So, let’s get this over and done with, eh?” He stretched an arm toward a little nook at the entrance, where she could catch a glimpse of their witness. “We do have a spy to entertain. But, so you know, I really don’t want to do this with you.”

“Way to make your wife feel loved, big boy.”

“Love? Are you—” He eyed the carafe on the bedside table and aimed for it, but when he drank, he found it was only fresh, clear water. Kir spit out the not-alcohol over the moss floor. “Are you on board with all this?”

“I haven’t much choice,” the woman said. “Nor do you, apparently. Sacrificed for the good of your pack, eh?”

What was her name? Oh, yeah. Beatrice.

“Listen, Beatrice, if sex is what is required by your kind to seal the bargain, then sex it is.”

“Yes, we sidhe are a weird bunch. And daddy Malrick is a twisted bit of dark sidhe.”

“Says the half faery.”

She lifted her chin at that statement. Defiant? Defensive?

“Your eyes,” Kir said, pointing at her face. “Am I right?”

She nodded.

“So what is your other half?”

She shrugged. “It’s not important. Is it?”

Not with a swimming head and the strong urge to dive onto the bed, close his eyes and wish the nightmare would end.

“Nope. Guess not.”

* * *

Kir tugged off his vest and shirt and tossed it to the floor, his back to her. Bea could see that the wolf was raring to go. And would you look at those muscles? They bulged and rippled and formed a vast, solid surface. She felt sure she’d not seen the like, ever, in Faery. And she had dated more than her share of sidhe in all shapes, sizes and even colors. This wolf? He was, by the blessed Norns, beautiful.

She dashed her tongue along her lower lip. If she had to do this, she may as well try to enjoy it. Take one for the team, right? Let the big, handsome wolf put his hands all over her naked body? She’d force herself if she had to.

As his fingers drew down the zipper of his leather pants, he turned. “So how do you want to do this?”

“Down and dirty.” Bea shed a thin strap from her shoulder. “Get ’er done.” Because if not now, she’d lose her bravery and fly for safety.

“I agree. Quicker is easier.”

Flicking off a strap from her shoulder, her wedding dress dropped to a puddle at her feet. And the wolf’s eyes dropped to her breasts. They were small but high and perky. She was well made for aerodynamic flight.

Kir exhaled and averted his gaze to the side. Was he getting all shy on her? Or perhaps a gentleman hid behind the steely muscles and bite-worthy abs? Aw. Sweet.

But Bea couldn’t get behind forced niceties after that wince she had seen him make during the ceremony. It was her eyes. They freaked him. The dude did not like her. And if the werewolf knew what her other half was? He’d go running with his tail between his legs.

Now all she had to do tonight was keep her dark half subdued. Fingers crossed.

“Pants off,” she said, turning toward the bed and patting the mattress. “We’ll get into the swing of things, then you can shift, and we’ll seal the deal.”

Kir chuckled. “Is your definition of foreplay the swing of things?”

“Yep. You got a problem with that, big boy?”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “Are you always so cold?”

“Nope. But how many times have you been required to have sex with someone you’ve known only minutes? And with a witness not a leap away whose heavy breathing I can hear!” she said loudly.

The heavy breaths were instantly muffled. Bea rolled her eyes.

Kir smirked at the obvious disaster that had become their lives. “Right. Sorry. This is tough for us both. I just want you to know...”

He hooked his hands at the waistband of his leather pants and stared off toward the ceiling. Above, tiny sprites hovered, but Bea didn’t mind. They were always around in Faery. She was quite sure she’d never had sex with a man completely alone. But sprites didn’t tell tales. Unless you pissed them off.

“What I want you to know,” he started, “is that despite the surprise of only learning about this two days ago, I’m going to give this my all. This marriage. I never do anything half-cocked.”

Bea laughed and averted her eyes to the opened fly on his leather pants. “Half-cocked?”

“It’s an expression. And even though I don’t know you, any woman deserves my best.”

“Honorable words. Have you been practicing that speech all day?”

“No, it’s— Hey, take me or leave me. I drew the short stick. Now I intend to do the best with the situation.”

“The short stick?” Bea crossed her arms over her breasts, feeling not at all embarrassed by her nudity, but oh, so curious at the wolf’s comment. “What in mossy misery does that mean?”

“The short stick? You know. When there’s a less-than-desirable task to be done, someone breaks a bunch of sticks and holds them in his hand, with their length concealed in his fist. Whoever draws the shortest stick is the loser.”

“I see. So I’m your short stick?”

He shrugged and offered a wincing nod.

“Peachy.” She swallowed back the scream that vied for release. She’d only hoped he would be nice. Not cruel like her father. Foolish of her to wish for so much.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have explained that to you,” he said, rubbing a palm against the side of his head. “Do you want a drink? I brought in a bottle of wine.”

“No, I’m cool. And I think you have imbibed far too much already.”

“Mead,” he said with a drunken grin.

“Yeah, from the little I’ve seen at the reception, you mortal realmers can’t handle your mead. Let’s get this done with so the witness can go to bed, and I’m really tired, so...”

“Yeah, me, too. So it’s just business between us? Doing this for the home teams?”

Bea smirked. Some home team she was on. “I’m not even on the team. When teams pick sides, I’m always the one left standing.”

He cast her a curious raise of brow. “I‘ve had that same thought. Huh.”

“Right. For the team,” she agreed with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, which was zero.

The werewolf strode closer, and Bea climbed up onto the bed but didn’t take her eyes from his, which swept over her body appreciatively. Was the wolf actually hungry for her? Good. That would make this go quicker. She could do this. She didn’t have to feel anything for him; she just had to go through the motions. Seal the deal. Worry about the whole happily-ever-after crap in the morning.

He slid a hand below her breast and leaned down to lick her nipple. Bea sucked in a breath as that contact flamed over her skin and tickled her into an appreciative wiggle. Wow. Most men would have started with a kiss and worked lower, but she had no arguments about this mode of attack. Business, and all that. The wolf was already at the getting in the getting-’er-done part.