Her Wolf King

Their journey back home was abrupt, and quiet. They tumbled out of the cellar entrance, Lenore finding her breath coming in short pants as she marched up the stairs, holding the tattered hem of her dress above her ankles. The cellar steps were echoey, stone slabs with flickering torchlight that cast silhouettes on the curved walls, making her feel as though they weren’t alone in the house–as though someone else was there.

Someone else was there, she reflected. The ghostly servants he’d told her about, the ones condemned to work out the afterlife in his cursed castle. In her cursed castle.

“After you, my lady.” Everett sketched an ironic bow, sweeping his arm across the doorway to open the heavy wooden door for her.

“Thank you.” She caught a whiff of his scent as she passed him, that woodsy, primal aroma that made something inside her gut clench. “For killing the man for me. You’re right. I don’t think I could have.”

They walked out of the cellar together, ascending the final steps into the light. Blinding sunlight poured across the crisp, freshly fallen snow, casting dazzling fractals across the stone walls, covered in tapestries. A woven hanging of a wolf howling on a cliff–something she thought was rather on the nose for her husband to have chosen–hung on the wall directly opposite to them.

“What a surprise for you to say that,” he said, a low chuckle breaking in his throat.

“I certainly don’t plan to make a habit of it,” she murmured, brushing a stray thread off her sleeve and plucking a dried leaf off of her bodice. “So you’ll have to cherish this memory forever.”

“I assure you, Lenore,” he said, his green gaze boring directly into hers. “I am.”

A shiver rippled down her spine and she had the distinct feeling that he was speaking about more than her admission that he was right.

“Well, let’s see what we have here.” She strode across the hall toward the entry table–a ludicrous idea for a man who never had guests–and plucked up a salver, finding a letter there. The wax seal bore the mark of her family–her former family. Her brother.

“It’s from Timothy,” she said as Everett peered over her shoulder.

Dear Lenore (and the wolf you’ve married),

I hope you and your husband are doing well. I have arrived home safely and have even managed to trap many foxes and rabbits, which I skinned. I was able to sell their skins and fetch quite a good price for it. Mysteriously enough, these animals seemed to simply walk into my traps, leading me to suspect they were enchanted to do so (does your husband have anything to do with this? If so, please thank Everett for me).

On to the important business. Kirk has left town, citing some important business venture which he has been chosen to take part in. I believe that was your doing, and so I applaud you for having convinced him to do so. His family is quite concerned for him, and his father constantly brings (rather boastful, if I do say so myself) news of his son’s progress, saying that he’s making a great deal of money. I hope he stays far, far away, and completely forgets about the bruising to his ego you gave him by marrying him. That was quite an unfortunate scandal.

I also told our father of your story. Well, a rather condensed and redacted version. I told him you had married a rather successful hunter in the woods, but that it was too far away for him to visit. Have I done the right thing? I assured him you might visit soon. Will you? I do miss you, dear sister.

Yours,

Timothy Abrahams

P.S. Tell Everett I thank him greatly for all that he has done for our family. Even if he is a bit of a dog.

“You’re laughing,” Everett noted, his tone dry and clinical. Yet she turned to look up and saw the trace of a smirk on his face.

“My brother can be very humorous,” she responded, folding the letter up again. “Though he may have exaggerated a bit.”

“Oh? The part where he said I was a bit of a dog, or the part where he said I was a rather successful hunter?” That same teasing lilt remained in his eyes, and she found herself wanting rather to kiss the smirk on his lips.

Her breath caught in her throat. Just imagining the notion gave her a frisson of–what? Thrill? Excitement? Fear?

“Both,” she managed to say. Her mouth was suddenly dry. She smoothed out her skirts. “I… What time is it?”

They both turned to the grandfather clock by the suit of armor, which was next to a series of rather ghastly scratches on the wall, which looked as though they’d been left by a wild animal and likely had been.

“Nearly lunch, I should think. Are you hungry?” His fingers splayed across her waist, steering her toward the kitchen.

She glanced down at his hand, imagining them replaced by paws with claws on them. “I could be persuaded to eat.”

He stopped on his trajectory toward the kitchen, his fingers sliding down her waist and toward her hip. “If I have to persuade you, I doubt that’s a very good sign.”

Even so, he didn’t let go of her. She found that she didn’t want him to, as she stepped closer, twisting so that they faced one another. “There is something I desire.”

“What would that be?” His green eyes were dark, molten pools she wanted to drown in.

“This.” Before she could lose her nerve, she leaned up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

This kiss had no right to feel the way it did. Had no right to make her feel the way it did. Like she was falling through the floor and flying through the skies all at once, her body weightless, every nerve alive with sensation, every beat of her heart a thundering reminder of the man in front of her. The man with his mouth pressed against hers.

Her hands rested lightly on his arms, his hand still on her hip, the other traveling up her back to intertwine his fingers into her hair. A low groan erupted from his mouth as her lips moved against his in slow, unsteady, uncertain motions, before he used the hand in her hair to press her closer, more firmly against him. Her fingers trailed over his arm, across his shoulder until she touched his nape, feeling the ridges of his spine. She had not thought of him as vulnerable.

But when she thought of how close they might have come to losing their lives only hours ago… She wanted to hold this moment–to entrap him–in her arms forever. To never let go of him.

He was all around her, the hardness of his chest a welcome contrast against the softness of her body, the meagre pounds she’d put on since arriving at the castle. His arms encased her, his scent surrounding her in a dizzying cloud. He was not the world, but–he might have been hers, in that instant.

Gently, she nipped at his lower lip, questioning still her movements even as he expressed some noise of satisfaction. Breaking away, her cheeks flushed, she gazed up at him.

“What in the blazes was that for?” he said, his breath coming in shallow pants.

Not exactly the romantic profession of undying love one might want from one’s husband after kissing him, but perhaps that was good. Perhaps it was better.

“I believe I am your wife, and therefore have a right, if not an obligation to do such a thing whenever I please.” Boldness and timidity raged in her chest. She made to step out of his arms, but he didn’t let her.

‘I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy that,” he said. “Only, I–”

A horse nickered, whinnying and pawing the floor.

As much as she liked the horse–she thought she might name him butterscotch–this was the worse possible time for them to remember that this magical horse was apparently able to use doorknobs and had managed to make his way in from the stables.

“Don’t you have ghostly grooms?” She followed his gaze toward the horse standing in the entryway, looking rather disgruntled if she had ever seen a horse with such an expression.

“I’ve never had need of one. I suppose we completely forgot about the poor horse, didn’t we?” He dropped his arms from her, her hair now a mess of thorough tangles, and slid his fingers between hers. “Let’s go see what he wants.”

“Poor thing,” she echoed, walking up to the creature. “Did you miss us?”

The horse pushed its nose into her palm when she lifted a hand, so she assumed the answer was a resounding yes.

“Don’t worry, Butterscotch,” she cooed. “I won’t leave you ever again.”

As Everett’s eyes rested on her back, she wondered if he was asking a silent question: whether she’d make the same promise to him.

Or whether such a vow was even possible to keep.