Her Wolf King

THE WEDDING

HE WATCHED THE castle through the shifting shadows of the branches, silvery moonlight seeping through them. Somewhere in that castle, he hoped Lenore was sleeping peacefully beneath a mound of blankets and furs and soft pillows, not keeping herself up worrying about the wolf she was about to marry.

Although he wasn’t quite sure why that hope, that wish, was light in his typically heavy heart. He never hoped. Never longed for things he couldn’t have, things that he knew damn well wouldn’t happen.

So why was he here in the snow, pacing in his anxiety before his second wedding, thinking about a woman who would never love him? He knew damn well the cost of emotions, the cost of hoping—early in his curse he had tried it. He had hoped. He had wished.

And he had despaired. Everett had found the cost of hope to be bitter and crippling, rather than buoyant and pleasant as everyone had promised. Then again, what could he have expected? Hope and wishes were not tangible things. They did not produce results, did not line one’s pockets or put food on one’s table—they were supposed to make it more bearable to wait for those results.

Hope was for children. Acceptance—acceptance was for those who were grown. And if nothing else, Everett had gone through enough to accept every brutal event that met him.

The sun rose just as he padded silently to the entrance of the manor, glittering ice and blue-tinged snow turning to bright, blinding hues. Peach and coral and lilac clouds, the smoky mountains casting long shadows over the white-dusted grounds. He gazed at it for a moment, before his snout flattened into a less threatening face, before paws became hands and feet, before thick, coarse fur was replaced by rich clothes. Before he lurched as though drunk into the foyer, and was met by an even more brilliant sight.

Decorated for the wedding, the manor house appeared more grand today than it had in even the years he had shared it with another woman. Garlands of green and gold wound around the columns at each corner of the ballroom, gold flowers shining bright against darker wreaths of pine.

Lenore leaned against one of the four pillars lining the corridor that led into the ballroom, wearing a gown of pure white. Pale grey fur trimmed the sleeves and the high collar that wrapped around her neck, leaving room for the diamond droplet that sparkled between her collarbones. She looked up at his arrival.

“Husband,” she greeted him with a wry smile, sweeping her golden hair off of her shoulder. “Is the gown too much, do you think?”

“I’m torn,” he quipped. “On one side of my conscience, it was a gift from me and I’m likely to be offended if you don’t wear it.”

“And on the other side?” She pushed herself off of the pillar, and made her way over to him, putting her hands on his chest. Everett could feel the heat of her body through the material of his tunic, searing him like a brand. Marking him.

“On the other side...” He sucked in a breath, inhaling the scent of iron and wine, sharp and intoxicating. “You look awful in it.”

She smiled, unfazed by the insult. A woman after his own cold heart. “So awful... that I ought to take it off?”

Yes. “No,” he responded, he lied. “Not quite that awful.”

“On that heartwarming note, should we go attend our own wedding now?” She looped her arm through his, not waiting for an answer. A command, not a question, from a woman with steel to match his own.

“We shall.”

Outside, the snow was crisp and pure, though nearly a foot deep. His breeches, covered by high boots as they were, were spared from the cold and damp, but Lenore’s gown was not so lucky. She wore high, fur-trimmed boots that stopped just above her knees, but had to pick up the heavy train and cape of her wedding dress as she walked, putting her off balance. After much grumbling and stumbling into him, she relented to let herself be swept into his arms. Lenore let out a whoop of laughter—unladylike perhaps, but vivacious, full-bodied.

“I thought you ought to carry me over the threshold after the wedding, not on the way to my wedding.” Lenore batted golden, ice-dusted lashes at him, an expression far from innocent no matter its original intent.

He kept close watch over her—feet having memorized the path to the wedding site—flicking his green eyes over the contours of her cheekbones, pink-flushed at the tops, the glossy blonde hair woven into braids, the faint swells of her chest showing beneath the collar of her dress. Everett shifted his grip on her even as he spoke, holding her more closely to his chest. “Don’t tease. I may drop you.”

She let out a shriek that sounded mildly contrived, and clung to his torso with both arms, one hand wrapped around his nape and the other gripping his shoulder. “Oh, my. How petrified I find myself at the prospect of landing in the snow!”

He gave a groan. “Do try not to make fun when we actually arrive at the ceremony.”

“Is this not the ceremonial site?” She nudged him in the side, and he looked up from the path to see that indeed, this was the place they would get married.

An archway over the altar had been woven from branches, and draped with glittering icicles that somehow managed not to drip water down onto the petal-strewn pathway. Strings of lit candles—enchanted—rested through the branches, magically crafted not to melt any of the snow around it. Pale pink flowers—roses, lilies, poppies, and daisies—were strung next to the candles, and a matching bouquet was handed to Lenore by the priest.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”

She was equally soft-voiced as she gave a gasp, looking around them. That childish glee, the awe, had returned. And it warmed him a little too much. Everett set Lenore down onto the pathway, and took his place next to the waiting priest.

She walked along the path towards him, looking utterly amused. Not enchanted, not taken in—but coy, as though this were a real wedding for her and there were real actions she intended on taking with him that befit real wedding nights. Everett dug his hands into fists, even as the wolfish part of him longed for that to be true. Longed for her hands on him, his mouth on hers.

He resisted. He could be a wolf no longer, could not keep seeing what he wanted and taking it with no regard for anything else.

“Do you, Everett Dunstan, take this woman to be your bride?” The priest droned from the book in his hands not looking up at either of them. Lenore winked at him.

“I do.”

“And do you, Lenore Abrahams, take this ma—Everett Dunstan to be your husband?”

Lenore spoke with utter confidence, complete surety. “I do.”

“Then I declare the two of you man and wolf—that is, man and wife.” The priest did not even blush or stutter at his too-true mistake. “You may kiss the bride.”

Lenore stood on her toes, smiling at him coquettishly. “I’m ready.”

He was not. He had not touched a human woman in years—had not done this in years. Everett let her steer him, felt her hands on the back of his neck guiding his mouth to hers. Gently, he lowered his lips onto hers. She tasted sweet, and her skin was soft when he hesitantly cupped her face, her body pliant though her character was far from it.

When they separated, the priest had vanished, and Lenore had dropped her bouquet, adding petals to the ones already on the ground. She looked faint, dazed. “I—thank you.”

He felt an odd sort of triumphant joy at having had that effect on her. “You’re welcome... wife.”

“Husband.” She seemed shy now, that confidence, that near-arrogance having vanished with their physical contact. Lenore still looked him in the eye, still stood tall, no matter how much a bashful, blushing bride she ought to have been. “Should we... go back to the manor now?”

“We should.”

But what they found there was a sight horrifying enough to never be seen on any day, let alone a wedding day. The doors of the manor hung off their hinges in splinters, and blood streaked the tiled halls that they passed through. A framed painting hung in tatters as though created by claw marks. The chandeliers has crashed to the ground in a spill of crystals, mixing with the rose petals from the vase that had also been knocked over, the two combined looking like so many drops of blood.

“Hello?” Everett called out, feeling an unfamiliar emotion creep up his spine, tensing his muscles. “Is anyone there?”

He didn’t think the servants could be killed—not as long as his curse remained. But he had no idea if they could be tortured or injured. The thought was like a pain in his side—he did not want anyone else to be hurt. Not because of him.

“Who could have done this?” Lenore asked—not sounding scared. Sounding vengeful.

“I don’t know.” He swallowed the lie. Everett had a very good feeling who had done this—or who had sent someone to cause this much damage, and he was sure he knew why.

It had to have been Marya. Marya, or one of her underlings, one of the snarling beasts she kept around to do her bidding. And as for the reason—she had done it countless times before. Any time he came close to breaking the curse she had cast upon him, or had even the glimmer of hope for his future, she would crush it. Crush his hope by scaring the poor girl—the one he’d bargained into helping him—out of their wits. He’d learned that to hope was to hurt. And so he’d stopped.

But Lenore didn’t look like she was terrified, or about to flee. Instead, she gripped his arm firmly, as if trying to give him strength, and spoke surely. “Don’t lie to me. I am not some shrinking violet, to be scared of the truth.”

The truth. The truth was a cold and painful thing, and it was something he held close to his heart, letting that ice over, grow hardened and frigid. But for Lenore, brave beautiful Lenore, he could try to thaw.

“My wife,” he explained, and saw her face turn white with shock. “My former wife.”

“Does she attack you all the time in such vengeful fury, or only when you are getting married?” Lenore asked drily.

“When I try...” Everett sighed, kicking at a crystal droplet on the floor. It spiralled out and hit the ballroom door, which had been torn off its hinges and lay on the ground. “When I attempt to break my curse.”

“Is she the one who cursed you?” She prodded.

“Yes. Marya, her name was.” Before she could ask why, he went on. “I was... I am not a good man, Lenore. I am a wolf.”

“Because she cursed you,” Lenore said with a nod.

“No,” he said with a shake of the head. “I am a wolf, and I was a wolf. Perhaps not physically, but in my heart... I had no heart. No soul. I only lived fuelled by my greed, by my desire to earn more gold. And what woman would want a husband like that? Marya certainly didn’t. She cursed me, and now...”

“Now, she enacts her revenge on you even though you are trying to change,” Lenore replied softly.

“No,” Everett said with a bitter smile. “I am, and have always been, and I will always be a wolf, Lenore. You married a wolf.”