Enchanted By The Wolf. Michele Hauf
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.
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