With Everything I Am

by Kristen Ashley

  She shimmied it up her hips, as she did so, exposing a pair of sexy, white, lace panties he’d ordered her to go with his mother and buy (about a second after he’d gathered her unattractive undergarments and thrown them in the trash). She was also wearing lace-topped, thigh high stockings.

  Regardless of his chore, he still felt his groin tighten at the sight.

  Swiftly, so as not to prolong her apprehension, he administered the injection.

  Facing the basin, the minute the toxin entered her body, both of her hands flew out to clutch the basin and her head lowered. She sucked in a tortured breath and her pretty face twisted with suffering. Callum dropped the syringe into the sink, yanked her skirt down and wrapped his arms around her, trying to tear his eyes from the mirror that exposed her pain and failing.

  His body absorbed the tortured shudders rending their way through hers until she unconsciously dragged in calming breaths as the pain slowly burned itself out.

  When it was over, she lifted her head until it rested on his shoulder, her cheek against his. His chin was lowered to her and her hands glided along his forearms until her arms were crossed and her fingers curled around his wrists.

  “I even feel it in my hair,” she whispered, the ghost of pain veining her voice and Callum’s scalp stung unpleasantly in hearing the comprehensiveness of his mate’s pain.

  He buried his face in her neck.

  “Baby doll,” he murmured there as there was nothing more that he could do.

  And he fucking hated the feeling of powerlessness that was thrust on him night after night.

  Her fingers tightened on his wrists and she said softly, “It’s over, Callum.”

  It wasn’t over. It would happen again the next night and the night after that.

  If it was indeed a disease, it would happen until he stood beside her burning pyre.

  He didn’t respond, just tensed his arms, drawing her closer.

  “We have guests.” she reminded him.

  He took in breath through his nose, her scent, already surrounding him, intensifying and his body relaxed at the smell and her uttering the fact that they had guests.

  She did not say “I” but “we”.

  Callum liked that.

  He nodded and lifted his head, his eyes catching hers in the mirror where she, who’d endured it, gave him, who’d only witnessed it, a reassuring smile.

  Then he stood holding her while she reapplied her lipstick and unnecessarily rearranged her thick, beautiful hair.

  Then he led her downstairs and stood at her side as she entertained, having lost his enjoyment of the evening and as it continued finding himself losing his patience as his need for her grew.

  She, however, continued to enjoy it and that was the only reason Callum could endure.

  It was late. The caterers had swept away their wares, leaving the house tidy but Sonia still wandered it. Finding a discarded napkin here, the remains of wrapping paper there and throwing them away while Callum shut down the house for the night.

  When he guided her up the stairs, he led her to the bathroom deciding that he’d give them a better memory of a space that had become, for him, as it had to be for her, dreaded.

  At first she was confused and hesitant but that melted, as Sonia always did, when he gently placed her hands on the basin, ordered her to keep them there and yanked up her skirt. He pulled down her panties and she stepped out of them before he commanded she open her legs. He saw, reflected in the mirror, her face grow hungry and his need for her deepened before she did as she was told and, at once, as her reward, he slid his hand between her legs from behind, giving her what she craved.

  Callum watched her in the mirror thinking distractedly, because he so liked what he saw, that he’d have to have a room paneled in mirrors at his castle in Scotland. The vision of her growing excitement erasing the earlier, painful one as he brought her to orgasm with his fingers. Then, while she was still moaning her uninhibited release, he watched as he entered her and fucked her, her skirt bunched at her hips, her sweet ass willingly tilting up to take all of him. And he kept watching as he brought her to orgasm again moments before he had his own.

  Then, keeping Sonia impaled on his cock, he gazed in the mirror, her hooded eyes, he noted, doing the same, as he slowly disrobed her, baring her beautiful, little body still intimately connected to his. Once she was naked against him, he took his time, running his hands along the skin of her midriff, her belly, her sides and up to her breasts as he, and Sonia, watched the trail of his hands and as he, alone, felt her sex shudder around his cock in response to their travels. And he held her, his forearms crossed, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs idly stroking her nipples, his shaft still hard and buried to the root, as he memorized the look of them together. The smell of their mingled essence. The beautiful feel and sight of all that was her.

  She twisted her neck and, with her lips against his skin, he watched in the mirror as she whispered there, “How do you stay so hard so long?”

  “Sensory incentive,” he replied softly (and truthfully).

  She emitted a fluttering sigh.

  He smiled.

  Then he lifted her off his shaft, turned her, seated her on the basin and lazily pulled off her boots and slid off her stockings.

  Then he carried her to bed, his sweet little Sonia, took off his clothes, joined her and pulled her close, on their sides, his face in her hair, her ass snug in his crotch, his body pressed to the length of hers.

  His voice was gentle when he asked, “Did you have a good night, my little one?”

  “Yes,” she whispered sleepily, hesitated, then enquired, “Did you?”

  “Yes,” he answered and his arms gave her a squeeze. “I liked the way it ended the best.”

  “Figures,” she mumbled seconds before she fell asleep.

  He should have felt contentment but these were his worst times. In the dark, Sonia near, her body relaxed in his arms. These were the times he knew he’d miss most when she was gone.

  He didn’t seethe against her aging, the onset of wrinkles, her gorgeous hair turning gray.

  He seethed against the knowledge that one day, she’d be gone.

  As with every night since the claiming, King Callum fell asleep with his queen forced to come to uneasy terms with this vile knowledge of his future.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Christmas

  Sonia’s body was trapped between the back of the far more comfortable couch in her upstairs television room and the length of Callum’s frame. Her head was resting on his chest. Her arm was draped around his stomach. Her gaze was on the television.

  In this position, late Christmas Eve, King Callum watched the movie White Christmas for the first time.

  The detritus of their feeding frenzy was on the table in front of them, something, to his surprise, which was Sonia’s idea.

  One of the things she had made no bones about since they met was her dislike of the wolf diet. But that morning when he’d asked how she traditionally spent her Christmas Eve and Christmas day, she’d told him in a tentative, almost, to his surprise (and foreboding) shy way, that both days were the only days of the calendar year where she ate what she wanted, how much she wanted and didn’t worry about it.

  Callum hid the displeasure he felt at these words, a displeasure he felt for three reasons.

  First, she’d been shy in relating this information to him. Why Sonia would be shy, considering they were lifemates, she’d been claimed, she spent most of her days in his lap and all of her nights full of his cock, he couldn’t imagine.

  Second, because her shyness made him realize that he’d never bothered to ask her anything about herself, her likes, dislikes, what she enjoyed doing, what she did not. So, he supposed, it wasn’t unusual that she would be shy because she was being asked to share about herself which was new to her. At least doing it with him was.

  She needed to fit into his life, this was true. But she was also an important part of h
is. He’d had a lot on his mind but, regardless if it was inadvertent, the extent of his callousness shook him. Further, he wondered, as Ryon suggested, if under the surface of Sonia’s acceptance of her fate, something else lurked.

  Last, because she so rigidly controlled her eating which was one of his most disliked human traits and one he would be fully breaking her of after the holidays.

  Wolves didn’t count calories and they were not obsessively tidy as Sonia also was. Contradictory to humans, even though a wolf’s life could last eternity, they didn’t squander them on trivial things. They lived them to their fullest, every day enjoying what life had to offer and never sweating the small stuff.

  While in bed that morning, her eyes riveted to his chest, her fingers absentmindedly sifting through the dark hair there, she’d explained (while he hid his displeasure, and, later, unrest) that Christmas Eve, she relaxed, read a book, watched movies and ate whatever she wanted. Christmas morning, she opened her presents which she kept for some reason she didn’t share under her upstairs tree. Then she went to Gregor’s in the afternoon and had a late afternoon dinner with him and Yuri before she came home.

  This news was, Callum thought, somehow gloomy. Although she related it in a way that seemed straightforward, it didn’t change the fact that most of her beloved holiday she spent alone and none of it, to his way of thinking, sounded very much fun.

  This was also not the way of the wolf, not ever, but definitely not on Christmas.

  And Callum determined, watching her eyes follow her fingers, even if his queen was used to her lonely Christmases, she’d have them that way no longer.

  From that day on, they would be vastly different.

  And Callum set about making that so.

  When she was finished talking, he’d turned to her and made love to her. He’d done it slowly, taking his time, building the hunger and when her moans slid back to whimpers, he sated it. After, still wrapped in her limbs, their bodies connected, he took the time he rarely took (because he rarely had it) to coddle her. His hands drifting idly on her skin. His nose taking in the scent of her. His lips trailing her neck, her ear, her face and, as he did so, her limbs tightened around him protectively, lovingly and he growled his approval against her skin.

  After they got out of bed, she made breakfast for them and they showered. When she was dressing and doing whatever else it was she did while preparing for her day, he placed calls, making arrangements and seeking information.

  When she came down the stairs dressed in a long sleeve t-shirt and jeans, he sent her back up to dress warmer.

  Without a peep, she did as she was told.

  Then he took her to a sporting goods store and bought what they needed.

  Then he took her sledding.

  She’d been shocked through this, to the point she didn’t speak.

  But once they hit the crowded, public sledding hill and she was amongst the children and parents with their own sleighs, she’d thrown herself into it with abandon.

  Callum stood at the top of the hill watching her challenge the kids who always took her up on it and then race them down the hill, always letting them win. He’d saunter down and drag the sled back up for her, Sonia climbing by his side, his arm around her shoulders, hers light around his waist as she exchanged loud, animated replays amongst her new friends. And then she’d find her next mark and challenge another child and down she’d go again, giggling all the way.

  Honest to God, if he didn’t know differently, watching her unabashed glee, he’d swear she was wolf.

  After she’d exhausted herself, he’d taken her to the snack shop and they sat outside, Sonia in his lap. As they sat, the children giggled at them and men and women surreptitiously glanced their way (some with curiosity, most, he noted, both male and female, with envy) while they drank hot cocoa.

  Then he took her home, challenged her to a board game that they played sitting on the floor in her living room by a fire he built. They played while they ate a late lunch and he beat her, soundly, to which she pouted, magnificently, so he gave her another chance and played her again and beat her again. But he purposefully didn’t do it so decisively the second time.

  Then she eschewed dinner, preparing a feast of unhealthy snack foods which he approved of thoroughly. While Sonia did that, Callum checked the garage to ascertain if Regan had seen to his requests and, as ever, considering shopping was involved, his mother had accomplished her mission admirably. They carted the food upstairs and nibbled on it voraciously at first, trailing off as Sonia first put in Elf, another film he had not seen as he didn’t often waste time sitting around watching human movies then Scrooged which he had seen but only parts of it.

  And finally, as the night grew late, Sonia slid in the movie she explained to him she watched last every year on Christmas Eve, White Christmas.

  Elf, Callum found, was roaringly funny. Scrooged was also funny and clever but he liked White Christmas best. It was humorous, it was sweet, it had a depth of emotion, not to mention the man called Bing could fucking sing and the lodge they were in through most of the movie reminded him of home.

  Close to the end of the film, he felt her body tense and saw her hand snake from around him to fist as she brought it to her mouth. He lifted his head to see she was silently crying, having trouble holding back her sobs at a scene she’d watched dozens of times before but, obviously, it never failed to move her.

  He found that moment, Sonia tucked into him on Christmas Eve silently weeping against his chest, somehow touching and right then he determined it was another new tradition and he’d have it every year. Without a word, he lifted a hand to cradle her face, his thumb trailing through her tears as he watched the General’s soldiers declaring their unceasing loyalty and he thought the end of White Christmas was the fucking best.

  He used the remote to switch off the television when it was finished and Sonia immediately moved to exit the couch.

  His arm tightened, keeping her where she was.

  “Honey, where are you going?”

  Her head tipped back to look at him.

  “Well…” she started then for some reason looked beyond his ear to the arm of the couch his head was resting on. “After White Christmas, I clean up the mess and go to bed.”

  Callum turned his head, his eyes hit the clock on the DVD player and he saw it was quarter to midnight.

  Nearly Christmas.

  And he decided on another new tradition.

  His other arm circled her and he pulled her up his chest so they were eye-to-eye.

  “Why do you watch White Christmas last every year?”

  She took a fluttering breath, something she did often, something he liked because always it denoted she was feeling something deep and he liked the fact that his queen felt deeply.

  Then she answered, “Because I watched it with my parents every year. They loved it.” She swallowed, seeming both nervous and uncertain and she gazed into his eyes as if trying to read him which was odd. She was a female human who, according to Ryon, communicated in code. He was wolf and therefore, with his mate at least, an open book. She must have found what she was seeking for she went on, “If I watch it, it means, before I go to bed on Christmas Eve, I’m remembering them. They’re fresh in my mind which is the only way I can ever really have them.”

  Having lost Mac and Calvin, understanding her sense of bereavement and hoping to soothe her grief as she had done his, his hand went to her neck, his fingers slid in her hair and he pulled her face down to touch her lips to his.

  She relaxed in his arms and he decided, with no small sense of triumph that he’d succeeded in his endeavor.

  He slid her back down his body with his arm about her and tucked her cheek to his chest with his other hand.

  Then he asked, “Would you like to know how my people spend Christmas?”

  She didn’t answer at first, just pulled in a soft, surprised breath and he cursed himself again for his insensitivity because Ryon was right.
She needed information about the culture she’d be living amongst for the rest of her days and she didn’t need to get it by being suddenly confronted with it in all of its, to her, peculiarity.

  When she didn’t answer, he prompted, “Baby doll?”

  She nodded her head against his chest.

  His fingers tensed in her hair then relaxed and slid through it, and again, and again, petting her while he spoke.

  “We start on first December with the parties. Everyone throws one. It’s like a war to have the best party so people will want to come to yours. There’s one to attend every day, sometimes you’ll attend two or even three. They aren’t like yours. They’re a little louder, a little wilder and my people don’t only have them at night, they like celebrating anytime. They have them during the day as well. Enormous luncheons with so much food, you need a nap afterward. Full-on breakfasts, which always lead eventually to trips to the pub and then, even later, stumbling home highly inebriated while singing Christmas songs.”

  He heard a surprised giggle escape her throat, sounding strangled and he realized he’d never, not once in over three weeks, made her laugh.

  Not once.

  Fucking hell, but he’d been buried so deep with everything else, with his mate, he’d been a thoughtless bastard.

  She tipped her head back and her eyes were alight when she asked, “You stumble home drunk singing Christmas songs?”

  He grinned down at her, enchanted more than usual at his queen when her eyes were lit like that, and admitted, “It’s been known to happen.”

  She pressed her lips together but he felt her body shake with laughter.

  “My people like to sing,” he informed her easily. “They like it best when they’re shitfaced.”

  She burst out laughing and dropped her forehead to his chest.

  There were many things he’d experienced with Sonia in the last three weeks that Callum fucking loved.

  But nothing was better than feeling Sonia’s body rocking with laughter, the sound of it rumbling into his chest, while she was in his arms.