Hunger Pangs

by Joy Demorra

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Joy is a Scottish born, international best selling author, editor, and chronic illness/disability advocate. She is currently manifesting in the American Midwest with her cryptid husband and their large adopted Internet family. When not collapsed in a heap of glitter and defiant hope, Joy can generally be found hiding somewhere behind a keyboard writing paranormal-pun-filled romances, usually about vampires, werewolves, and all other manner of creatures that go bump in the night.

  You can keep up with all her latest news and events by subscribing to her newsletter, or any of the other various social media outlets she likes to haunt.

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  Other Works:

  Crewel Intentions (Flirting with Fangs)

  Crewel Intentions (Fluff and Fangs)

  CREWEL INTENTIONS

  November 27th 1889

  It was a truth universally acknowledged throughout the Nevrondian Empire that, when it came to matters of style, vampires were considered to be the height of refined elegance and fashionable attire. This was owed largely in part to a dramatic predisposition toward wearing black evening attire, and an inherently svelte outline that could only be realistically achieved through several hundred years of liquid dieting. There was, Vlad felt, a great deal more to be appreciated about the robust and rugged nature of the Northern werewolf.

  If not, however, their wardrobe choices.

  “What, and I cannot stress this enough, the hell are you wearing?” he asked, running a critical eye over the broad expanse of Nathan’s back and shoulders.

  Nathan, who was fussing with his necktie in the reflection of the mirror, flicked bright blue eyes toward him. “Clothes?” he said, his voice pitched low to avoid waking the other occupant of the bed. “You do remember what those are, don’t you?”

  Vlad shook his head in amusement. He hadn’t seen his reflection yet, but he could take a wild guess at how disheveled he looked. “Vaguely,” he said, glancing down to where Ursula’s head lay pillowed in his lap, her coppery-blonde curls twined loosely between his fingers.

  Without her fairy glamours in place, the Sìdhe looked deceptively small and vulnerable as she slept. But even at rest, she maintained an iron grip around his waist, her fingers digging firmly into Vlad’s hips as though afraid he might vanish while she slept.

  She wasn’t normally this clingy, but after six weeks apart, Ursula had all but jumped Vlad’s bones the moment he’d stepped off the ferry. Nathan, ever the soul of restraint, had managed to wait until they made it to their hotel room before pouncing on him. But it had been a close thing.

  Vlad was only just now beginning to regain the feeling in his legs.

  Normally they met in the city at least once a month but matters at home had kept Vlad unavoidably detained. He’d felt their absence keenly, like a part of him was missing. The better parts. It had been a relief to finally return to them, even if they did have to carry on the charade of merely being friends in public. It was a role they played well, though a more observant onlooker may well have noted the way they leaned toward each other over the dinner table, or the lingering little glances and touches stolen under the soft glow of candlelight. But if anyone did notice they were far too polite to say anything. And besides, this was Ingleton, where the rich, eccentric, and the undead could all do whatever the hell they liked. Provided of course, they did it with style.

  Something which Nathan was severely lacking at this precise moment.

  “No but really, darling, what are you wearing?” Vlad persisted, motioning for Nathan to turn around and let him see. The werewolf complied, turning a slow circle and holding his arms out.

  As quality went, the clothing wasn’t half bad. It was plain but well-made, the kind of thing a country lord such as Nathan might wear while out surveying his lands or tramping over misty moorland. But it was entirely unsuitable for Ingleton high society. The colors were dull and muted. While Vlad conceded to the necessity of function over form when it came to the loose fitting cut when it came to werewolves, there was absolutely no excusing the drab, shapeless disaster of a waistcoat currently hanging off of him.

  “Satisfied?” Nathan asked, completing the circle and letting his hands drop to his sides, waiting for Vlad’s verdict.

  “With you? Always.” Vlad tilted his head to the side and gave Nathan another considerate once over. “Just not with the clothes. In fact, I think you should take them off right this minute and come back to bed.”

  “I agree,” Ursula said muzzily, untangling herself from Vlad and rolling over onto her back. As she opened her eyes, Vlad noted that both he and Nathan were enraptured by her awakening, their gazes lingering appreciatively on her exposed curves. She smirked, stretching out catlike against the white linen sheets, basking in their admiration. The fae were vain creatures, but as far as Vlad was concerned, she’d more than earned his reverence. “What were we talking about?” she asked.

  “His Lordship’s clothes,” Vlad supplied helpfully, watching as she rummaged around the mess of rumpled bedding for something to wear, and eventually settled on one of Nathan’s baggy shirts. “And how he ought to remove them. Preferably out the window.”

  “Ah,” Ursula gave a short little laugh, tugging the shirt down over her head as she came to lean against the headboard beside him, her golden-curled head listing against his shoulder. “Yes, I rather thought you’d have some opinions on the matter.”

  “What?” Nathan demanded. “You never said anything to me.”

  “I did, dear,” Ursula said, examining her nails carefully. “Back home when we were packing and I asked if those were the clothes you were bringing to Ingleton.”

  “And I said yes!”

  “Yes,” Ursula said, continuing to examine her nails, “and then I tactfully suggested we ought to go shopping, and you said, ‘yes, dear,’ like you do when you’re not listening and walked away.”

  “I—” Nathan began, then trailed off, his blue eyes narrowing as he recalled the moment. “Ah. That was tact, was it?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “See, that’s where you went wrong,” Vlad said jokingly, leaning into Ursula’s warmth and resting his head atop hers. “I just tell him when something looks hideous.”