PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Bear Naked Satisfaction (Fantasy Shapeshifter Alpha Male Romance Book 3) (Contemporary New Adult Billionaire Steamy Romance Short Stories)

by Audrey Storm

  Marge had never felt colder as she walked into the entryway. Merriweather’s eyes immediately locked with hers. He nodded at his family before he strode up to Marge and took her hand in his.

  “Hello, dear,” he said, bowing forward to kiss her knuckles. “I trust everything was well for you here while I was absent.”

  Marge couldn’t bring herself to speak, so she nodded stiffly.

  Merriweather’s grip on her hand tightened a little. “You’re trembling.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’m cold.”

  He frowned as he intently studied her face. After a moment, he released her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have left so soon after our wedding.”

  “You’re the Duke of Manchester. I understand.”

  “Perhaps, but adjusting to this new life must have been more difficult for you than I anticipated.”

  “I was fine.”

  He stared at her, and she stared back. His expression was so blank—like his family’s—she couldn’t gauge what he was truly feeling and thinking. He seemed more like a statue than a person. Marge gave him a small smile to hide the discomfort that squeezed her torso. She had reveled in Merriweather’s mature stature on their wedding day, but now? Now she longed for someone sensitive—more open—sincerer. She wanted Victor.

  “Have I arrived in time for dinner?” Merriweather asked, turning to look back at his family.

  “It’s almost ready,” his mother said. “The cook should be finished with it in a matter of minutes.”

  “Very good. I will go get dressed.”

  Marge furrowed her brow and glanced over his attire. It seemed well enough for dinner—not filthy. Perhaps it was too formal for dinner? She was too timid to ask.

  He returned his attention to Marge and bowed his head. “I will return shortly, my dear. We can speak more during dinner.”

  “Of course,” she said, guilt clawing at her. She watched her husband as he turned and headed for the stairs. Unthinking, she blurted, “We can talk about all the exciting things you must have done this month.”

  Merriweather stopped, stiffening. He looked over his shoulder at her, and she was startled to see that he actually incredulous. “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

  Confusion took hold of her other emotions. “Oh?”

  “A woman should not concern herself with anything of a political nature. We can speak of the activities you participated in, if you wish.”

  He was staring at Marge expectantly, so she nodded, dumbfounded.

  “Good,” Merriweather said, walking up the stairs.

  “Harlot,” one of his sisters whispered.

  Marge glanced over in-laws. She was too baffled to be insulted, and she had no idea how to respond to…well, to any of this. Mouth hanging open, she turned and headed for the dining room to await dinner.

  The meal was quieter and more tense than what Marge had been hoping for. Despite Merriweather’s claims of wanting to talk, he didn’t say much. He listened to Marge ramble on about reading various novels and spending time in the garden, and then he listened to one of his brothers when he spoke about a business venture he was considering pursuing.

  In between those spoken words were awkward silences. Nothing but the clanking sounds of their utensils bumping into their plates filled the quietness. Whenever Marge looked down at her plate of food, she was almost convinced that everyone was glaring at her—that they somehow knew. But whenever she looked back up, she found that only Merriweather was paying her any mind. And he looked utterly bored with her.

  “Are you enjoying your food?” he randomly asked her during a particularly long bout of silence.

  Marge nodded. “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  It was the worst dinner Marge had ever had, and the food had actually been quite succulent.

  She had gotten so used to sleeping in her large bed alone that she actually went rigid when Merriweather crawled into bed beside her that night. Embarrassment and frustration hit her then. He was her husband—of course they were going to share a bed.

  In the darkness, her flesh seared with too much awareness of herself and of Merriweather’s proximity to her. She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes. Perhaps if she pretended she was alone, she would relax and get some sleep.

  Marge gasped when Merriweather moved on top of her, his face lowering to hers. She scrambled back, her head hitting the headrest. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  Merriweather went still. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but even if she could, she doubted she would be able to get much of a read on him. “I wish to be with my wife.”

  Marge wanted to throw up. She forced herself to take slow, even breaths, anxiety jittering through her blood. “I don’t think that would be wise. I am so, so tired, and too full from dinner. I fear I ate too much.”

  Merriweather didn’t move. The heat from his body began seeping into hers, and she hated how it felt. The thought of betraying Victor—as ridiculous as it seemed—was agonizing.

  “Please, Merriweather,” she said, her voice cracking. “Please, not tonight.”

  He sighed into her face. “Very well, my dear. If it is truly too much for you, I won’t insist.” He moved back to his side of the bed.

  Relief made Marge go lax. She almost didn’t notice that Merriweather was still watching in the dark. Once she did, she tensed back up and turned away from him.

  Merriweather made a strange noise of discontent, but he remained quiet for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 5

  Waking up next to Merriweather was wrong. Marge felt it in every fiber of her being. Staring at him, the morning light slowly rising over his chest, she was certain that she couldn’t do this for the rest of her life. It was just…all of it was so wrong.

  As quietly and quickly as she could, she got out of bed and got ready for the day. Then, instead of joining the family for breakfast in the dining room, she sneaked out of the mansion and traveled to Victor’s. In her frazzled state, she didn’t fully think her actions through; she just needed to talk with Victor—needed to figure out how to make this horridness right.

  When she was finally in front of Victor’s door, she knocked on it fervently. This time, a maid answered it and invited her in.

  “Thank you,” Marge said softly, entering the home.

  “My pleasure, Lady Patterson,” the maid said. “I will get Master Victor Williams for you.”

  Marge’s heart stuttered as she watched the maid walk away. Did she know that she and Victor were having an affair? A blush bloomed on Marge’s cheeks when she remembered the last time she had been in Victor’s home…and it wasn’t as if either of them had been awfully quiet when they were….

  Marge lowered her face into her hands. What a mess. What had she done?

  “Marge?” Victor said, walking over to her and gently grabbing her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  She lowered her hands and looked at him. His eyes were full of worry, and his mouth open as if ready to voice another question. The relief and the shame that came over her then made her eyes sting.

  “Merriweather is back,” she said.

  Victor pressed his lips together. Anger and pain clouded his expression, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Perhaps we should talk about this somewhere else. My study?”

  Marge nodded and let him guide her out of the entryway, down a hallway, and into a large study. The room was messy with clutter—opened books, furniture stained with ink, pages scattered over the floor. There was even a large portrait lying on the floor for some reason.

  “I’m sorry for all of this,” Victor said, scooping up some paper from the floor and putting them on the desk by the window. A couple of tremors went through his body. “I…I normally don’t invite people in here.”

  “It’s fine.” She hurried over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. When she actually felt his tremors, her heart clenched. “Victor…I don’t know what to do. I…I feel like I’m betraying y
ou by being with him, but he’s my husband. But I don’t love him. I don’t want to be with him.” She let her hand fall from Victor’s shoulder. Hopelessness seeped into her veins, weighing her down. It was getting harder to breathe. “I made vows before God that I can’t…I don’t want to follow through on. What do I do? Please, tell me what I should do.”

  Victor exhaled a long, shaky breath. He was staring down at the desk, his body leaning forward as if it was about to fall over. “I don’t know, Marge. I’m sorry, I don’t know. I can’t…I can’t bear the thought of you being with him, but who am I to ask…”

  “Ask what?” An excruciating kind of hope seized her. Hesitantly—fearfully—she pressed her fingers against his arm. “Victor, ask for what? What do you want?”

  He turned his head to her, his glazed eyes containing a pinkish hue to them now. He swallowed before whispering, “You.”

  Marge gaped at him. That was the best and worst answer he could have given her. She wrapped her fingers around his arm and squeezed, not knowing what else she could do. He seemed as lost as she was. It was a devastating realization, though she also found it strangely comforting.

  “I want you, too,” she said.

  “Maybe…maybe that’s all that matters.”

  She leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder. Feeling him breathe beneath her was soothing, and her heart pounded a little slower. A resigned kind of determination took hold of her, Victor’s presence somehow strengthening it.

  She could not give him up, not for anything or anyone.

  “Master Williams! Master Williams!” someone cried from another part of mansion. “Master Williams!”

  Marge stiffened, her grip on Victor tightening. However, when Victor straightened and gave her an appeasing look, she let him go and clutched her hands together. He nodded in approval, brushing his fingers over her arm, before he turned and headed for the door.

  She yelped when the door swung open, Merriweather striding through it. A horrified-looking servant stood in the hallway and stared after the duke. For the first time, Marge saw anger contort Merriweather’s face.

  “I have been informed of your,” the duke sneered at Marge, “transgression. It is sickening.”

  Victor raised a hand toward him. “Merriweather—”

  Merriweather’s attention snapped to Victor. “You must leave this city and never return.”

  Marge swore her heart stopped, the rest of her form numb with shock and disbelief. She gawked at the scene before it like it wasn’t real—it couldn’t be real; it was too wretched.

  “I’m not leaving,” Victor said, his tone lowering dangerously. He stepped closer to the duke. “This is my home.”

  “No longer,” Merriweather said tersely. His eye twitched, his posture so tense that it shook. “You…you bedded my wife. You have caused a mockery to my name, and I cannot have that. You are to leave immediately and never to come near me or her ever again.”

  Victor clenched his hands into fists. “No.”

  “You dare to deny—”

  “I love Marge,” Victor said. “I’m not leaving her. May God do with me what He will.”

  Marge’s breath hitched. “Victor…”

  Merriweather’s anger instantly erupted into rage. Shouting, he tackled Victor to the ground.

  Marge and the servant screamed.

  Merriweather and Victor punched at each other, Merriweather managing to raise his foot high enough to shove it into Victor’s gut. Victor slid across the floor, his hands over his stomach. Despite his obvious pain, he rolled over on to his knees and then leaped for Merriweather.

  Once her horror released some of its hold on her, Marge turned her attention to the servant, who was gawking at the display.

  “Get help!” Marge shouted at him, making the servant jump. Marge pointed at him. “Get help now!”

  The servant dashed down the hallway.

  Marge, adrenaline rushing through her, hurried forward toward the two men tumbling on the ground. Uncertainly, she hovered over them. She shifted on her feet, her gaze darting about as she tried to figure out how to ends this madness.

  Seconds ticked by, more punches were thrown, and Marge had no answers.

  Desperate, she shouted, “Stop it! Merriweather, stop it! Please! I don’t love you! I’m in love with Victor!”

  Both of the men snapped their attention to her. Their clothing torn and their faces bruised, they panted heavily as they stared up at her. Victor’s expression began morphing into something joyous while Merriweather’s became devastated.

  “I’m sorry,” Marge whispered, staring at her husband. Cautiously, she stepped toward him. “I hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, but I can’t stay married to a man I do not love. If I was able to bear it, I would, but it just isn’t right. I…I’m leaving.”

  Victor crawled toward her and shakily got to his feet. As he wobbled, she quickly ducked beneath him and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She pressed a palm over his thumping heart. Now this—her and Victor—this felt right, even if his injuries tainted the feeling with fear and pain.

  “You’ll be ruined,” Merriweather snapped, slowly standing up. “Both of you. I won’t take any blame for you heathens.”

  “No one’s asking you to,” Victor huffed, swaying in Marge’s arms. “I’ll be a heathen for her.”

  Tearfully, Marge turned away from Merriweather to press her face against Victor’s moist neck. “And I for you,” she whispered to him.

  He shivered against her.

  She heard Merriweather storm out of the room and down the hallway. Regardless, she still felt the need to ask, “Is he gone?”

  “Almost,” Victor said.

  The next instance, the front door of the mansion was slammed shut.

  “Now he’s gone.”

  Marge licked her lips, her adrenaline starting to fade into a more deep-rooted kind of panic. “What are we going to do?”

  Victor paused, resting against Marge for all he was worth. Then, carefully, he shifted a little away from her and stared down at her. “Run away with me?” he asked.

  It was the best proposal she had ever received.

  Chapter 6

  They spent the following hours patching up Victor and packing. Marge made sure to hide from Victor’s family as they did this, and Victor wasn’t forthcoming to them about his injured state or his odd behavior. But luckily, none of his relatives pushed him on these matters much; they just accepted it and let him be. Victor told her they had always been this way—not wanting to deal with conflict of any kind. It made her ache for him, as well as make her ache for her own family.

  It was dark by the time they got the bags in the carriage. Most of the stuff belonged to Victor and his sisters’, but he promised Marge to be her all kinds of new things once they settled in their new home.

  “I don’t care,” she told him as they got settled in the front of the carriage. “So long as I have you, I will be happy.”

  He smiled, leaning over and pressing his lips against her forehead.

  Affection fluttered within her chest. She held his arm for a brief second before releasing it. Memories—a sense of duty—settled heavy on her psyche, and she frowned. “There is one thing I need to do before we leave Manchester though.”

  “What is it?”

  Victor stopped the carriage in front of her father’s mansion. The large estate looked dark and vacant, for the most part, but she could see some flickering flames through the windows. She still had some time.

  She kissed Victor on the cheek before hopping off the carriage and hurrying to the front door. Once there, she knocked on the surface quickly.

  A maid—Mary Anne—opened the door. “Greetings, m—Marge?!” Mary Anne beamed, joy alight in her eyes. “It is good to see you, milady. Is your husband with you?”

  Marge smiled and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Please tell me: are my parents here?”

  “Yes, yes. They are just reading before th
e fire with a couple of your sisters.”

  Marge thanked the Lord, and then thanked Mary Anne, before barging into the mansion and hurrying toward the library that she knew they were in. She heard Mary Anne call after her, but Marge didn’t slow. This would have to be done quickly.

  When Marge entered the library, her eyes welled as nostalgia and longing clutched her heart. She had spent so much time in that room, often with her mother and her sisters. She was going to miss them.

  “Marge?” her mother said, abruptly standing up from her seat by the fireplace and dropping her book.

  Her father and her sisters also lowered their books, their faces full of shock and warmth.

  Marge gave them all a watery smile. Before she knew it, she was running further into the room until her arms were encircled around her mother’s.

  Her mother hugged her back. “My, this is a surprise! It is so late. Is the duke with you?”

  Marge shut her eyes tight. She remained quiet and hugged her mother hard. She made mental notes of how her mother felt and smelled—wanting to commit this moment to memory.

  “Margie?” her mother said softly. “What’s wrong, dear?”

  Marge’s lungs constricted, but she tried to take a deep breath anyway. Then, with great reluctance, she pulled out of her mother’s arms and told her family the whole story.

  As expected, her parents were infuriated.

  “You have become a fallen woman?!” her mother snarled, disgust weighted in her expression. She quickly moved away from Marge, as if just being near her daughter was an act of sin. “You?! My Margie? How humiliating!”

  “We married you to the best man in the city,” her father said, his voice quiet but his tone venomous. He was clawing his nails into his book as he glared at Marge. “And this is how you repay us? You shame us?”

  Her sisters were whispering amongst themselves, having huddled together on the couch across from Marge. When Marge glanced at them, she saw that most of them were glaring at her. Her youngest sister though, Beth, was giving her an encouraging smile.