Society rules required Camelia to use a sidesaddle and wear the proper attire while riding, but she would forego them whenever possible. Her sister Iris liked to tell her that she courted scandal for the sake of it. It wasn’t true. Camelia hated hypocrisy, but knew the price she would pay if caught disregarding the rules.
For over a year, she had been acting the part of the perfect daughter during the day, but she lived for the nights when she could escape to Constantine’s hacienda. Her stolen moments of bliss in his arms made everything else bearable.
Tonight, Camelia felt like howling at the moon in happiness.
She hadn’t been able to see him in over two weeks, because her father requested her presence every evening after supper, to entertain the elders visiting town. But Constantine had sent his thoughts to her, and had marked her as his fangs would, igniting her longing for his caresses until she thought she would go insane if she didn’t see him.
After several minutes of merry chase, Constantine caught up with Camelia. The stone cottage stood but a few meters away, and she jumped off Estrella, trying to reach its entrance before he did. They had been playing the chasing game since their first date, and she loved the rush of it. Amidst laughter, both his and hers, she tumbled on the ground, gasping for air, but she couldn’t expand her chest. The stiff baleen keeping her corset in place prevented her from taking a good gulp of air.
Constantine’s strong hands grabbed the edge of her outer gown, pushing the light wool aside. “I swear if you hadn’t come tonight, I’d have stormed your house and kidnapped you.” He made short work of her pelisse, then pulled her up, letting the coat fall to the grass. “If only the fastenings were all on the same side,” he muttered under his breath. Turning her around, he unbuttoned the back of the chaste gown her lady’s companion had chosen for her. “What excuse did you come up with, this time?”
“I snuck out.”
With a jerk attesting to his impatience, he turned her again to face him, lowered her puffy sleeves, pushed the front of her dress to her waist where it got stuck, then growled. “Could you have dispensed with the camisole at least?” His hands were at her corset, and he was about to tear the baleen out of the stiff cotton, but she pressed her hand on his.
“I got away with not wearing a petticoat, but I couldn’t leave my undergarment behind for my maid to find.” His fingers caressed the swell of her breasts pushing out from the corset and barely covered by the camisole underneath, making it difficult for her to think coherent thoughts. “My lady’s maid will ask questions if you break this one too.”
“You can barely breathe in this thing,” he said, looking in distaste at the offensive corset.
Her head swam, but her clothing was only partially responsible for her state.
“This must go.” He gave the whale bone a tug and managed to remove it without tearing the cotton canvas as he had done to five or six of her best corsets already. “Better?” he asked, loosening the leather ribbons and freeing her breasts that were now only covered by a batiste camisole.
Oxygen rushed in her lungs, but the dizziness didn’t abate. Instead, her whole body burned in anticipation.
At her weak nod, he grabbed the camisole underneath in his warm hands. His hazel eyes grew darker, and he seized the collar, but instead of tearing it apart, as she had expected, he stretched the batiste, flattening it over her chest. Cold air caressed her skin, and her eager body reacted, pressing against the sheer slip. He lowered his head and kissed one nipple from over the batiste, lavishing the spot with a stroke of his tongue. With a satisfied murmur, he repeated the treatment on her other nipple, then leaned away to admire his work.
Camelia followed his gaze and saw her soft mounds on display for him from beneath the fabric. Somehow, the sight was far more scandalous than having her bare skin exposed and ignited her senses, making her feel alive and powerful.
The cottage’s door was mere steps away, and from its windows, she could see the warm light of the logs crackling in the fireplace, but she burned already and couldn’t wait a moment longer. “Take me,” she commanded him, her hands on the fastening of his riding trousers.
“As my doña wishes,” he said, pushing her down to the dewy grass, and covering her with his large form. When his hands discovered her pants underneath the voluminous gown, he cursed, unfastened the leather belt keeping the garment firmly anchored to her waist, then pulled both pant legs down, passing his hand between her thighs.
She arched up, meeting his touch. “Constantine—” Camelia begged. She, who had never begged in her life, wasn’t ashamed to show how vulnerable she was in his hands.
“You are mine.” He nudged her legs open with his knees.
“Under the Moon, and with the Blessing of the Great Wolf. Always,” she recited, knowing in her heart she could never love another man the way she loved him.
“Under the Moon, and with the Blessing of the Great Wolf. Always,” he repeated, his voice hoarse as he united their bodies with a firm thrust.
They had recited their vows once already. The next time, their third time should fall under a full moon, the sacred words would seal their union forever. She hoped to have their families’ blessing by then.
Two long weeks had passed since last they had made love, and it showed in their frantic dance. Under the starry sky, they devoured each other’s mouth, biting, suckling, moaning, gasping, screaming their names. Moving at a pace that matched their desire, their hands roamed over skin and through clothing they didn’t have time to remove.
With his arms around her back, he pulled her up with him, and when she was straddling him, he locked eyes with hers and said, “I love you.”
“As I love you, my wolf,” she uttered before he sent her into a spiraling bliss that left her blind and deaf to the rest of the world.
****
Gasping, Camelia emerged from the memory with no recognition of her surroundings. Droplets of rain fell on her face like liquid caresses, and little by little, downtown Seattle, the Space Needle, and far away Mount Rainier’s dome rising above a white mantle came into view. While she was still regaining her senses, the light rain became a downpour and a cold wind lashed mercilessly at everything in sight. The deluge soaked through her bones before she had time to seek shelter. Somehow, that was what she needed.
With renewed clarity and senses sharpened by her ache, she pushed herself upright and called him.
Come back to me, Constantine. Come back to me, my love.
Chapter Four
In a rare occurrence for Seattle’s climate, which was usually rainy but mild, the gentle shower progressed into a full-blown storm with high winds.
Constantine loved to watch the rain from behind his loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows, but in this Christmas’s dawn everything had blown out of proportion. His feelings like the weather were in a tumultuous state, and he couldn’t reconcile with his longing for Camelia, growing in intensity even after having seen her in her husband’s arms.
He hated himself for being weak, but while jealousy gnawed at him, he still wanted her beneath him, whispering his name.
Come back to me, Constantine. Come back to me, my love.
He heard her, and she sounded real, as if she was the one calling him, and not a figment of his imagination. In fact, her command reminded him of all the times she had uttered similar requests. So often, one hundred and fifty years ago, when they couldn’t see each other, they had used his telepathic powers to communicate.
Yet he couldn’t trust himself.
How many times had he heard her voice since leaving Spain? Once a day at least, in the morning. With the exclusion of the last few days, when she hadn’t talked in his mind, he conversed with his imaginary Camelia over breakfast. He was used to their routine, and had scheduled his workdays around it.
****
Kitsap Peninsula, Washington Territory, Spring 1857
Eager to put as much distance as he could muster between Camelia and himself, soon a
fter his visit to Sierra Luna, Constantine left Spain. He and Durango—who both happened to suffer from seasickness—hopped on a brigantine bound to Great Britain. In Bristol, he bought a passage on the SS Great Britain and reached New York a month later. Thanks to favorable winds, the ocean liner maintained a speed of five knots and delivered its cargo safely into the city harbor. The indomitable stallion survived the transatlantic crossing only thanks to Constantine, who spent a king’s ransom to have him boarded in the suite next to his.
Still too close to Europe for his liking, Constantine headed south and joined a group of pioneers traveling west. Following the Missouri River, he rode for more than six months in a covered wagon led by Durango and a white mare he acquired in a spur of the moment. Still pining for Estrella, his horse hadn’t been impressed by his choice, but cooperated with his companion. Instead of stopping in one of the green valleys in Oregon Territory, Constantine discarded the wagon, gifted the white horse to a family in need, then continued north toward the wilderness and solitude of Washington Territory. His final destination was Alaska, since he had decided to forgo human company altogether, but winter snows forced him to make camp in Kitsap Peninsula.
On a solitary ridge overlooking the sea, only visited by the occasional animal that hadn’t entered hibernation yet, he built a cabin large enough to shelter him and Durango. The physical labor required to chop wood and put together the structure kept him busy for a few days. Afterwards, far away from the closest city and relative convenience stores, he learned how to hunt and fish, and how to use hide and bones to make clothes and accessories.
Winter lasted for a long time, but the temperatures started rising again at the beginning of April, and Constantine felt the itch to move further north. One morning, he woke naked and bruised, after having let his wolf run wild the whole night. Intent in the act of preparing coffee, he was roasting the black beans in a skillet over the orange glowing charcoal of the campfire, when Camelia spoke to him. In that disembodied quality that would become the trademark of their imaginary relationship, she whispered in his mind, I miss you.
Since he had left Spain, it had never happened before. When he had asked the warlock to erase his wolf’s memories of her, he knew his request would be the end of their telepathic conversations. He had mourned the end of an era, but it had been a necessary step to take toward regaining a life. Now she was back.
Miss you, he said. More than air. More than water. More than fire. More than earth. I miss you. He recited the verse of the Moon Goddess to her lover the Sun, and before his closed eyes he saw her, laying on the grass before him, inviting him with her pink lips to kiss her.
Come back and burn me. Come back and fill me with your brightness. Come back to me, my love, Camelia finished the ancient poem. Her voice was hoarse, and her eyes teary.
Not even in his imagination had he wanted to see her suffer. Don’t cry. Constantine didn’t move, but longed to join her. The meadow looked soft, and she looked even softer.
There’s no happiness without you. I’ll never love anyone like I love you. I’m yours forever, she said.
You left to marry another man. Anger possessed Constantine then. Go away. Stop haunting me. He opened his eyes and stared at the peaceful sight of the beach at the end of the field. The undertow from the morning tide carried pebbles and larger rocks up and down the water’s edge, creating a natural lullaby that dulled Constantine’s senses. A few minutes later, the pan he was still holding over the fire scalded his hand through his rough leather glove. The pain woke him from the haze, and he couldn’t help but laugh. He had put an ocean and several thousand kilometers of unforgiving land between them, but he would never be free.
Shifters mated for life. A Sacred Heart wolf mated for eternity.
That morning, he gathered more lumber from the nearby woods and added a room to his cabin. He never reached Alaska. There was no point in running away any further. Camelia’s memories would follow him everywhere. The sooner he accepted his reality the better for him, and the truth was, he wasn’t ready to give her up yet. Not even the imaginary Camelia he had concocted in his solitude.
****
This is madness, Constantine thought.
If he were honest with himself, he had left reason behind the moment he sensed her, and now that his heartbeats were counted, he couldn’t wait a minute longer to start his quest. Before he died, he wanted to see her one last time. Equipped with nothing more than his desperate longing, he took Durango, his bike, a custom-painted Harley-Davidson Breakout with a black stallion on its sides, and drove back to the Space Needle.
The stormy rains and the following early morning winds had washed Seattle thoroughly, covering the city with a shiny patina, but mostly erasing scents, which made Constantine’s hunt harder. From the Needle, he slowed his steel horse to a walking pace and followed the loop to the Chihuly Museum.
The crowd of paparazzi had dispersed hours ago, but their stampede across the lawn had littered the place. Pushing Durango closer to the museum’s garden fence, Constantine sought the spot where he had seen Camelia. He dismounted, walked to the low wall, grabbed the bars, then pressed his head against the cold metal.
At the sight of the empty corner under the glass sculpture, his heart missed a beat. He managed to remove the husband from his memory and saw Camelia alone.
She wore a long black cloak, hiding her body, and her movements were slow and purposeful, reminding him of a ballerina. When she tilted her chin up, a strand of blond hair escaped the hood, and she tucked it back in with thin hands. The crimson red nail polish on her manicured fingers painted a sharp note of color on her diaphanous skin. Her arched throat revealed the hollow spot Constantine liked to kiss, because it made her moan, only it was covered by a choker with a solitary pearls-and-diamonds flower on the side.
Constantine couldn’t go any further in his reminiscing without including the enormous werewolf with the black and silver mane, and so he stopped. The idea of the other man touching her enraged him beyond reason. Mostly, he couldn’t stomach to revisit the sweetness of their embrace, how trustingly she had reached up for her husband, how tenderly he touched her, attesting to his affection for her.
The train of thought led Constantine to a path of self-loathing and pain so deep it hurt worse than a physical wound.
****
Salamanca’s outskirts, Spain, Late Spring 1856
Constantine spurred Durango to a gallop. Camelia hadn’t come to their rendezvous the night before, and he acted as restless as his horse. Clearing obstacles wasn’t enough. He needed more to alleviate the tension driving him crazy since the missed meeting, but had the good sense not to put his stallion in danger.
The Del Rei’s white colonial villa came into sight as Constantine cleared a ridge.
Why didn’t you come yesterday? He sent her the question loud and clear. Fear that something had happened to her crawled up his spine and mixed with his anger.
Camelia didn’t answer.
The last time they had met, more than a week ago, her kisses had been lukewarm, as if she was thinking about something else. He hadn’t probed her mind for the answer—he never invaded her privacy—and she hadn’t provided an explanation when he asked what was troubling her. They didn’t make love, a first, and she left earlier than usual with a vague excuse. It still stung.
Constantine was in a despondent mood and steered Durango away from Camelia’s ancestral home, lest he do something he would regret, and headed toward his family’s manor. His clan had summoned him twice already, but he had ignored them. Rumors had reached his father and the alpha wanted a word with his errant son.
The De La Vegas owned a hacienda in Salamanca, on the opposite side of the hill from the Del Reis. Acres of land divided the two properties, and their confines were marked by a river that winded along the contour of the knoll.
In his mad dash through shrubs and copses, Constantine reached the bend in the stream where he had seen Camelia the first time, so ma
ny years ago. The chestnut tree stood tall and imposing, and in its shadow he caught a glimpse of blue fabric. As soon as the breeze changed course and caressed Constantine’s face, it also brought her scent to his nostrils.
What are you doing here? Why haven’t you answered my summoning?
Then a stranger’s scent mixed with hers. Constantine’s blood boiled in his veins and his sight was clouded by rage, when he recognized the second scent belonged to a man.
Camelia, answer me! Murderous thoughts formed in his mind, and he steered Durango toward the river.
Please, don’t come any closer, she said.
He heard her pleading tone, but jealousy blinded him. Why? What are you up to? Who are you with?
I am with one of the elders—
As she answered, another voice entered Constantine’s mind.
Son, stop dallying in the fields, and come home at once, his father ordered, his tone brooking no excuse.
Constantine swore at his own stupidity, but he knew better than to anger his father by delaying the inevitable. He had been caught unaware like a green cub. I’m on my way, he answered with the deference due to his father, and the alpha of his clan.
I must meet with my family. We’ll talk later, he said to Camelia instead, and after sparing a last glance at the chestnut tree, he spurred Durango to his family manor.
When he reached the white colonnade framing the ground floor of the large house, he realized something was afoot. His mother and his five sisters were waiting for him under the shade of the porch, keeping their white skin safely hidden from the sunrays.
He jumped off Durango in mid-trot and climbed the marble staircase. “Mother.” He took his petite mother’s hands in his and brought them to his lips. “Sisters.” He kissed his sisters’ cheeks. “What’s the occasion?”
Since he had taken the reins of the hacienda in Santa Marta, he rarely visited the family home anymore. He had always found the sect’s rules too stifling, but lately even more so.
An Immortal Christmas Page 4