by Michele Hauf
Kir met his principal’s hopeful gaze. His leader was pleased to have scored such a propitious arrangement for the pack. Indeed, it was a valued prize—but a marriage?
“Sunday,” Etienne said. “You will be ready for a day of ceremony and pomp.”
“Of course.” Likely the entire pack would have to don suits and pin on tiny flowers or whatever it was wedding parties were required to wear. He could deal with that.
“You’re taking this rather well. Good man, Kirnan. Good man.”
“Whatever details you need me to arrange, I’ll see to them. I assume that’s what you intended when you said I drew that short stick?” He smiled, but his leader only matched it with a shake of his head. And an imploring lift of brow. “Wait.”
The more he thought about it... If he had drawn the short stick...
Kir’s heart stopped beating for a full three seconds. He swallowed, flexed his fingers at his sides and then croaked out, “You mean me?”
Etienne nodded. “We went down the chain of command. I, of course, am happily married to my beloved Estella. Eighty years and counting. And my son and the pack scion, Jacques, as you know, is engaged to sweet Marielle. So the task falls to the third in command.”
Kir spoke before thinking. “Oh, hell no.” Now that he understood he was the unlucky sap, he smacked a fist into a palm and paced before Etienne’s desk.
“It must be done, Kir. You are young. You have no current romantic entanglements.”
Not for lack of want. A guy didn’t need to be in love to have a good time.
“You are an excellent offering.”
“An offering?” Kir winced at the word. It sounded so...sacrificial. A burn of bile stirred in his throat.
“I shouldn’t have put it that way,” Etienne added.
“I can’t marry a woman I don’t know. Principal Montfort, when I do marry I want to marry for love.”
“Are there any females in the pack whom you desire?”
“No, I—” Kir shoved his fingers roughly through his hair. “As you’ve said, I’m young yet. Twenty-eight years is but a pup in a werewolf’s lifetime. I have never given thought to marriage. Well, hell, yes, I have. I do want family and a happily-ever-after. But I want to date freely until I’ve met the one.”
“The one.” Etienne smirked. “Estella and I were an arranged marriage. Do not rule out the possibility of an interesting match, Kirnan.”
“Interesting?” The word felt vile on his tongue. Interesting was not love. “You and your wife are an amazing couple, Principal Montfort. But I’m not like you. Not patient or, apparently, so accepting.”
And, hell, his dad had screwed up his marriage; what made Kir think he could manage a loving family without an eventual nasty divorce? And abandoning the children to scar them forever?
“I’ve my work with the enforcement team that keeps me busy,” Kir tried. “I don’t have time to dote on a wife and...do the things a husband needs to do.”
Like what, exactly? He didn’t know. And he didn’t want to know! Not...this way.
“Isn’t there another wolf in the pack with equal standing?”
Etienne shook his head. “It would shame Valoir were we to offer a male who had not an esteemed rank. You are the highest ranked wolf who is available. Please, Kir, I’m asking you to do this as a favor. I’m not commanding you.”
Pacing before the window, Kir’s brain zoomed from standing at a dais and getting a first look at a woman he must vow to shelter and love forever to running away from the pack, becoming a lone wolf, free—yet forever ostracized and alone. Like his father.
He didn’t want to repeat the sins of his father.
“She will be one of the Unseelie king’s daughters,” Etienne added with a hopeful lilt.
One of them? How many daughters had he that the man could deal one out as a seal to the many bargains he may make?
“Our breed gets along well with the sidhe,” Etienne tried. “Er, regarding when it comes to mating. And faeries are very often quite lovely. I don’t think you should worry about how she looks. And I have heard that wings can be quite—”
Kir put up a hand to silence his principal. He needed to think about this. Sunday was two days away. He was captain of the enforcement team, alongside Jacques, who was the lieutenant. His job required he police the wolf packs in Paris, and it kept him busy much as a nine-to-five job would.
He didn’t need a wife. He wouldn’t know what to do with a wife. If his own family’s history was any example—well, that was it; his family was no example of how to live and love in a happy, healthy relationship.
Kir wasn’t prepared to welcome a woman into his home. Nor did he want to stop looking at other women. He didn’t want to stop having sex with other women. What must that be like to sleep with only one woman? For the rest of his life? And to be castigated by a wife for looking at another woman?
Heart pounding, he caught his palm against his chest.
“So it’s agreed, then,” Etienne finally said. “The ceremony is scheduled to begin at twilight. I’ll have my wife arrange all the necessary suits and whatever else is needed. All that wedding frippery, you know. You’re a good man, Kirnan. Thanks for doing this for pack Valoir. I’ve got to rush out now.”
Etienne walked Kir to the door and down the hall to the front door of the nondescript concrete building the pack used as a headquarters. The principal flagged down his driver, who waited at the curb, and, with a wave, was off, leaving Kir standing on the sidewalk, hands hanging at his sides and jaw dropped open.
Married in two days? To a woman he’d never met.
Kir felt like the last one standing on the gym floor after all the rest had been chosen for sides. And he was the odd man out, not needed for either team, both of which stood on the sidelines laughing and pointing at him.
And, to make matters worse, he had no one to confide in, no one to ask for guidance. His father he had not seen for a decade. His younger sister, Blyss—it had been years since she had been estranged from the pack. They spoke on the phone because she summered in the United States with her new husband. But she wouldn’t be interested in his dilemma. She had just given birth to a new baby and was busy with life and marriage.
That left his mother, Madeline, whom he tolerated and begrudgingly respected at best.
“Married?” he muttered.
The clenching in his chest seized up his breath and he gripped his throat.
Chapter 2
The forest shivered with a warm midsummer breeze that seemed to sing in a language Kir recognized but could not interpret. It was a joyous sound, which helped to settle his crazy nerves. Overhead, thousands of tiny lights darted within the tree canopy. Faeries. Kir was surrounded by his pack and all sorts of sidhe. Jacques stood at his right side, shrugging his shoulders within the tight fit of the rental suit. The scion’s attention also wandered high to follow the flickering lights.
The woods had glowed from afar as pack Valoir had arrived en masse. A stage set for a performance, waiting for him, one of the main players. Faeries had clasped Kir’s hand and bowed to him, greeting, acknowledging, surmising. He’d not been introduced to the Unseelie king and wasn’t sure the man was even here. Etienne had briefly introduced Kir to Brit, the harpie who had brought the deal to the table. She’d been stunning in a silver sheath that had revealed more than it hid.
But it had all been a whirlwind since he’d arrived. Dozens of strange and interesting faces, elaborate and glamorous clothing and costume, delicious peach wine and tiny cakes that tasted either sweet or savory but was always too small to satisfy his fierce appetite. And the greetings and silent perusals. He hadn’t had time to think in the few hours that had passed since his arrival.
Or to escape.
And now he stood, knees locked and fingers flexing nervously at his sides. The suit was tight across his shoulders and it was hot. He wanted to scratch at the starched shirt collar but wasn’t sure his fingers could perform the move
because they felt so far away and detached from his body.
Kir couldn’t concentrate on the words the officiant spoke because beside him stood her. The woman soon to be named his wife. And after that they would dance and drink, and, well, he’d heard there was a honeymoon cabin erected not far from here.
Something sweet, like flowers or fruit, or maybe even sugared fruit topped with flowers, tickled his nostrils. The petite woman who stood beside him, the crown of her head below his shoulders, smelled like dessert.
He did like dessert.
He didn’t want to like her. Because that would mean he was cool with this stupid agreement. One that stuck him with a woman he didn’t know or want.
For the rest of his life.
Werewolves could live three centuries or more. That was a hell of a long time to spend with one woman. Especially a woman he had not chosen.
He wanted to look down—the top of her head was capped with flowers and fluttery butterflies that seemed to hold the veil in place—but he dared not make the blatant once-over with the audience behind him. He’d remain stoic and say all the right things. His pack was watching. He was doing this for them. They had better appreciate his sacrifice.
The ceremony officiant rambled on about loving the other until death did part them and enduring magic most vile and exquisite through eternity.
Vile magic? What the...?
Kir closed his eyes. His heart did a weird dive and then free-fell within his rib cage. It didn’t land with a splat, though, because something distracted his imaginary death-dive. She smelled really good. His mouth actually watered, and he cursed inwardly for not having eaten all day. Too nervous.
There would be food later. And drink.
There was not enough whiskey in this realm to get him to the point where he could accept this situation.
Behind him, he felt the gentle sweep of wings as the woman beside him shifted on her feet. As she’d walked down the aisle, she had worn a long sheer pink veil over her head that fell over her body and to her bare feet. Her feet were decorated with bright arabesque violet designs, like some kind of mehndi artwork. Her wings were unfurled to display gorgeous violet and red gossamer with darker shading in the veins. Her hair was dark. He could see that much beneath the veil. But he could not determine if she was pretty.
They’d wrapped her up as if she were a gift, and he didn’t like it.
Suddenly feeling as though he was forgetting something important, Kir lifted his chin and focused as the officiant announced the twosome had been joined in matrimony by the authority of the Unseelie court. And later they must seal that promise by bonding.
What a way to start a marriage.
When he had, at the last minute, thought he’d need to buy a ring for his new bride, the liaison harpie, who had arrived early to ensure the details had been handled properly, stated rings were an offense. Mortal metals must never be worn by the sidhe. All that was required was that the two bond as Faery decreed.
A ring would have been so much easier.
“Join hands,” the officiant announced. “And bind yourselves to one another.”
What? Right here? The bonding? Kir looked over his shoulder and caught Etienne’s eye. The elder wolf nodded. And beside him stood his mother, Madeline, with a tear in her eye.
Oh, this was not cool. He couldn’t—
His new wife lifted her hand beneath the pink veil and Kir took it, deciding it was fragile and felt too light. He might break her bones if he squeezed. Awful thought to have. He would never harm a woman. But he felt as if she were something that must be protected and watched over.
He didn’t have time for watching over a tiny faery. She had better be able to care for herself.
Her head did not tilt up to look at him. He breathed in through his nose and exhaled in preparation. If they had to bond before an audience—and his mother.
Pushing aside the veil, the officiant wrapped a red silk band about their joined hands, draping the ends over their wrists. As he recited some words that Kir assumed were in the sidhe language, he traced an elaborate symbol in the air above their hands.
Behind them, the audience of sidhe began to...hum. It was a beautiful, wordless melody that twinkled in the air and stirred the leaves. Animals scampered nearby in the forest and Kir felt the hairs on his body prickle with vital awareness. Connection to nature. Elation expanding his lungs, he noticed a design began to show on the top of his and his new wife’s hands. A gorgeous, delicate tracing that wound in and out and curled and arabesqued like something etched upon a Moorish ruin. Or perhaps it was similar to the designs on her feet and ankles. It didn’t hurt and, in fact, felt as if a piece of ice was being traced under his skin. The tracing crept over the side of her hand and Kir felt the design spread across his skin.
“Bonded,” the officiant announced.
With applause from the sidhe court, the design on their hands suddenly glowed brightly, then faded to the pale etching. But seriously? That was the bonding? Whew! Kir could not be more thankful that Faery’s means to bonding was different than his breed, which meant having sex.
His new wife dropped her hand and then her attendant pulled the veil away from her head. Slowly, the pink fabric glittered under the glow from the faeries overhead, and her dark hair, woven through with tiny blue flowers, was revealed. She looked up at him with a small smile. It was forced.
Not so pleased about this marriage, either, he guessed. Poor woman.
Poor, gorgeous woman. As a consolation he had gotten a pretty one. And yet, what color were her eyes? Pink?
When the officiant said they should kiss, the audience clapped and cheered. Kir felt a blush ride his neck, and that disturbed him. Performing for an audience? Yikes. And, yet, the kiss was a standard wedding tradition.
With a smirk, his wife reached up and bracketed his head with her hands, boldly bringing him down to her level. And then...
She kissed him. It was soft and tentative at first but quickly warmed and grew bold. Her lips were soft and pliant. Sweet to taste, as sweet as her scent. And quietly stunning. She knew how to kiss, and parts of him stood up and took notice. He could kiss her all day. If he hadn’t an audience.
So there was a bright moment to this horrible day.
And when she opened her eyes, he saw that, indeed, they were not the usual sidhe violet but instead pink. Which indicated she was a half-breed.
Kir’s heart suddenly did drop to his gut. What the hell had he married?
* * *
Following the vows, and that unexpectedly delicious kiss, Bea had danced the expected dance with her husband. It was an ancient sidhe dance that required barely holding hands and walking down an aisle of fellow revelers. It involved bows and hops and all that ceremonial nonsense that her elders so adored.
Her new husband’s name, which she had only learned during the ceremony, was Kirnan Sauveterre. And his hand, when it had finally touched hers, had felt warm but shaky. Nervous? Surprising, coming from a big, bold wolf such as he. The man had filled the air beside her with a reluctant confidence. Yet she sensed he was a force when not out of his element, such as they both were now.
After their kiss, he’d barely spared her more than a few glances. And during the dance his eyes strayed everywhere but onto her. Was she so hideous to look upon?
After the dance, Bea excused herself to find something to drink. Her husband had let her go without a word, turning away to quickly find and chat with one of his pack mates.
Perhaps he was as freaked by the whole event as she was. She guessed that, because he’d stood stick straight amid a swarm of congratulating friends, his eyes unfocused as he nodded mechanically. And she suspected that tiny smile was more a what-the-hell-have-I-done? smile than of genuine nuptial bliss.
Pity. The wolf was sexy. Tall, too. She liked them big, tall and strong. And now that he’d relaxed a bit, he radiated a stoic command. The dark brown beard wasn’t her favorite, but he kept it neatly trimmed, and the must
ache, as well. She’d have sex with him if she had to.
And she did have to.
“For the rest of my freakin’ life,” she muttered, and grabbed a wooden goblet of mead from a passing waiter’s tray.
Downing the sweet amber liquor in one shot, Bea winced at the honey bite. The bees that had made that batch must have gotten into a patch of thistleberry. Always gave the drink a tang. Then she grabbed another to have something to hold in her hand while she wandered among the well-wishers and those who had imbibed far more mead than she had.
“Let the drunken debauchery begin,” she declared to no one but herself. “Might as well celebrate the end of my life with a good ol’ rainbow yawn in the morning. Not like I expected something better in life, eh?”
Princess though she was, growing up in Malrick’s household had been a lesson in endurance. Bea had never strived for more than survival among her dozens of sidhe siblings; the majority of them were full-blooded faery. She, being a half-breed of dubious heritage, had received the brunt of Malrick’s disdain.
So to stand now amid the revelers and receive their congratulatory handclasps only increased the nervous roil in her belly. It was a show they put on, a product of much mead and the desire to please their king. They cared little about her.
As did her father, who was, not surprisingly, absent this evening.
The hum of voices and laughter receded from her thoughts. Bea understood the French language with ease. The sidhe could assimilate any mortal realm language merely by listening to it. Fortunately, France had always interested her. If she were to visit any place in this realm, she was glad she’d landed in this country.
Wandering to the edge of the merriment, she found and followed the flower-petal-laden path that twisted through the dark forest depths until the laughter and conversations grew to but a murmur. A trio of sprites danced in the air before her, sprinkling the path with their violet dust. Beyond an arch of fern fronds, she followed the sprites to the nuptial cottage, which had been erected for their wedding-night bonding. The walls were formed from plane trees growing high, and their branches curved 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.