Bearly a Lady

by Cassandra Khaw

  To my embarrassment, I moan. He chuckles, moving his free arm around me, pulling me forward. I comply eagerly, legs spreading so I can properly straddle him.

  “You should take it off.” He hooks a finger around the top of my corset.

  “No! I’m doing no such thing!”

  Benedict raises his metallic eyes. This close, I can see the striations in the crystalline irises, the dusting of creamy blue ringing the pupils. He grins and my breath gets that much shorter.

  “Why not? We both know that you’re unbearably turned on right now.”

  “That’s not the point—”

  “Isn’t it? What, pray tell, is the point, then?”

  “This is my living room and Zora’s—”

  “Zora’s unlikely to come out here, if she hears your screams of pleasure.” He drags his hand up, moving from clavicle to chin, to cup my jaw in his palm. Then, he slides a thumb across my lip, teasingly, as though daring me to bite. “Women these days are all so abominably thin, you know? Twigs and willow wood. No meat to them. Nothing with heft. You, though. Oberon, I’ve missed women like you.”

  Benedict lowers his mouth to the swell of my left breast, grazing the skin with a warm, feathery breath. I don’t think I’ve ever needed anyone like this before.

  “Do you like me touching you, Zelda?” His breath is hot on my skin, his voice a murmur.

  “Yes…”

  “Do you like having me between your legs?” At this, he juts his hips upwards, and I moan again in reply. “Would you like me to do more than that, Zelda? Would you like me to kiss you? To put your tit in my mouth? To fuck you against this couch?”

  “What?”

  I look up, surprised, still full of needing, a hollowed space starved for the communion of his cock. Benedict bares a feline grin, every inch the debonair bastard.

  “I said: do you want me to fuck you against the couch?”

  My libido begins to wither. “I heard you the first time. I—I can’t believe you just said that to me, though.”

  He pulls away, a little bit vexed. “Why not?”

  “Because you just glamoured a total stranger? You jackass?!”

  “And what’s wrong with that? Are you saying you’ve never had sex on a first date?”

  “This isn’t even a first date.”

  I extricate myself from his lap, frowning. The delirium of lust continues ebbing away, leaving me feeling somewhat vulnerable.

  “So?”

  I gnaw ferociously on a lip, scowling. “So, you’ve no right.”

  “As you wish.” Benedict’s gaze trails to Zora’s door, his smile fading to something malignant. “The important thing here is that I hope the tick heard.”

  That stops me cold. “What?”

  “I was talking about Zora, obviously.” He flicks his attention back to me, bored. “I want her to know exactly what I think of her peace of mind.”

  “I-I know, but. I—what exactly did you call her?”

  “A tick.”

  “How could you—”

  “Because the ticks,” he spits the word like a snapped-off tooth, “are a corruption of their former self. Once, their predecessors were Fae. Bloodthirsty Redcaps, but Fae, nonetheless. However, they took it onto themselves to make a new dominion on earth, unfettered by our laws, unguided by our customs. They bled mortals, bled for mortals and then mingled their bloods until the ticks emerged, cold-eyed, dead, thin-blooded—”

  I slap him. The force of the impact sends his head ricocheting to the side, pale blood geysering from his mouth. He straightens a moment later, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth.

  “Ow.”

  I stare at his fingers. His blood is almost translucent. It shimmers in the light like a dollop of cream from an expensive make-up brand.

  “You didn’t have to hit me.” He says, reproachful, no longer the regal lord, but a petulant kid, stinging from his reprimand.

  I ruck my mouth. “You didn’t have to be a racist fuck.”

  Speciesist, I guess, but whatever.

  Benedict flashes a rueful smile, as he reaches into his mouth and extracts a bloodied molar. I wince. That wasn’t a very good idea, was it? Sixteen hours into my new role, and I’d already caused Benedict more damage than the whole of London. Great job, Zelda. Francesca’s definitely giving you a promotion now.

  “Do you—”

  “No.” He rolls onto his feet, an easy motion, and frees the handkerchief from his pocket. Delicately, Benedict then folds the cloth over the tooth, before wedging into a different pocket. “You’ve helped enough.”

  I don’t quite know what to say, so I sit there, a frown pinching my brows. Luckily, Benedict isn’t remotely interested in conversation. He dabs at his mouth with the edge of a sleeve, smooths down his blazer, and then begins walking away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To sleep off this tooth ache, obviously. The Fae heal quickly, but not that quickly.”

  “W-where?”

  Benedict sighs gustily, full of disdain and a mild, distracted repulsion. If I hadn’t just experienced it, I’d have never guessed he felt any desire for me at all. “Your guest bedroom, which I doubt you have. And since you don’t have it, I’m taking your bed.”

  I work my mouth, but no sound emerges. Finally, my voice seeps through, and it’s an undignified whine. “Where am I supposed to sleep?”

  “The couch, maybe. Or a box. Frankly, I don’t give a damn, my dear.”

  “Wait, did you just quote Clark—”

  The door to my bedroom slams shut, leaving me to consider the silence. Wait. No. Scratch that. Before I can even let out a sigh, a thumping, jagged bass begins seeping from under Zora’s door, getting louder and louder, until it rattles the living area like a Metallica concert.

  Great.

  Chapter Five

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

  I do a little pirouette, turquoise fabric flaring around my thighs. The drape of it is perfect. It cinches just below my breasts, a twist of gold rope drawing attention to the arc of my hip. An asymmetric cut to the skirt bares just enough thigh to be eye-pleasing, but not salacious. Janine was right; first dress that she picked and it’s gorgeous. This is the Batman of dresses, the dress that Zelda McCartney deserves.

  “It’d look fabulous, if we got you those gladiator heels and some gold—”

  “Wouldn’t that be somewhat clichéd, though?” I stare at myself in the mirror, fingers closing over my throat. “I don’t know if I want Jake to think that I’m trying to cosplay.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Janine tuts, dissatisfied, as she arranges my hair to cascade along the swoop of a shoulder. This close, I can smell her, white lotus and tea, a subtle sweetness. “We could just go with normal heels instead. Or, maybe, boots. If you want to change up the look.”

  “Maybe.” Her fingers graze my neck. The effect is instantaneous, electric. My breath hitches and my skin warms. I tense as Janine brings up her heavy-lashed gaze up to my mine. We lock eyes, and she jerks back with a tiny eep, hands fisting at her ribs. Her smile is shy, and for a moment, I think about scooping her into my arms, and—

  Back up, Zelda.

  Friends do not smooch friends.

  I think.

  More importantly, friends can’t smooch friends. Especially when they’ve silently and mutually agreed on platonic distance, and one party’s supposed to be smitten with a werewolf.

  “So, how did you find out about this place?”

  I jolt out of my contemplations, too surprised to say anything at first. “Hzwah—I—what—the who now?”

  A giggle, quiet. “How did you find out about this place? It’s beautiful.”

  “Oh! It’s run by a cousin of mine.”

  “Really! Which side?”

 
“I don’t know, really,” I sag, relieved at the small talk, the last bastion of the beleaguered British person. Nothing like changing the subject to end an awkward tension. “She’s my cousin four times removed, according to mom.”

  I start babbling about everything I can: how the boutique’s personal favorite, the way the owner’s been on Timeout London twice already, the fact someone in the the Gothamist allegedly promised to write an article about her, but tragically failed to make that happen, dooming the proprietress to an inability to gain traction in American markets.

  Exclusively tailored for plus-sized women, the shop’s also got a secret: it’s made by shapeshifters for shapeshifters. Technically speaking, at least. Sasha Santiago’s blood is so thin, she barely grows a mustache during that time of the month. Nonetheless, thanks to the close-knit nature of our family, she’s well aware of the modern werecreature’s tribulations, and how best to capitalize on it.

  In other words, she’s a cold, ruthless, profit-hungry merchant of pretty things who’d rather eat a porcupine whole than give out family discounts. (I’m not bitter, I swear.)

  “So, are you going to buy the dress then? I think you should.” Janine beams, looping a coil of dark hair around a finger.

  “I don’t know. Depends on how much it costs—” I mutter, peering about the dress for a price tag. Janine finds it first, a tug on my back revealing that it’d been hiding beyond reach.

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Let’s see—” Squeak. That can’t be good. When she speaks again, her voice is, quite worryingly, an octave above what it usually is. “A bit.”

  That definitely can’t be good. “How much is a bit?”

  “A bit,” she repeats, a flicker of hysteria trapped in the words. “Just. A bit.”

  “Like, ‘a month’s salary’ levels of ‘bit,’ then?”

  “Something like that.”

  She circles back to my front, an encouraging half-smile on her lips, hope in her eyes. “You could call this an investment in your future!”

  “I suppose—”

  “It’d be something you can wear, again and again. For birthdays, weddings, special occasions—”

  “Because I wouldn’t have money to buy anything else?”

  “Yes. That. God. I’m not making it any better, am I?” Janine groans, clapping her hands over her face, shoulders quivering with laughter.

  “You tried.” I pat her on back. Lightly. And platonically. Absolutely no unresolved feels there. Nope, none whatsoever. “And that’s why you matter!”

  “I have an idea!” She says this so quickly, so loudly, that I skitter back, almost yipping in terror. “I—sorry—it’s a good idea. A great idea. Does she have a return policy? If so, you could, I don’t know, buy it for a night and then—”

  “I heard that.”

  We turn to find the proprietress swanning up to us, a valkyrie in varuna. Sasha Santiago is larger than life, larger than fact, with a face to launch a thousand armies, and a figure to inspire entire artistic renaissances. As always, she has her black cigarette holder pinned between her elegantly manicured fingertips. It’s technically illegal to smoke indoors in Britain, but that has never stopped women like her.

  Or Francesca.

  “Zelda,” She breathes out a ribbon of smoke.

  “Sasha.”

  “So, I understand that you’re planning to borrow this dress for a night then? And then return it under ‘illicit circumstances?’” For reasons no one has been able to decipher, Sasha’s the owner of a remarkably thick French accent. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be so weird. Paris is only a couple of hours from London, after all. People move, even if their accents stay behind.

  But here’s the thing: Sasha’s not French. She’s not even English. She’s American. In fact, she lived in Wisconsin up till her divorce about five years back. Yet here she is, jabbering like she spent a lifetime suntanning on Parisian balconies. Zora suspects it’s an image thing. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  “No. Of course not. Who do you think I am? I am definitely maybe considering keeping it permanently.”

  Janine throttles a laugh behind her hand, before retreating behind a rack of last season’s discards.

  “Zelda.”

  “Sasha?”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Sasha walks a critical look down my body, expression shading from disapproval to grudging admiration. “You do look fabulous in that dress, though, darling.”

  “I, um—”

  “And I suppose I understand wanting to impress that little morsel over there.” A sideway glance, Sasha’s smile going absolutely wicked.

  I blanch. “We’re not dating.”

  “Not yet. But soon, with the help of my dress, you will–”

  “No. Nono. Nonononono. Not in a million years. We’re just friends, and she’s just here helping me to shop.”

  The words fade as I peer over Sasha’s shoulder, and see Janine staring at me, mouth pinned into a hard line. She heard me. Oh, god. She heard me. I’m going to have to make up for this. For now, though, I squeeze nails into my palms and hold my smile, aware that Sasha’s favor is rare and precious. I’ll figure out things with Janine later. I will.

  “If you’re not going to go out with her, who on earth are you—ooh. La. La.” Sasha raps a fingertip against my iPhone as I pull out a picture of Jake, thoughtfully delivered to my inbox earlier today. I hate to sound like a braggart, but it’s an excellent selfie, if you know what I mean.

  “Mm.”

  I bob my head, lower lip between my teeth. Mm is the only appropriate noise here. But the magic of Jake’s sculpted abs is short-lived, fizzling out under a surge of worry. I shouldn’t be putting things off with Janine. I need to talk to her now. I—

  “Lucky girl. How long have you been together?”

  “How long—no. Oh, no. We’re—this is just our first date.”

  Sasha nods and cups her chin with a lean hand, eyes glittering. After a long string of seconds, she announces: “Fine. You can borrow the dress. But on one condition. You give him my number when it doesn’t work out. He looks like the kind of man who can use an older woman’s firm, knowing touch.”

  What do you even say to something like that?

  “I—” Another flick of a glance at Janine. “Fine. Anything you want.”

  “Good. Now, shoo. I’ve to figure out my own outfit.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Really sure?”

  “I’m—” An exasperated noise. “Okay, I might have been slightly insulted by what you said, but only slightly. You were clearly attempting to negotiate an agreement with that woman. It’s fine.”

  “Janine—”

  “I suppose you didn’t have to look so sincere about it.”

  “I—”

  “It’s fine. Really. Just buy me a pint the next time we’re out.”

  “Are you two going to fuck already?”

  We both turn in unison, glare down the aisle at the bum that’s propped up against the window. Taking the bus was a mistake. A terrible one. The man leers. To be fair, I’m not one hundred percent sure if he’s actually a bum. (Homeless people in London are actually quite nice, and often astonishingly well-kept.) Could be an uncouth backpacker, fresh from a holiday in the Pacific, and still drunk on the idea of white supremacy. Or, maybe, someone with a questionable idea of hygiene.

  “Would you mind?” I snap.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Zelda, don’t engage—”

  The arse roars a laugh, startling a baby in the next row. The infant hiccups once, twice, a look of surprise etched in the lines of its doughy face, before finally detonating into tears. The mother shoots us a venomous stare, as does the rest of the b
us. I glare at the man in the corner, mouthing: look at what you’ve done. He only brays again.

  I breathe in. Calm. I am above all of this. I am a werebear. I am a goddess. I am a woman, large and in charge, a captain who is in control of her ship. This is nothing. I am above this. I am above slinging petty insults, and arguing with men who would fetishize a perfectly healthy relationship between two women.

  “You’re a dick.” I growl.

  He just laughs harder.

  I grit my teeth and try not to think about the fact I can fit his head into my mouth.

  “Honestly, it’s fine.” In the commotion, Janine somehow found her composure, and she wears it like a shield now. She touches a hand to my arm, features strained. The message is clear: I don’t want to deal with this.

  Feeling helpless, I only smile, hands spasming into fists at my lap, my nerves too frayed for conversation. There is nothing to be done. As the infant’s screaming escalates, I hunker down, mind whirring with solutions for a problem I shouldn’t have caused.

  “So, this is me.” Janine jabs a thumb at the stoop, smile awkward. London settles around us like a scarf. The world is quieting, calming, drawing into itself, into the old Victorian houses crammed with too many roommates. The street lamps pick out the gold in Janine’s hair, limn her jaw in light. She smiles and my heart forgets a beat.

  “Um.” I push my tongue against the roof of my mouth, breathe in. “It isn’t very late yet, and I was wondering—”

  “Yes?”

  “I was—I was wondering if you still like Scrabble.”

  A corner of her mouth lifts. “Sorry?”

  “I mean, we could get a pint if you’d prefer. But I figured it might be nice to, I don’t know, hang out in your apartment, get something from Deliveroo, and maybe play a game or three. We haven’t done that in a while.”

  Not since we were navigating the murky waters of should-we-shouldn’t-we, and thinking about being more than just friends. But I don’t say that. Instead, I just smile around my nervousness. London might be a cosmopolitan city, but it’s absolutely bollocks at teaching you how to deal with social anxiety.