Highest Bidder

Moonlight

“My sister speaks the truth,” the timbre of Melbourne’s voice sent goosebumps down Alyssa’s spine, despite being startled by his unexpected presence.

She could not deny that she found his rugged handsomeness intriguing, maybe because he looked different from elven men. But the thought of his heritage still scared her. She liked how werewolves did not hide their thoughts as much as her people did—the lycans were easier to read and more honest with themselves.

Their emotions ran close to the surface without lacking control. If one of these two attacked someone, it would be a choice, not a reaction. People harbored many misconceptions about elves, but elves had as many false impressions about others.

“Are you tired, Princess Alyssa Faeryn, or would you take a walk with me on this beautiful moonlit evening?” He offered as he reached her chair and held out his arm to her.

“Do you two require a chaperone, or do you suppose you can refrain from ripping each other’s clothes off the moment you are out of sight? It would be rather unfortunate if you ruined all our futures,” Eagene mocked with a yawn.

“Do not worry; I suspect we will be escorted quite unobtrusively. Elves have heard many tall tales of werewolves, and I suppose they won’t be taking any chances with the good name of this house,” Alyssa derided and wondered why she was so comfortable in their presence as she took his arm. An elven man would take offense at her slur to his character, while the werewolves clearly saw it as a compliment.

“They have no idea, and if you were not my wife to be, I might have taken a chance with you... but it seems much rests upon our shoulders.” His humor faded away at some fleeting thought she could not gauge.

When he started walking, she naturally fell into step with him. She had seen the way other ladies glanced at him when they assumed their menfolk were not looking. Apart from her father, he was by far the most handsome man at the ball—despite being so different. His manly allure made some of the younger elven men seem almost effeminate.

Women were attracted to him like a moth to a flame, and he had a gift for handling them. A charm he switched on or off at will, and his sister had the same skill. Men trusted him, women fawned over him, but a hard edge hid under the veneer. He was a general who fought in a war, who ordered men to fight and die, and it left shadows in his eyes.

The air outside was much more chill than she expected, but before she even asked for a wrap, a servant appeared by her side, giving credence to her earlier claims. He raised a mocking brow at her.

“I was just about to offer you my coat. Do you imagine it is me they do not trust or you?” He teased.

She sent the servant away and accepted the offering of his coat before once again taking his arm. The long jacket was still warm from his body, and his scent was an exciting mix of forest and man.

“Definitely you—I am a good girl,” she countered, and he chuckled.

She felt it down to her soul and never had a sound affected her in such a manner. Even when she first spotted Melbourne earlier in the evening when he arrived, something about him drew her eye. There was no denying that he was a man of power and influence. He wore authority like a second skin, but then that devilish smirk of his would dimple his cheek, and laughter would sparkle in his eyes. It left women transfixed, captivated, and completely in his t****l.

Men automatically competed with him but with a sense of respect. He just had a way with people, which was probably why he was such a successful leader of men and a merchant.

People listened to him. He had a gift for convincing and swaying an audience while there was an earnest quality underneath it—an undeniable honesty. She did not have to know him to realize his sister spoke the truth. Melbourne Carthagan was a man of his word, even if what he promised could only be delivered at his own detriment.

“When I am done with you, my future wife, you will be a naughty woman,” he promised near her ear, and the hair all over her body stood on end. The sharp, hot twinge in her lower abdomen unsettled her. How can such a simple thing steal the breath from her lungs? She wondered.

“Have you not heard that we elven women are ice queens in bed?” she teased right back and could not believe she was acting so improperly.

Having taken sword lessons with Baltazar in the practice room, she often overheard things the men said that gave her a far better understanding of the acts between men and women than her mother knew. She almost laughed when her mother carefully explained such things to her in broad euphemisms on her eighteenth birthday.

Her maid, Arabella—a fox shifter her parents discovered amid the c*****e of a robbed caravan when she was just two—waited until her mother left and explained s*x to Alyssa in brutal detail, but not in a way that scared her to death.

“It is better that you know the truth than end up getting hurt or put off for the rest of your life,” Arabella ended her “little talk.”

Alyssa was caught somewhere between horrified and amused for a few days. Although more such candid talks over the years, from a more mature Arabella, gave her a better understanding.

Her friend loved men, and men loved her, although she was discreet enough that Elliandre never learned of her endeavors. Despite her fondness for the young woman, the queen would not find Arabella a suitable companion for Alyssa if she discovered this.

“Darling, I shared my bed with quite a few of your kind, and that fiery/icy nature of yours can burn down a mountain,” he quietly assured her, and she unexpectedly had another heated twinge in her lower abdomen. She understood its origins. She had experienced it before when pondering the acts between men and women.

He looked right into her eyes, utterly unapologetic for having admitted that many women shared his bed, and she did not doubt that. Half the women at the banquet would disappear with him to his chambers if he asked. Even some of the married ones. She had no idea how to feel about this revelation. It was his way of telling her that he would not hide his past from her and would not apologize for the man he was.

“I belong to you now, and you belong to me. I will not step out of our marriage as long as you do not,” he said, and she had no idea why the reassuring promise sent a chill down her spine—almost like a premonition of evil.

“Are you cold?” he asked, and she shook her head. It was a lie, but he need not realize that her insides suddenly felt like ice.

They stared up at the waning moon, and she glanced at him.

“Waiting for me to turn into a werewolf and pounce?” he asked with a smirk.

“I do not have as much knowledge about werewolves as you apparently do about elves,” she admitted, a smirk pulling at her lips.

“The moon lost its sway over my kind eons ago. We are more powerful during the full moon, but only the cursed are beholden to its t****l. Witchcraft gave birth to the first of my kind, and witches still have the power to interfere with those who hunt in their territories and pay no heed to their warnings,” despite his smile, the serious undertone of his voice gave credence to his words.

“Would this be easier for you if I was an elf?” Melbourne asked when the silence between them stretched too long.

“Yes... no. Elf or wolf, in two weeks, I will marry a virtual stranger,” she admitted, hesitating, “They will tie our hands together with our people as witnesses and display us in the dining hall like trophies.”

She could not look at him, instead, she pretended to be interested in the night-blooming flowers in her mother’s garden.

“Then they will lead us up into the bridal chamber; no doubt plied with wine with a touch of some potion or the other to loosen our inhibitions. They will close the doors and allow the maids to undress us, giving us about twenty minutes before the elders enter the room to see if the deed has been done.” She leaned down and took in the sweet, intoxicating scent of an Elder Flower.

“If we are done, they will take the proof of my innocence and display it upon the altar. If we’re not quite done, they will remain and watch us until it is over.” Her slight cynicism made him glance at her, and although she sensed his eyes on her, she refused to look at him. It was far too easy to picture this man naked in her bed. Passion would awaken the wolf in his eyes as he took possession of her body and maybe even her soul. The thought took her by surprise.

“Are you well?” he asked, touching her cheek, and she almost shied away from him. The images in her head were still too vivid and shameful.

“ I am fine, but this has been a long night,” she lied, taking control of herself and looking at him with a bright, false smile.

He rubbed her cheek, and she almost turned her face into his hand like a puppy. She curbed the urge but could almost swear he divined her earlier thoughts. He was a wolf, she remembered. Her physical reaction probably altered her scent. The idea caused a shyness in her that she was unused to experiencing.

Someone coughed discreetly, and he reluctantly dropped his hand, that sexy smile pulling at his lips and turning her knees weak. She would not be able to hide her reactions from him as she would be able to do with an elven man. She found this realization disturbing.