Werewolf fairytales

He is coming to terms

*Fenrir*

I am also thinking that I might have understated my reaction to her suggestion.

“We could not dissolve the marriage on the grounds of non-consummation,” I say, keeping my voice even only with effort.

“Why not?”

“Because it would label the children as bastards.” Really, I feel I am behaving in a remarkably enlightened fashion. It is all very well for Shark to talk about a she-wolf’s right to dally with other men, but I am finding the whole concept quite difficult to come to terms with.

“Further, annulling the marriage would mean that I swore to being impotent,” I add. “And I’ve been impotent only once in my life.”

The moment Margaret lifted her veil in the church and I saw her for the first time, panic struck. At twenty years old, she was wildly sensual and far beyond reach for a boy like me. Her hair was golden and her lips were rose, and she looked like the princess every man dreams about. Worse, she was older than me. Unquestionably older.

I felt a paralyzing wave of embarrassment. Naturally, that was the beginning of the end. “You’re even more beautiful than when we married,” I say abruptly.

She frowns. “What has that to do with anything? We are in an untenable situation. Mr. Sharkton just promised to take Colin to sea. I would rather die than see my children follow in the footsteps of a bloodthirsty pirate.”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. She is adorable. Formidable, but adorable.

“Why are you smiling?” she asks in a threatening tone. “Do you find the idea of injury to my children amusing?”

“No!” I say quickly. “Not at all. Never.”

“Right.” She pauses, but I am happy to let her carry the conversation. “Why haven’t you seated yourself, my beta?”

“You called me Fenrir earlier.” With a silent groan, I drop myself into a chair. I miss the young body I had when we last saw each other, for all I had been skinny as a finger bone.

Sunshine is pouring through the window behind her. It slides over her hair like warm honey, making every strand glow as if lit from within. Still, the bright light also reveals small lines at the corners of her eyes.

Margaret has changed as well. There is something a bit sad about her now. Subdued. She hadn’t been subdued at our wedding; I would have remembered that.

“Fenrir it is, then,” she says, nodding sharply. “Let’s return to the question of our marriage.”

“I shall not be arrested,” I say, “so that won’t work as an excuse for divorce. I’ve received a full pardon from the Crown.”

She snorts. “My father used to say that everything has its price.”

“It is true that a ruby may have helped.” She is so delicate, perched on the edge of the chair. Her features are delicate, and her bones are delicate. . . . She looks like the ideal of an English she-wolf.

She also looks skeptical, so I add, “The stone was approximately the size of the Prince Regent’s big toe.”

“I suppose it was stolen from someone?”

“We had it off a pirate’s ship, so it likely was stolen from somewhere, yes. But not by us.”

Her back becomes even more rigid. “While I am relieved to learn that my husband is not in imminent danger of imprisonment, it doesn’t solve our current problem.”

“Right.” I sprawl out in my chair, trying to make it look as if I am comfortable, whereas in fact my leg is in flames.

“If you’re in that much pain,” she says, “perhaps you should stand up again.”

“Standing doesn’t help.” How the devil has she known when I am angry, and known again when I am in pain?

I pound my thigh to get the muscles to relax. “I don’t see what makes our marriage so problematic. If we dissolve the union on the grounds of non-consummation, it would label your children bastards.”

The word falls sharply from my lips, although I don’t mean it so. Somehow in the last few minutes, I made up my mind. It has been her right to have children, given my long absence. Which means they are now my children. It doesn’t hurt that Colin is just the sort of plucky, brave boy I like.

Margaret seems frozen in her chair. Naturally, it would be difficult for her to discuss her infidelity.

“I won’t say that I wouldn’t have preferred that you waited to have children until I returned,” I continue. “But you had no idea that I might ever come back, and frankly, had I not received this injury, I might have continued aboard ship until I lost my life at sea. If I remember correctly, you are now thirty-four.”

“Yes. Rather old to have children,” she says, her voice wooden.

“Given your age, I suppose that you and I might never have children. Therefore, I should thank you for taking the precaution to provide me with heirs.”

“Does it not bother you?” The words come out like something of a croak.

“Yes,” I say frankly. “Of course it bothers me that my mate slept with another man during my absence.” Even saying the words makes a feeling of near madness rise up my spine. “But how can I blame you? We are married for less than a day. I didn’t even remember your name correctly. I named my ship after you, you know: the Flying Daisy.”

“It’s unfortunate that was not my name,” she says dryly. “Or perhaps fortunate; the Flying Margaret sounds absurd.”

Exhibiting a remarkable stubbornness, she adds, “But surely you want children of your own, Fenrir. My advanced age precludes that, and combined with non-consummation, I am certain that the courts will agree to an annulment.”

“Do you see me telling a court that I am impotent?”

Her eyes drift uneasily over my body. There is a powerful surge of attraction between us, whether she wants to acknowledge it or not. For whatever reason… probably some long-delayed response to our disastrous wedding night… The only thing I want to do is sweep her off to bed.

I want to kiss her until those pink lips are dark rose, leave bites all over her creamy skin, tease and stroke and lick her until she is writhing under me, gasping my name.

The way she is blushing, I might as well have spoken aloud every lusty idea that had run through my mind the moment I saw her.