Werewolf fairytales

All of her

*Margaret*

I have rarely been so horrified as the moment when I realize that one of the gardeners… stuffed into livery for the occasion… is ushering not just Fenrir but also Alpha Moncrieff through my front door. I have been sitting in the drawing room, sipping a glass of sherry and trying to distract myself from the kind of heated images that, I am quite certain, no proper she-wolf would ever entertain.

I have been failing miserably, immersed in an absurd fantasy in which I happen upon Fenrir while he is bathing, when I startle back to attention as the door opens… and I hear the aristocratic tones of the Alpha.

Terror strikes my heart. I am wearing a transparent dress, with little more than a ribbon keeping my n*****s from the open air.

I get to my feet too late. Fenrir is at the drawing room door, tossing his greatcoat behind him to the footman. He surges into the room, brewing with energy.

My heart speeds up and my whole body tightens. He freezes for a moment and a look flashes through his eyes, too quickly for me to read. Is it shock? Surely it isn’t horror. Though perhaps one doesn’t expect one’s wife…

When have I become such a worrier? I paste a smile on my face and move toward my husband and the Alpha, who has nudged his son to the side and entered the room. “Alpha Moncrieff, it is indeed a pleasure to see you. I wish the children weren’t asleep so that they could greet you as well.”

I don’t see Fenrir’s father very often, but we have achieved a kind of easy distance. We don’t understand each other, but we respect each other.

Though it will all be different now that Fenrir is home. He is the glue that will either bind the Alpha into our family, or allow us to fall apart again.

“An astonishing and happy day for both of us,” the Alpha is saying as his hand briefly tightens on mine and then lets go. “You look lovely as always, my dear.”

“Ravishing,” Fenrir says. The word calms my worries. For today, for tomorrow, for a time at least, my husband wants me.

By the time we reach the supper table, I would have revised that statement. My husband is consumed by lust. Fenrir keeps brushing my hand. His touch makes me shiver, and then he laughs, a full-throated pirate’s laugh. We are seated opposite each other, as is only proper, but somehow his foot keeps straying toward mine.

And his eyes… the way he looks at me! I never dreamed that it was possible to say so much with one glance. I could have sworn that he saw straight into my mind and stole those fantasies that my imagination keeps throwing at me.

After the first course, his glances become like some sort of drug. Every one intoxicates me, makes my heart beat even faster. All my female parts grow hot and tight, but when I shift uneasily in my chair, he takes note and my restlessness is answered by the flare of pure lust in his eyes.

All that time, the three of us talk decorously of the Alpha’s upcoming bill in Alpha Parliament and his plan to appoint Fenrir as Justice of the Peace… which, frankly, I can’t imagine. The Alpha renews the gentle request he always makes, that I begin attending the assemblies in Bath, and I refuse.

And then I suddenly remember that I have a husband who presumably has an opinion of his own, but he is laughing silently. He doesn’t care about assemblies.

He will never care about the assemblies.

I let my gaze thank him, let my smile take on a kind of Cleopatra knowing that it isn’t drawn from anything but the erotic pictures I see in my mind.

The Alpha drops his napkin and, in the absence of footmen, bends to retrieve it himself. Fenrir catches my eyes and deliberately, slowly, licks the slice of pear he holds in his fingers before slipping it into his mouth.

I blush, feeling my body tighten until it almost hurts.

Finally, it is time to retire to the drawing room. As Fenrir comes around the table to pull out my chair, leaning on his cane as he walks, I have the impulse to rise and walk toward him, but I think better of it. Wounded lions don’t like to be reminded of their limitations.

He brings me to my feet, and then, turning his back to the Alpha, says quietly, “I don’t know about you, but I just spent that meal thanking the Goddess you aren’t a virgin.”

“Hush!” I yelp, my cheeks undoubtedly as red as an apple.

“I’ll be lucky if I make it out of the drawing room without backing you against the wall and taking you right there.”

“You mustn’t say such things,” I scold, glancing at his father. The Alpha is smiling obliviously from the door, and I can hardly acquaint my husband with the truth about my lack of experience before an audience.

Once in the drawing room, Fenrir sprawls on the small sofa beside me, his broad thigh pressed against mine. I am breathless, giddy with excitement. But somehow I manage to keep my voice to its usual cadence, even though every time he shifts and presses his leg against mine, I feel a melting wave of desire.

We talk of the estate attached to Arbor House, of the fields and men whom I employ. Fenrir casually puts a hand behind my back. Callused fingers play with my curls and then stroke my neck, caressing me, teasing me. I press my knees together tightly, feeling myself turning pink once again. I am amazed that the Alpha peacefully talks of crop rotation without catching the tension that sings in the air like a high note of music.

Fenrir talks of farm work too, but in his mouth it all takes on a different intonation. The Alpha talks of crops; Fenrir turns to fertilization, a smile curving his bottom lip. He has no shame, flicking glances at me under golden eyelashes that tell me without words that he is more interested in plowing me than the north, or south, or west fields.

What’s more, his clever fingers are making the wanton imagination that I’ve suddenly discovered spark with images of him touching me in places where I have never imagined a man would touch, or would want to touch. Finally, I leap from the sofa and announce I have to fetch my knitting.

“What are you making?” Fenrir inquires, as seriously as if I’ve betrayed a talent for architecture.

“A vest for Colin,” I tell him. “He is growing terribly fast.”

“The children are a credit to you,” the Alpha says, smiling.

*Fenrir*

I frown, seeing that smile. I would swear that my father would never praise children gotten illegitimately, no matter how charming.

But then the Alpha is standing, claiming to be tired, and Margaret is issuing a charming refusal to him even think of leaving the house at this hour. It would take a stronger man than my father to reject her appeal.

I have the sudden feeling that I will spend the rest of my life doing whatever she asks me to do. So much for the captain of the Flying Daisy, the man who answers only to the wind and the waves.

Oddly enough, I don’t mind the idea. There isn’t room for regret, not when hungry yearning fills every inch of me.

I don’t crave only her body, either. I want all of her, the sweet elusiveness of her, that drop of melancholy, the bright intelligence with which she counters my father’s arguments.

All of it. All of her.