Betrayed by his Luna

*Bryant* I unhurriedly trail my fingers over the slender bare back, the appearance of which always delights me. A light touch, barely there, as soft as a cloud drifting across the late-afternoon sky. I have discovered that Fanny responds best to only the hint of sensation, as though the torment of being denied more pressure heightens her pleasure. She is such a wonderfully carnal creature, willing to explore passion and pleasure in all its forms. It is the very reason I seek her company. She is soundly asleep, not reacting to my subtle gestures, but she would be miffed if I took my leave without giving her a proper farewell. Gathering up her hair, with its hints of red that often make it seem as though it might ignite at any moment, I drape it over one shoulder, exposing the nape of her slender neck. Shifting my body so she is cradled beneath me, I press my hot, moist mouth to the ridge of her spine and begin to leisurely travel downward. Moaning low, she stretches languorously, like a feline lazing in the sun. “Mmm, I do so enjoy the way you awaken me.” Her voice, lazy, raspy, sultry, causes me to harden swiftly and painfully. With my knees, I spread her thighs, opening her to me, and slide into her velvety haven. It is only here, when I can become lost in wicked sensations, that I am master, that the world and all its disappointments recede. Welcoming me with a groan of satisfaction, she lifts her hips slightly, and I delve deeper. Now I am the one to groan, a growl really, low and throaty. This is what I need, what I always need. Hands gliding, fingers teasing, mouths devouring. Ours is an ancient ritual of writhing bodies, escalating sighs, and intense sensations. With a triumphant laugh, she bucks me off, straddles me, claims me. Even as I take her again, even as I cause her to cry out my name, I feel nothing beyond the searing press of flesh. Why the bloody hell can’t I feel more… true enjoyment, immense satisfaction, contentment… instead of this bloody wasteland of lackluster emotion? The room echoes with our grunts, our shouts, our cries. I know how to touch, how to stroke, how to please, how to bring her the ultimate in pleasure. Even when she collapses over me, I fight my own cataclysm, stave it off as long as possible, until it consumes me, comes crashing around me. Replete, exhausted, breathing heavily, I lie beneath her. As always it is never enough. My legendary prowess mocks me, leaving me dissatisfied. Ah, the physical release is grand, but afterward, I always experience a keen sense of bereavement, of something amiss, something that I can wrap neither my head nor my heart around. I am always left wanting more, but for the life of me, I can’t define exactly what the more should be. I know only that for all her exquisite beauty, she doesn’t provide it. But I also know the fault resides with me, not her. I lack something essential. It is the reason no she-wolf has ever loved me. As gently as possible, I ease her off me. Her green eyes lethargic, she gifts me with a contented curl of her lips, a cat that has lapped up the last of the cream. I press a kiss to her forehead before rolling out of bed. I gather up my clothes from where they had landed on the floor when she had first divested me of them hours earlier. It isn’t until I have sat in the purple velveteen chair to pull on my boots that she scoots to the foot of the bed and says, “Tell me what’s troubling you.” I peer over at her, now wrapped modestly in the red satin sheet. She swings her legs off the end of the bed and grabs one post. She gives the appearance of someone sitting on a swing, and I am reminded of a cinnamon haired girl I had long ago seen in that exact pose. If I were capable of flowery emotions, I might have thought I had begun to fall in love with Madelyn that day. Silly thought. “You’ve grown bored with me,” Fanny says succinctly, before I can answer. Not that I would have. I am not in the habit of sharing anything that resides within me. I allow only the outer shell to be available for her amusement. Haughtily, making a great show of securing the sheet more tightly around herself, she walks to the window. “They say no she-wolf can hold on to you. I thought to prove them all wrong.” After tugging on my boots, I cross the room and wind my arms around her waist, inhaling her fading scent mixed with the musky fragrance of passion I had unleashed earlier. “I have not grown bored with you.” “Then stay the night. For once, stay the night.” She tells me. I tuck my finger beneath her chin, tilt her head around, and take her mouth as though I own it. Only when she turns and sags against me, do I lift her into my arms and carry her to the bed. Setting her down gently, I draw the covers over her. “Not tonight.” As I am striding toward the door, she calls out, “I hate you!” Her words give me no pause. I have heard them before, from others. The first time I was twentyfive. The words had pained me then, but never since. Why did she-wolves not understand that hate could not hurt if there was no semblance of love? She doesn’t love me. I know that, accept it. She is as frosty as I am. It is the reason we are well suited, the reason I’ve not yet grown bored with her. “Bryant?” Striving to come up with a way to communicate that I’m not upset with her, I glance back and merely say, “Tomorrow.” “I expect to receive a very nice bauble.” She tells me. I give her a grin and a wink. “Something to match the green of your eyes, I should think.” She blows me a kiss. She is so easily mollified. I am weary of growing bored, but ennui hovers nearby, waiting impatiently. I will not succumb. Not this time. She deserves better. I hurry down the stairs and out the front door into the lightly falling rain, where my carriage waits, illuminated by the distant gas streetlamps. The servant leaps forward and opens the door. “St. James,” I order as I climb inside and settle back against the plush bench for the journey to my residence. Not a home. Simply a place where I reside, where I will wallow in my whiskey and contemplate why I refuse to stay the night with Fanny. Such a small request, but conceding to it would give her too much control over me. And I am a man who relishes his freedom. I’ve gone too much of my life without possessing either control or independence. My father, damn him, left behind little except debt, two sons, and a widow who understood the ramifications of her dire circumstances well enough that, without delay, she chose as her second mate a man with a more powerful title and a good deal more wealth… the Lycan prince of West Cliff. She blessed him with an heir, and five years later, he left her a widow… one who no longer relies on anyone for anything. It took years before the same can be said of me. I am dependent on the kindness and generosity of my youngest brother, Barkley, the present Prince of West Cliff. He may be the last born, but he acts as though he is the first… irritatingly responsible, obsessed with duty. He comports himself with the mien of someone three times his age. Our mother often remarks that even from the cradle, he gave the impression that he could handle the greatest of matters. I find it exceedingly difficult to usurp my brother's rightful place in the sibling hierarchy when the next moment could very well involve holding out a hand, asking for favors. It's one of the reasons I spend as little time as possible with my family… to avoid the reminders of the failures I have inherited from my father, which weighed heavily on my shoulders as I grew into manhood. I am more than willing to take whatever actions necessary to shed them. It is damned mortifying to go to the whelp whenever I need anything: assistance in managing my estate, clothes, food, coins to purchase a trinket for my occasional lovers. So, I welcomed the opportunity to be rid of my pauper’s realm, only to discover that the ultimate price was a battering of my pride far worse than anything I had previously suffered. The wheels whir, splashing the rainwater against the sides of the carriage. I seek comfort from the calm, constant swishing, allowing it to seep into my soul. Perhaps tonight, I will fall into a deep, untroubled sleep. Perhaps tonight, for a brief time, I can escape the blight of Madelyn’s betrayal. Yet the memory of it rises as bitter as bile in my throat while my carriage draws to a stop in front of my residence. I have not set eyes on Madelyn since that fateful night when she took my younger brother Blake to her bed. During the intervening years, I have received but one message from her. ‘Forgive me.’ To which my drunken youthful self cleverly responded, ‘When you're rotting in hell.’ The man I am now would not have responded at all. I would have forced her to wallow in guilt and self-recriminations without a hint as to my true sentiments. The absence of knowledge is its own punishment, and she deserves to suffer. I leap from the carriage, only to discover that another waits in the drive, one I recognize as belonging to me. If I hadn't known, the liveried men standing about would have served as a clue. What the devil? Taking the wide steps two at a time, I rush up the stairs. The door opens just as I arrive. My butler's pale face tells me all I need to know. "Where the hell is she?" I demand. "The library, my Alpha." My gut tightens. My sanctuary. I allow no one in there. Least of all her. Tossing back my hat, cloak, and gloves, not caring if they land in Willoughby's arms or on the floor, I stride down the hallway. I become abruptly aware that I smell of another she-wolf. Lilac. I consider, for a heartbeat, racing up the stairs to take a quick wash, then decide against it. I still remember the sandalwood stench of my brother emanating from her when I had discovered them. The servant opens the door to the library as I approach, and I wish she would had no warning that I am about to barge in on her. Three long years, and the silly chit dares to intrude on the life I have created in her absence. With fury emanating from me, I storm into the room. I am halfway across it, having passed two seating areas, when she turns from her perusal of the books aligned neatly on my shelves. I come to a staggering halt as though I have taken a powerful blow to the chest. I have fought so damned hard to forget her, to forget everything about her. And here she is in the flesh. Slightly older yet undeniably more lovely. Madelyn. My traitorous mate and Luna.