“What number does this one make?”
“It’s called dating, Violet.”
I explain as I press my body to the glass counter containing potions with eye-catching titles like ‘relive your happiest moment’ or ‘spend five minutes with your lost loved ones’.
Though the humans in the town would deem this shop a ‘mystic gothic store’, demeaning its actuality to belief, my best friend, Violet, is a real witch.
My phone buzzes and a reminder for my upcoming date pops up.
“Imagine having so many dates that you must put reminders on your phone lest you break the heart of someone’s son. Your confidence in still referring to that as dating is baffling.”
I laugh sarcastically at her comment as she slides my order toward me in a glass box that I open instantly.
She makes no secret of her disapproval of my consistent use of the concoctions she brews; she even changed their packaging from a warm orange liquid to a glittery dark blue that looked downright unpalatable.
To emphasise my protest to her protest, I down one of the bottle’s contents in one swig.
“Gah! This is awful...and It burns its way down too? I thought you said you’d make them taste like cotton candy?”
“Smell; I said I’d make them smell like cotton candy.”
I shudder, trying my best to focus on anything other than the horrid sensations in my body, but it feels like I have swallowed cotton candy perfume.
“You can’t keep taking these potions; it is unnatural for one to try and suppress their wolf!”
Christ, here it comes.
“Not suppress, kill.”
I correct her, but she does not take it as lightly as I do.
“Alba!”
“‘Alba’ what? You are a witch that intends to live as a human, and I am a wolf that intends to do the same. Must we play the moral high ground with each other?”
“I am not taking dangerous concoctions to suppress my abilities!”
“Oh, so we are bragging now?”
At my avoidant response, Violet raises her hands in defeat.
We have been through this conversation before; it always ends the same. Before she changes her mind about pursuing the argument, I pack the remainder of the concoctions meant to be taken once per week and leave her store.
At six, the setting sun, though giving the evening its slightly warm hue, does nothing for the cold.
I tighten the sash of my brown trench coat over my body, but even that minor distraction does nothing for my racing mind.
Raking the blackness of my straight hair out of my face, I press the button that would change the traffic flow for my favour in crossing, then stare at the mass motion of car head and tail lights.
I can hardly hear her anymore; my wolf, that is.
The calm voice inside me that awoke too early to hint at nothing but misfortune, is almost gone.
Almost.
“Alba?”
A voice calls my attention from a blue sedan that slows despite still having the right of way.
“Peter?”
“Yeah!”
He confirms before lowering the passenger window further.
His eyes roam my body, perhaps for a sign, yet because the trench coat I have on covers all, his puzzled look remains.
“Are you trying to check if I am ready for our date?”
He flushes.
“Am I that obvious?”
The car slowing behind him hoots aggressively, so without awaiting a second honk, I slide into the passenger seat next to him, and we drive off.
The scent of his cologne reminds me of the bottle I had chugged.
But do male colognes have such sweet feminine undertones?
I turn to examine him more fully, perhaps I am mistaken, or maybe it was a family member’s-
No... the fresh red kiss mark on his blue-collared shirt confirms my suspicion.
The boyish charm that made him cute suddenly added an air of immaturity to his physique.
I hate it; my sense of smell, my seemingly insatiable hunger, the feral instincts that plead me to dig my fingers into Peter’s flesh and demand fidelity from him.
But humans don’t do that.
They go on dates for fun, not to seek life partners.
I want to be like that.
To abolish the part of me that craves a mate...that craves my mate.
But the fact that I already know who they are makes it even more difficult to pretend the moon goddess forgot me.
But this isn’t the time to brood.
‘Dates’ are my time to play ‘pretend’, to act ‘human’, at least as long as my wolf remains alive.
I turn my gaze to Peter.
He looked so cute when we met in my boutique, but I cannot see that now.
“Where are you from anyway? Your store isn’t around that area.”
I must have stared at him for too long to prompt such a blatant admittance of caution from him.
I wonder, does the woman who gave him the stain live in that area?
“I like walks.”
“This far from your- I mean, exercise is good. But I hear that area isn’t safe, so try avoiding it.”
The only thing unsafe on that street is Violet’s store. Still, the conversation does not fruition because he makes a turn at a high-end restaurant, the kind of place I have only ever visited with Jax, an old friend, and never again because the portions were too tiny for a wolf’s appetite.
I cannot find a reason to go through with the date other than the fact that I am already dressed for it.
Need there be a reason greater than that?
The restaurant’s valet makes quick work of helping me step out of the car, and before I can offer my gratitude to the valet, Peter tosses the car keys to him as if to remind him of his position.
I want to comment, but repulsion claims me when his hand slides intrusively to my waist. He leads me to the host’s station to claim the reservation, and while they converse, I feign interest in the art hanging by the wall and use it as my excuse to escape his hold.
The host is kind enough to escort us deeper into the core of the regal ambient restaurant; truthfully, the entire space is spectacular, from the white marble flooring that emphasises the nude shade of my heels to the white walls with a gold finish, perhaps to match the harpist’s instrument or the dining tables.
But the best part of it, aside from the live music, must be the scent.
The menthol hints of pine trees in the air combine beautifully with a smoky pepper-minty finish ensuring the scent is not too strong but just enough for one’s lungs to crave more.
The scent soothes every hesitation, every worry, and every uncertainty about the night. It lulls me into a mimic of the sensation of walking a few inches off the ground.
I wish to dive into the scent, drown in it, to have it lather my body…but before dry humping the scent, I should perhaps ask if they have a candle of the same.
**
"And the cut? It was this big-"
Peter continues animatedly, dropping his fork to elaborate with both hands on how large…something is (?)
It is improper of me, but my focus has grown hazy since the host seated us.
I cannot tell what his story is about, who its protagonists are, or where it originates, even the poor juicy steak before me seems to get overpowered by that intoxicating scent that it feels like I am consuming cardboard, so I stop.
“Is everything okay?”
His concern is only expressed vocally; his gaze is steadily on my cleavage, roaming my flesh. Perhaps I should have opted for a more modest dress.
“Yes? Yes! Everything is fine.”
I answer twice, perhaps to convince myself.
“But I do need to use the ladies’ room.”
“Oh-”
I stand and take my purse without awaiting any ‘go ahead’ from him.
I know it is rude of me, but my actions must be less rude than my prophesied physical attempt to rub myself against the chair to the point of climax should I stay.
Does the scent host aphrodisiac qualities, or is it the meal?
Hopefully, it is in my head and possibly resolvable by a splash of cold water.
But could it really be in my head if I can feel the rising heat on my flesh sensitise my skin? Even the chafing of my lace bra against my nipples as I walk feels delightful.
I approach the closest waitress, who stands near some stairs leading to an exclusive dining area.
A more substantial wave of the scent hits me, and I near moan.
The server bows and I appreciate the few seconds I have to wipe the stunned expression that I am certain covers my face.
“How may I serve you this evening?”
“Where are the ladies’ room?”
The question comes off as a whisper as I squeeze my thighs tightly to soothe the delicious throb pulsating in my core.
Is this normal? Did…did Peter add something to my dish?
“I am sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?”
She says before leaning closer into my personal space.
“What is the source of that scent?”
My question changes instantly; my desperation for the scent has become greater than my need to compose myself.
“Scent?”
The waitress repeats.
“Yes, the earthy sort of menthol, perhaps eucalyptus scent that seems to roam the venue. Does the establishment sell it as a candle or incense, or did they purchase it elsewhere?”
“Oh…we…don’t have that; I mean, I could forward your question to management but wouldn’t scents from candles or incense infuse and distort the complexities of the cuisines?”
She is right.
A scent that strong would-
A sudden panic grips my belly.
How could I have forgotten?
Are the concoctions not enough? No, rather…. Is he here? Why is he here? He should be in Ketria.
A look of concern rests on the server, so I force a smile and mutter a quick thanks before turning away.
I need to leave.
“How long has it been, Alba?”
A familiar deep voice begins, sending delicious shudders up my spine at the mention of my name.
“Has it really been long enough that you would dare show your back to your Lycan?”
The moment seemed to still, or perhaps it was just my heart; then again, he had not spoken the words, merely used a mind link, so their intimacy felt visceral.
Had I smelled him before leaving the pack, I would never have taken more than two steps into this restaurant. But that’s the thing about glimpses into the future; information is never complete. So much for a unique wolf attribute. “Turn to me, Alba. I will not ask again.” This time, he speaks the words and waves off the server for privacy, privacy I could do well without. If I act any more suspiciously, he might catch on to the secrets I carry, so I turn and bow without meeting his gaze, yet even that minuscule act causes my animosity towards him to yield at the despicably enticing scent he exudes. “I greet his majesty, the Lycan King of Ketria.” I respond using the link he formed, and rather than free me from this hideous responsibility, he steps right before me and lifts my gaze from the inky blackness of his shoes to meet the silver of his eyes. Christ, but the man is the definition of perfection. His long white lashes and cropped silverish-white hair grant him an ethereal-l
My mouth widens at his question, I want to question his audacity, but his newfound nearness permits me to see the burning anger in his gaze under the streetlights.I have no obligation to answer him, yet my mind works feverishly at a defence.What is this incessant need to pacify him despite his anger being none of my responsibility? Especially when his scent remains the culprit to why my centre remains moist.I swallow dryly.The last thought triggers my awareness of his sexual magnetism, his large build that teases at the warmth of his hold, and the startling intensity of his gaze.I want to take a step back from him, but I am rooted in my spot by the part of me that longs to explore his features to discover how much I have missed in our time apart.I recoil at my thoughts by turning away from him, desperate for the space to collect myself, but his hand grabs my arm and pulls my body towards his.His hold is rough; why it thrills me can only be tied to my deviancy.“What is it about
Marko N. Ivanov “How could he do this? How could he do this to me?” Mother’s scream was audible through the halls, each question perfectly punctuated by the shattering of more hallway décor. With a mere announcement, the most regal wolf in the kingdom was reduced to hysterics—a sight he had never witnessed before. The butler was the first to shield Marko from the ferocious howls that followed. This act added to his tension by confirming that what was indeed wrong was diabolically irreparable. "Is there some sort of proof that they are mates?” His question came off with more emotion than he, as the heir to the throne, was permitted to portray. "His-" The butler hesitated, gazing left and right as though he was about to utter words that would endanger his life. “His majesty was the one to proclaim that, so we must believe his words. Even the elder council remains in disarray.” "What of mother? What becomes of her now?" That wasn’t what he wished to ask; what he meant to ask wa
"Did...did you just-" His heavy hand descends on my flesh once again before my question about the action’s occurrence solidifies. He...spanked me? The chain hanging from my freed hand is heavy; only his restrictive support permits it to stay above my head. Swinging it to his face is just as impossible as prying my hands from his hold. Again his hand falls upon my flesh, striking with such precision the spot that has just begun to heat as if intending my skin to blister. Why? Why does he only strike one place? "Are you ...in-insane?" Again, his hand falls on me, and a whimper escapes me this time. “Stop! You bast-!” Again…the same spot, effectively cutting my curse in its course. "Apologise." I don’t want to…! I struggle against his hold, and he seems to take that as my answer, so again, his hand falls on the precise sensitised spot that feels seconds away from searing. "Sorry." I utter quickly in such a low voice that his breathing could swallow its utterance. I did no
Alba’s blood purifies toxins. Marko repeated the thought in his head as if he could have misheard it. Suddenly, sitting felt like the worst position, so he stood, yet his legs felt too restless to keep still. Before long, he was pacing, trying his best to piece the information coming his way with his stirring emotions, but when he finally failed, he turned to the physician. “Explain it in a way that I can understand.” “Well!” She began excitedly with no heed to his tension. “When you first brought the former princess to me, every test I did said she overdosed on wolfsbane, but she was still alive, which is impossible! She should have died ten times over with the amount in her blood; that’s when it hit me; the amount of wolfsbane in her body was the reason she turned! Like an adverse reaction because her wolf form purifies faster.” Sharon paced as she prattled on words that did not make sense to him. Wolfsbane? Overdosed? What the hell? What more did Alba keep from him? “Get
“How long have I been asleep?” The question slips from my lips as I struggle out of bed. “A little over a week.” A week? “I have never even had a nosebleed before,” I mutter as my feet hit the cold floor. A week has passed, and I am still in the silk gown, only now it is peppered in crimson droplets throughout its length. “Wow, your regeneration must be fast despite the wolfsbane in your system; imagine how it will be without?” I still at her cavalier words. I am uncertain when she started writing, but she scribbles furiously on her notepad while addressing me, almost as though she is studying me. “Wolfsbane?” Did I mishear her? “Yes! There was a ton of it in your system.” If she knows that, then…doesn’t his majesty? Good god, why is this happening? I am almost glad I insisted she doesn’t call him, but how much time will prepare me for what he intends with me now that my cards are on the table? “Is that why I collapsed?” “Partly,” She began. “Well, I think so. You we
"I will." His answer comes with no hesitation that it stings despite the ‘rejection’ being my suggestion. I can understand his clarity; the outcome of our situation as 'stepsiblings' and ‘royals’ is inevitable. Yet even if we did not have those barriers to hide behind, I am certain rejection would have been the outcome; we are but a match made in hell. “Good.” I respond, hoping no emotion laces my voice. “I’d like to bathe; give me space.” He does not budge; he merely shakes his head from left to right and points to the bathroom. Great. I do not blame him for not trusting me; the thought of escape has not entirely left my mind. Any other time, I would have sassed him into submitting to my demand for bathing privacy, but I can feel tears whose origin I cannot fully place threaten to flood my eyes, so before they grow noticeable, I rush to the bathroom and shut the door to lean on it as they spill. Utterly ridiculous that I can feel this deeply over nothing, yet even my express
Crazy. The Lycan has gone crazy...yet- Yet what? My hesitation is proof that he has not used his Lycan ability that makes wolves follow his command; but it is the forwardness, the simple desperation in his voice that makes me consider dropping my throbbing hand; yet if we solidify our bond in such a fashion, doesn’t that only spell misfortune? "No." In my head, my voice is firm, so why did it come off as a whisper? "Why?" The Lycan’s voice is rough as he asks the question as if he bore innocence to how twisted we make each other grow. 'Why?' I played with his question again in my mind. How many reasons did he have the time for? The first would be that I do not trust him. The second is that I do not have enough information on what he does or does not know about me; other than my wolf purifies and that I dosed in wolfsbane, what else is he withholding? The man I know, the man I ran from, is vindictive, so if there is more, I need it on the table. All of that aside, there is