by Casey Morgan
As I say this, I move around him lightly and head for the dining room/ kitchen area of my apartment. Even though I don’t ask him to, my companion follows obediently. He’s right at my heels, and as he moves, I can’t help but think of the wolf outside of the bar. I’m wondering about what happened to him, if he got away.
As I go into the kitchen and prepare myself a little bit of a snack and offer to do the same for my guest, I ask just that. I ask about the wolf and about what my companion thinks happened to him.
My musings go unanswered for a moment. It’s long enough for me to get together a plate of crackers, cheese, and fancy lunch meats.
My companion scoots out a chair at the dining room table for himself, but not before scooting one out for me. In addition, he helps me set down the large platter of food, as well as two cups and the bottle of wine I’ve been trying to balance.
“You know what they say, don’t you?” he asks.
I meet his eyes. He smiles, or more like chuckles in a tone that makes me crumble a little inside, in a good, blissful way. And, for about the hundredth time in the last few minutes, I’ve stare in disbelief at the fact that someone this good looking, this perfect, is standing in front of me. Standing in my kitchen, seeming completely satisfied with my company.
“They say when you think about another soul a lot, they are also thinking about you.” His eyes sadden a little, but his mouth quickly spreads into another grin. “If you’re thinking about that wolf, chances are he’s also thinking about you. He’ll never forget you, after what you did for him.”
I shiver visibly under these words, feeling some strange electricity, some strange truth blooming there. Some extra sparkle and pull to his gaze, like gravity waiting to snatch me up. I shiver a second time, after which I somehow find my way down to my seat and face him across my small table.
“Still,” I murmur, “I wonder what happened to him? I just wish I knew something. That he was okay.”
At this, the side of my visitor’s mouth corks up in a mischievous smile. But it vanishes.
“I wonder indeed,” he says. And then, as if changing the subject, he adds, “You know, just as it was instinctive for you to come to the defense of that animal, it was instinctive for me to come to your defense.”
He pauses, grabbing up a corkscrew and the bottle of wine. All things seem miniaturized in his large hands.
“After all, trying to protect someone comes natural to me. I’ve been hoping to find someone to protect for a long time.”
I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but as he speaks, I hear some emotion break through, some tenderness. And it floods over to mine, souring my mouth, and moistening my eyes. Within seconds, I’m feeling overwhelmed by tears, by loneliness and sadness so great, I don’t know if I’ll ever see the end of it.
My guest seems to be feeling similar emotions, as his already bright eyes become like liquid. They pull and radiate extra amber color and feeling in response to what’s just gripped me. And what’s just gripped me, that feeling deepens. It increases its hold, to the point where I start to feel like I’m being stabbed through my ribs and back with sorrow.
But, as quickly as it descends, it disappears. It releases me, whatever it is, and I’m left sitting at my kitchen /dining room table (a classy, natural wood-carved piece I got from a flea market), studying my companion. I’m searching his face for some reason, some answer to whatever the hell I just experienced.
I find nothing there, though, except for acute attentiveness. There’s warmth radiating from him to me, although it’s not open and inviting as much as it is protective and tender, as if he wishes he could insulate me, but cannot.
It’s at this point that I become physically aware of the stains of tears down my cheeks. I must have cried under whatever emotions I was feeling, whatever duress captured me. I wipe awkwardly at my cheeks, staring dumbfounded at the glistening, clear residue.
What the hell?
I wipe at my face some more, realizing my eyes are still weeping, still rolling out more tears, though my conscious mind is busy telling me I no longer feel sad. Even so, my heart feels heavy. My breath gasps a little. I wipe at my face again, studying my strange guest for some answers.
What the fuck? Why am I crying like this? And why in front of him of all people?
As I think this, I catch him meditating on me. It’s as if he’s savoring me with his eyes, his mind. Our eyes meet. The feeling of sadness and vulnerability gives way to intoxication. It’s enthralling, like he’s actually reaching out and grabbing me, even though he’s not moving at all.
“Are you Cole Grayson, who called me earlier?”
Unbidden, the question that’s been rattling around in my head ever since he showed up finally escapes my lips. It leaps from there onto the table, where it sits awkwardly.
Though my rational mind says to back up, to come up with some excuse to avoid making him answer that question, I don’t go through with it. Instead, I take my turn to study him now.
And to my attentions — and my rude and uncalled for question — my visitor just smiles. He basks some more in a bit of moonlight that apparently only he can see and feel. And then he looks contrite, mischievously embarrassed.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s right. How rude of me.”
He sits forward, now looking like a serious businessman, not a muscled prince like he had just a moment ago. In a mysterious voice, he adds, “Of course, I am.”
Chapter 6
Cole
This makes it all worth it. The way she’s looking up at me with those curious apprehensive eyes of hers, their bright icy blue, penetrates me. The way they appear big and glassy on her finely-carved porcelain face is almost unearthly.
After I confirm who I am, her pink, pouty lips twitch and then they part softly. They’re barely open to the air in the room, as if I’m truly holding her prisoner in her heart.
“I’d be delighted to help you with your play,” I say, enjoying the kaleidoscope of emotions that pass over her face.
There is wetness from tears that still shine a bit on her cheeks. Still, there is a soft glow of agony around her mouth and in the corner of her eyes. It disperses some as she murmurs, “Cole…Grayson.”
Once more, she buckles. More than likely, she’s sensing the wolf in me and my desire to awaken her own. I allow myself to feel a kind of steely, immobile happiness. Confusion or not on her part, it’s the start of something great between us. My world is now hers.
If she wants to ever be released from her nameless, hungering urges — things that will only become stronger and more volatile the longer she’s around me — she has to accept my dominance. Her consciousness has to be shaken loose from everything it’s been burying, whether she likes it or not.
After all, why should she spend even one more moment in ignorance? Went there is so much that we will be to each other.
It’s in this moment that I admit something I’ve been holding in my darkest, secret places: that the passage of time has been almost too great for me to bear. Humans, even those who believe in us, delude themselves into thinking we werewolves, we supernatural creatures, are somehow more resilient — more adept at bearing the passage of time, but we’re not.
Alone, we just “disappear” into ourselves. Wolves need a mate. We need a pack.
“Then, could you be the man…?”
My future mate speaks finally, breaking through the film of my thoughts, the churning of my emotions, though I don’t let them pass beyond my surface. I jump right in, finishing her question for her, as if I haven’t been letting my mind wander at all.
“…who called you about helping you with your theater production earlier tonight?” I supply. “Yes, Ms. Winterborn, I am.”
I smile at her. I’m already seeing unspoken questions flying left and right across her face, over her eyes and mouth.
Questions like, “How did you find me? How did you end up at that bar? Why didn’t you show up at the theater? Why d
idn’t you come earlier?”
The loudest question I sense from her is something along the lines of, “And why didn’t you reply to my call, goddamn you?”
I chuckle, while deciding I’m going to give her all the answer she needs. It doesn’t matter that some of it will be a fabrication, as far as the reality is concerned. All that matters is that she will have an answer, and I know she won’t know the difference. Not in the end. Nor will she care what’s been altered.
“I’m sure you’re wondering how I knew to find you at the bar?” I ask.
Here, my mind supplies me with a series of images. I remember the stagehand at her theater, the one all in black, who stood outside smoking.
“Ms. Winterborn, when I stopped by the theater, you were gone and a stagehand outside smoking told me you went to the bar,” I say, bending the truth slightly.
I already knew she was gone and followed where she was headed without needing to ask. But my Future mate, Ava, doesn’t know that, and she never will. Right now, she needs to think I’m just your average human.
Ava has no trouble buying this. She clearly takes it as the truth, so I go boldly into answering the other questions I know are on her mind.
“As for not showing up at the theater while you were there, and for not calling you promptly after you responded, I apologize. I figured I would just come by. And then, I missed you. These things happen.”
I needed to get you alone. I needed to make you wait for me, to want for my company strongly enough to draw me to you. That’s just how these things work, in my world, and with the powers that I have.
Ava looks both bewildered and rescued by my eloquence, my perfectly crafted explanation for everything. Almost like what I’ve just told her is not only excusable, but also completely and totally relatable. Which is exactly what I was going for.
“Please, Cole” — I watch her twitch again, as more feelings of desire obviously wash over her, but she forces herself to recover — “Please, just call me Ava.”
Technically, she begged. Which makes her just the kind of good girl I’m more than willing to listen to.
“Ava,” I say. I lick my lips, “if we are on such an informal basis, then please — call me Cole.”
Ava blushes. It seems to be because of some excitement at getting to be so informal, so easy with someone she just met. “Okay, Cole.” She pauses, sucking in a breath. It’s as if she’s grabbing for oxygen, and maybe something solid to hold onto. “That’s what I’ll call you, then.”
“I’m glad we can be so friendly with each other, Ava,” I say. I go silent for a moment, just watching her.
I enjoy the way her skin ripples with waves of heat and passion. “Did you still want me to help out at the theater? Still want me to do some heavy lifting, even after I wasn’t the best at getting back to you?” I ask her.
“Oh, yes please!” Ava is still animated with this, but she pulls herself back. She blushes again, and “collects herself” so she’s not so wild and free. “If you are still willing and available for the grueling hours ahead, then yes, I would be glad to have you come and help.”
As she says this, she never quite meets my eyes, but never quite abandons them either. It’s as if she feels awkward about it all and tries to escape some of that awkwardness by downing a sip of wine.
I drink from my own glass, deciding to guzzle it. She also takes a moment to eat more of the appetizers she had previously set out. I join her, tasting mostly the meat she put out. My appetite is usually insatiable but being so close to my mate, my virgin, has put food out of my head. Mostly.
“I would love to be of service to you and your play, Ava,” I assure her.
Tomorrow, and tonight. But I have to get that settled with her. I have to make sure she doesn’t ask me to leave before then. Before midnight, when I plan to start getting her used to my wolf self.
So, I start the first part of my act. I make my face pensive, my posture guilty and uncertain. I shuffle around a bit, and sigh more than all of that combined, while I wait for her to take the bait.
I don’t have to wait long. Almost immediately, she goes for it. “What’s wrong? Why all the sighing, Cole? Is something the matter?” she asks. She says it with that same concerned, bleeding-heart look one would give an injured puppy.
I keep a smile of triumph from my face and answer, “Yes, unfortunately there is, Ava.”
“What?”
This only gets her hooked more. She’s leaning in closer, showing greater concern.
I hang my head, looking contrite, frustrated. “I don’t have a place to stay.” I meet her eyes, molding my face into the perfect harassed expression. “I tried my best to book a room. To have everything in order, but no one is organized here. I got to my hotel, and they told me they didn’t have a room for me. That my reservation had somehow slipped through the cracks.” I feign more exasperation. “I tried to get another room at a few different places, but I had no luck.”
I look down at this point, knowing exactly what she’s going to do next. She’ll offer that I can stay with her, which is exactly what I’ve been fishing for. Still, I keep my face impassive and my act up, knowing that it has to be flawless until the very end. It’s as if I’m auditioning for an acting gig, but the test is whether I can convince her enough to do what I want.
“I’m sorry to impose, to be rude by even asking, but if I will be helping out with the play tomorrow and a bit on Christmas — putting in long hours and all of that – I’ll need a bit of sleep.” I meet her eyes again, eyes I’m more than happy to see pitying me. “Do you think you could allow me to st—”
“Stay here?”
Ava supplies this eagerly. Much too eagerly for someone she just met. We both know this, but neither of us seems to have an issue with it. I nod, waiting for her to keep talking. I know I have to keep playing the role and not seem overly eager.
“Of course, you can stay here. I’ve got the room,” says Ava. “It’s not much. A pullout couch/ bed, in my small office, but…”
I reach forward and grab her hand. “It’ll be enough. Thank you, Ava.” I seal the deal with my most charming, most moon-lit smile.
I barely hear Ava answer “you’re welcome,” but I don’t need to. What I feel wafting off her – a hailstorm of blood rushing around her body, pooling around her sweet little pussy, over the sounds and smells of her arousal that only I can sense, now that she is letting me in closer to her – is enough to let me know that I’ll be able to have my way with her.
“You’re so brave and generous,” I say. “Selfless and attentive. You truly are a one-of-a-kind woman, Ava. Without meeting you, I might be on the streets tonight. Sleeping with the dogs.” With this, I let my eyes linger on her.
And now you’ll be sharing your house, and later tonight your bed, with a werewolf.
After our conversation at the dinner table runs its course, I run over my plans in my head. I do this as I get the “tour” of the bathroom, the guest bedroom/ office I will be sleeping in, and finally the cozy sitting room.
With the little shag carpets, the Japanese-style lanterns for lighting, and the TV that sits on top of her personal liquor collection, it all looks quite quaint. As I take all of this in, I make my plan of attack, sketching out every move I’m going to make when it comes to beginning the process of reminding her that she is a werewolf.
I’ll go into her room. Tonight. After she falls asleep. Then, I will get into her bed and kiss her. Stroke her, be intimate with her, but not penetrate her. It will get her used to my smell, my presence and my dominating aura.
In my head, I can see it already. I can taste it already, too, in my mouth and along my tongue. Around my lips, I can already feel her. In my nose, I can already smell her perfume, as well as the salt and sweat on her.
I’ll do all of this with her while she dreams. Both so that she is not frightened of me, and also so that she interacts with me as her wolf would like, without having to fight the human mind. Otherw
ise, she won’t remember. She won’t be receptive.
In front of me, Ava continues to talk about this place, this apartment. She mentions her favorite parts about it, how she came to live here, and what she hopes to do with it decoration-wise after she is finished being distracted by the play, but I’m mostly in my head. Thankfully, due to my wolf ears, I can keep track of what she’s saying and what I’m thinking at the same time, but it still wanders in one ear and out the other.
What she does with her place is none of my business. All I care about is taking my rightful place in her life, which I will do after tonight, after I succeed in bonding with her, in making her mine through kisses and touch.
Again, I start to see flashes of myself on her while she lies in her bed, fast asleep. Our naked bodies will begin to intertwine, as she begins to fully unlock her inner wolf, her feelings toward me, and her virginal excitement and lust for sex.
This pattern of me half-heartedly listening to her discussion points continues for another hour or so, and then we spend the rest of the night intermittently drinking each other in. Ava’s particularly guilty of this — watching and practically fucking me with her eyes— though I know she would never admit it if I asked her. As a virgin, she’s too shy and quiet for that.
But it doesn’t matter. I sense and smell her desire. I can practically see her fantasies on her. Images of me taking her, dominating her totally and completely, roll off Ava in hungry, distilled waves.
Of course, she thinks she’s being sneaky about it. She thinks she’s safe in her own head, but I’ve seen arousal before. I’ve seen attraction on thousands of faces over the years. One might say I have a keen appreciation of the telltale signs, which I see all over Ava.
Of course, I play it off, as if I’m obtuse and completely unaware of anything and everything regarding that, as my feigned ignorance only just makes her do it more, and that suits me totally fine. The more she gets herself riled up, used to the idea that I will indeed take her totally and completely, the better off it will be for both of us. The easier it will be to remind her, and the quicker she will fall in line as my mate. My partner. My wife for life.
