“In part. But there is something about him in particular. He’s old, very old. We say immortal, but we werewolves rarely see three hundred. Too much fighting – with each other, in armies, with the world. Lyall is, I think, closer to four, and so very calm.”
“So, when you fuss and fret, I should take you to him?” Faith sounded like a wife.
Channing laughed. “He also drives me crazy. He is my opposite in so many ways.”
“Because you are Gamma?”
“Exactly so. But he has kept me close most of the time since then. And most of the time, I behave because of it. There have been slip-ups, over the years, if he and I are separated for too long. Some Alphas don’t understand, and a pack as big as ours is often split for military action. There have been times when I could not protect him as he once protected me. I was not strong enough to be his champion. I hated myself for that and, ironically, couldn’t forgive him. We aren’t exactly friends and yet…”
Faith’s lips twitched. “You’re brothers.”
“Yes.”
“And all that time with no one to love you as you ought to be loved?”
“My appetites do not incline me towards men, and I find it difficult to trust women.”
Faith winced, clearly thinking of Odette and the vampire queen. “No doubt. But we’re not all so” – her nose wrinkled and she made a face as she searched for the right word – “horrible.”
He dipped his head. “No. I begin to think you, at least, are rather unique.”
She tilted her head. “What makes you believe, after all that you’ve done and all that has happened to you, that you are not worthy of me? You move from one to the other. First, no woman is good enough for you, and now you are not good enough for me.”
“You are so innocent to be colored by my tawdry history.”
“Innocent?” Faith raised both eyebrows.
“You understand my meaning.”
“You are forgetting someone in this equation.”
“Who?”
“Me. I’m the only one who can truly judge you worthy. You know that, don’t you? I’m allowed the freedom and the choice of who to love and who to trust, just as you are. I’ve chosen you.”
She stood and approached him, crouched before him where he sat in the armchair. She put her hands to his knees, his legs only just covered by Biffy’s robe.
Her eyes were big and blue and infinite. “We are all messy, fractured beings, muddling through on this great big rock of ours. The choice of what we make of ourselves is what we do with our time here.” She shrugged. “I collect rocks. I ache when I hear the cry of a baby. I’ve looked all my life for family. I thought it was passion. Now I know it is you.” She took a breath. “This is what you and I will do now. We will hold these broken parts of ourselves dear because they brought us to this point, and we will love each other wholly and completely. You can rest now. Be with me. Together, we will be enough.”
He leaned forward into her. Pressed his wet face into the side of her neck and breathed her in.
She was exactly right; it was enough.
The Mooning Standard reported that Miss Faith Wigglesworth married Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings (yes, he knows) on a misty evening in June in a private ceremony that was, the paper claimed, very ill attended.
Invitations were shockingly sparse. Barely three dozen witnessed the ceremony, almost all on the groom’s side. This, after such an exciting (and public) courtship, was considered by most to be very bad form indeed.
The bride was given away by her cousin, Mr Iftercast. (There was much discussion as to why her parents didn’t cross the Atlantic for the event. Claims were made as to the mother’s ill health, possible mental instability. Good thing, said the gossipmongers, that this couple could have no children, if there was madness in her blood.) The bride’s cousin, Theodora Iftercast, stood up with her, and Professor Randolph Lyall stood with the groom.
The London Pack was present, as were most of its clavigers. There were no vampires and there were not very many mortals, either. The bride’s dress was said to be shockingly simple, and her hat, well, perhaps it was a good thing so few were invited. The hat might have caused a riot. It was a very small white top hat with a veil, but a gentleman’s style top hat nonetheless.
The Alpha of the London pack was said to be very proud. Particularly about the hat. Whatever that meant.
Faith’s husband took great delight in stripping the very silly little top hat, the veil, and the overly simple wedding dress off of her later that night. He did it with such studied care, as if unwrapping a precious gift.
Faith luxuriated in his attentions, certain that shortly, things would flare between them into uncontrollable heat and wonderful violence.
At the beginning, he explored her, gentle and intent on claiming his territory. His hands were cool and occasionally, deliciously, a little rough. His lips were soft and sure, allowing teeth to come out to play when he discovered a sensitive spot. It was glorious.
Then he stood still and let her do the same to him. Not that she hadn’t seen it before, but this time there was no sudden nudity, simply pieces of him revealed bit by bit. She took her time to touch, and even kiss and lick a little. When she became brave enough to nibble, he pushed her back, glared, and then showed her how to do it properly.
They ended up standing opposite each other, both entirely naked and free of all encumbrances – made new for each other.
Faith stared at her husband – this fine, handsome man who was hers, who was the pack’s, who was a white wolf out of legend.
He tilted his head and she saw the wolf in his eyes.
“Run,” he said.
So she did.
She didn’t get very far, but she wasn’t trying to actually escape. She did pretend. She struggled, feeling herself swell and ache and yearn, even as she writhed against him. It was exhilarating and maddening because she wanted so much more.
He managed to grab hold of her easily enough, then swept her up and dumped her into the bed – their bed. He loomed over her, captured her wrists in one big hand, and held her down with the comfort of his weight.
And took her.
And kept her.
And gave her everything she yearned for – love and living and fulfillment.
She wrapped herself around him, legs and arms in coils, nails scoring down his back as she struggled still to reach something more, something glorious.
He gave her that, too.
A second heartbeat, she thought, his heartbeat, as the pleasure crashed over her.
There was nothing of ice in him then; he melted atop her – liquid, boneless, and prone – entirely hers.
When she grumbled about his weight, he huffed against her neck, where he was nestled, and flipped them both so she was draped over him.
She imagined walking with a white wolf along the tops of the white cliffs of Dover. She imagined the fur against her hand, the ocean scenting the air, and those ice-blue eyes looking up at her.
She looked down into them now, pale-lashed and fathomless, and so very warm.
Author’s Note
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New York Times bestselling author Gail Carriger writes to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small-town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in higher learning, a fondness for cephalopods, and a chronic tea habit. She then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported from London.
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This work of fiction may contain sexually explicit situations of a romantic and carnal nature between members of the same sex, opposite sex, or both. If love (in its many forms) and love’s consequences (in even more varied forms) are likely to offend, please do not read this book. Miss Carriger has a young adult quartet, the Finishing School series, that may be more to your taste. Thank you for your understanding, self-awareness, and self-control.
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How To Marry A Werewolf (Claw & Courtship Novella Book 1) Page 16
