After The I Do (Meeting At The Fault Line Book 1)

by Autumn Breeze

  I wave to the guard; he lifts his hand in greeting as well.

  “Congratulations on your nuptials, Mr. Right.”

  I smile, giving a brief nod before my fingers curl around Everett’s tricep once more. He stiffens under the hold and I loosen my grip. If he wants to yank away, it will not be hard; I am not out to trap him. This marriage isn’t a jail cell and I’m not anyone’s warden.

  “Watch your step,” I mutter after we pass the fountain in the circular drive and reach the steps. He pulls himself free with a purposeful tug.

  “I can see,” he retorts.

  I climb the steps behind him.

  “I know. I only wish to be helpful.”

  He pauses, turning to face me. His fingers still shake, but he curls them together. I lift an eyebrow as something hard enters his gaze. He inhales and exhales slowly, his chest rising and falling with the action. Obviously he’s preparing himself to say something. I wait, watching as his jaw ticks.

  “Your reputation precedes you,” he finally states, “I know what kind of man you are.”

  I shake my head, glad at least one of us is aware of the kind of man I am, because at thirty-one, I’m still trying to figure it out. Maybe he can tell me. Of course, since it is my reputation he based his opinion on, he is no closer to knowing who I am than anyone else.

  “All men have reputations. You’d be doing me a kindness by not judging me by mine.”

  It will be easier for him to relax if he forgets what he thinks he knows about me. I’ll breathe easier if I’m not worried about how my every action is being interpreted.

  “My kind—” I hold up my hand, cutting him off. His lips press together in a flat line.

  “Have been at war with mine for five hundred years. Within the last year, it has reached a tipping point. We can agree our families have both done unpleasant things in the name of survival. Those things don’t have to exist between us here, or anywhere,” I tell him.

  The war is finished; the family feud concluded because the Moroii and Vârcolaci are family—one clan ruled by two separate heads. Our bloodline is the same, entangled for the rest of our days.

  Everett frowns, his brows drawing together as he meets my eyes. The glow in his gaze is just as striking as it had been when he first looked up in father’s office. There is courage buried under his fear. Or maybe it isn’t buried at all.

  Courage is acting despite the fear, speaking despite the fright. He speaks now, “Of course they do.”

  “Why?” I inquire. Why does he think those things, the war that we are trying to end, needs to be fought in the halls of my house? What is the purpose of fighting a war, when everyone else is calling a truce? What would a battle between us really accomplish?

  “Because . . . it’s who we are,” he reasons.

  I shake my head. It is such a childish answer. We fight because it is who are; we made war because we had always made war. Times change; people change. Now is our chance to be more than the people who came before us.

  I, for one, want to be more than his enemy.

  “I’m not sure of who you are and I can assure you, no matter what you have heard, you don’t know who I am. I can tell you what I’m not. I’m not—” reaching out, I grasp his shaking fingers, drawing his hands together, “—a danger to you.” Everett exhales, his shoulders falling ever so slightly, and I smile. “Let me show you the house. It’s late and tomorrow comes early.”

  He nods and I enter the house ahead of him. My on-site staff greet us with congratulations and welcome Everett warmly. They assure us both that all his things have been put away. I thank them before beginning the tour.

  It is quick and ends in the bedroom.

  Everett is pale and clammy by the time I open the doorway. His pulse leaps in his neck. The guilt that has been teasing me most of the night makes my stomach rock. He is terrified of everything that can occur in this room.

  As far as I am concerned, nothing is going to occur. It isn’t in my nature to force anyone into anything, excluding this marriage—although that has been our respective fathers’ doing.

  “We will make do until I take over as head of the family in a few years.” Then the agreement can be altered to suit our wishes. “In the meantime, I do believe we can put aside our family differences and our own misgivings about this union and manage to be friendly.”

  “Friendly.” Everett swallows hard. His chest rocks as his breathing accelerates. If he keeps it up, he’ll hyperventilate.

  I take a step toward him. He quivers like a wet cat locked outside on a winter’s day. There is no comfort I can give, no way I can make him feel better about this arrangement.

  “It’s going to be okay, Everett,” I whisper him, trying to reassure him anyway. His gaze lifts to mine and I give him a smile. “We will make this work.”

  Somehow.

  4

  Water cascades over my back and swirls down the drain. Standing under the spray of the showerhead with my eyes closed, I can see Everett’s stricken face perfectly when I told him I preferred the left side of the bed. Sleeping beside me terrifies him, being within touching distance of me makes him shudder, and I suppose I understand why.

  Our people have had a long, bloody and violent history that often times ended in war even when peace was called for. Peace is a foreign concept when those with power want conflict. I will have the power one day and I only want a simple life. What does Everett want—to feel safe? My reassurance that he is safe will never be enough to have him sleep soundly.

  In time, he will learn to trust me and in his safety. There is no rush considering we have the rest of our lives together, but I would prefer him happy instead of on edge. For now, I will make do with the situation. Both of us need to adjust to our new predicament. It isn’t going to be an overnight change, but I want to make it a smooth one.

  Turning the shower knobs, I stop the flow of water and grab my towel from the rack. By the time I dry and dress in my pajamas, Everett is already positioned on the far right of the bed, nearly hanging off the edge. His breathing is too hard and erratic to be natural.

  We’ve spent enough time together tonight. Maybe retreating to our respective sides of the bed will be just the thing we needed. The whiskey I consumed will burn off in the midnight hours and Everett can use the darkness to mourn this union.

  Climbing in, I pull the covers around my shoulders and close my eyes.

  Morning sunlight streams through the curtains when my eyes open again; something warm is curled against my side. Shifting, I peer down at a head full of brown, rumpled hair.

  Yesterday's events come rushing back.

  I am married now; married to the man snuggling against my side. He looks peaceful and for once doesn’t tremble.

  Taking a moment, I inspect his features. He is handsome in that boyish sort of way. At hardly twenty, he is still very much a boy. These are the years he is supposed to be exploring the world, not married to a man a decade older and probably far more jaded.

  This is his life, our life, now.

  “Everett,” I call softly, wanting to wake him gently. He shifts, a soft mumble rumbling his chest.

  Maybe I was wrong last night. He seems to be sleeping pretty soundly. That is probably because he doesn’t realize yet that he is pressed against anyone, much less me. I loathe to wake him and be caught in his frightened or judgmental gaze, but it is necessary. “Everett.”

  “Mm—” Springing up, he scrambles away, dragging the covers with him. I reach for him too late. His body tilts and he tumbles off the right side of the bed. A loud thump resonates through the bedroom. There is a groan from the floor as I sit up, toss my legs over the edge and stand.

  Crossing in front of the bed, I look down, amused by the Vârcolac sprawled out, wrapped in the covers, with a dazed expression dancing across his features. Laughing softly, I extend my hand. He looks at the limb before grasping it and allowing me to pull him to his feet.

  Our fingers linger for barely
a second before we withdraw.

  “Laughing is impolite, you know?” he chastises. I chuckle again. His gaze narrows and I hold my hands up in surrender.

  “I apologize. Generally, people are falling into my bed— not out of it.” There isn’t a trace of humor in his face as he levels me with a glare that promises a swift kick if I don’t instantly cease my teasing. I swallow another snicker and bend to retrieve the bedding that went on his trip with him.

  “I’m sorry I did—” Holding up my hand, I shake my head. He stops talking instantly, as if used to being silenced. Last night, he did the same thing. It’s concerning. I don’t want him silent any more than I want him to feel obligated to explain why he seemingly slept comfortably in his own bed.

  “No apology necessary and no explanation required, Everett.” Setting the bedcover down, I step toward him. He takes a step back, knocking into the end table. My lips twitch and his scrutiny turns hostile. He gives a whole new meaning to the expression if looks could kill.

  The mouse I first encountered is quickly shaping up to be nothing more than a myth, too. Under his shaking fingers and wide eyes is a passionate man waiting to come out of the sheep skin he wears. Is that man someone I would enjoy spending my life with?

  Time will tell.

  “We share a space, a bed to be exact. There will be mornings when we wake in awkward positions. This morning, it just happened to be you. Maybe tomorrow it will be me. How about we agree now to overlook this morning and similar ones?” I ask. Everett exhales, dipping his head in agreement. I smile. “Let’s go down for breakfast.”

  I gesture to the door. He looks down at himself before me. I slept in my pajama bottoms and not much else. Everett is in a t-shirt and basketball shorts.

  As far as I am concerned, we are overdressed since normally when someone is in my bed, we are both naked.

  Our arrangement isn’t of that sort. Sex isn’t a part of the equation and I don’t plan to make it one. There is nothing satisfying about turning a straight boy out. I won’t enjoy teaching a virgin—if he is indeed a virgin—the ins and outs of sex, much less homosexual intercourse. Even if we are supposed to be committed and faithful, I can be both of those things without requiring Everett to lay under me.

  “I . . . need a moment,” Everett says.

  “I’ll meet you in the dining room. Do you remember the way?” I ask. He nods and I leave.

  The dining room table is already set by the time he enters. One of my staff leads him to the chair on my right. He sits down, ill at ease. I remind myself, this is all new for him.

  “Breathe, Everett, you’re not on the menu . . . yet.” His hand pauses halfway to his orange juice. Once again, he quakes. “It was a joke,” I inform him before I sigh and turn my attention to my food.

  It is going to take a while; I have to be patient and not expect him to accept his place here so easily. We are still strangers and maybe my joke was . . . ill-timed and inappropriate.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Oh—” he stops, as if thinking, “it was okay.” I smile, watching as he puts food on his plate. Normally, I don’t eat breakfast. About this time I am already buried in paperwork and business concerning the clan. All of that will take a backseat for the time being. My only priority is seeing that Everett gets settled into this life comfortably.

  “Good,” I fork a strip of smoked ham between my lips. “My former partners have complained I’m a cover hog. Feel free to kick me if that’s the case.”

  I don’t believe it is, but I’ve been shaken awake more than once by a partner seeking the comforter. Everett didn’t shake me awake so much as slip against my side and take what he wanted.

  “Your girlfriends?” he questions.

  “And the occasional boyfriend; I have no preference.”

  Moroii rarely do. If it bleeds and is willing, we are happy to take it to bed. As long as it is a member of the Homo genus, I am satisfied, which is more than I could say for some of my brethren.

  It isn’t unheard of for a Moroii to go . . . vegan. I like to believe I have more pride and self-control than to feast on anything that isn’t human in some sense of the word.

  “I do,” Everett mutters. My hearing might not be as good as his, but I would have to be deaf not to hear his under breath remarks.

  “And that preference is . . . ” I trail off. He looks up from the meat and eggs on his plate.

  I assume it is women. Homosexuality isn’t accepted in the pack. The very fact that David Dawson agreed to marry his son off to a man proves that the war has come to an explosive climax. They were just as desperate as us to end the fighting.

  Peace is important when the world is falling apart around your shoulders.

  “Men,” he admits, turning back to his plate.

  Everett is . . . homosexual?

  My brows pull together.

  Is that why his father was so willing to marry him off?

  Is it why he was passed over as successor?

  Does being homosexual explain why he is so scared?

  Did the pack . . . hurt him because of his preference?

  My jaw clenches. I won’t be surprised if the answers to all my wonderings are yes. I open my mouth but never speak. If he wants to spill his secrets, he will in good time. I won’t pressure him for answers. It is too early to explore the inner workings of each other's minds.

  “It seems as if I did save you from Sophia, in that case. She’s a man-eater.” My little sister is a demon with an angel’s face. She knows how to wrap someone around her finger and rip their guts out with a couple words followed by a kind smile. That she gets from our mother.

  Everett laughs, a sudden, unexpected sound, and I look up at him. “And you’re not?”

  I chuckle, shaking my head. “I feel as if that may be a loaded question.”

  There are a dozen and one ways I can answer and screw myself over.

  “Your reputation—“

  “Is over exaggerated,” I interrupt. “If you believe everything you’ve ever heard of me, you’re going to be believing a lot of lies. Anyone I’ve ever fed from was willing. Anyone I’ve dated was respected, well treated, and dismissed in a cordial fashion. Anyone I’ve killed, deserved it.”

  Everett’s knuckles turn white around the fork he is holding as our gazes meet. His expression is hard; I blink, confused. Why the sudden hostility?

  “How can you know they all deserved to die?” he questions.

  “Because they were—” I stop, last night’s guilt coming back with the force of a wrecking ball. I have no reason to feel guilty about the men I killed. They did deserve it, but just because I think they deserved it doesn’t mean Everett does.

  “Vârcolaci,” Everett finishes, looking at his plate before pushing back from the table. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  I rise, too, my chair sliding across the floor with a sharp whine.

  “It was war, Everett,” I defend myself, my actions. Those deaths were necessary. It wasn't about enjoyment or entertainment. When I killed his kind—the members of his pack—it was because they needed to die in order to ensure my clan, my family’s survival. He should understand that. His clan, his family has killed plenty of mine.

  The death toll is balanced.

  “It always is with the Moroii.” Everett turns. I take a step. One moment I am behind him and in the next, I stand in front. He steps back; with disgust or fear, I don’t know.

  “It’s not war now; I want peace,” I urge him to understand. Everett scoffs, shaking his head.

  What is so unbelievable about my desire for peace? The war between our fore-fathers isn’t mine.

  I fought in the past because it was my duty. I never instigated a battle or did more than attempt to protect my family, protect the innocent people whom we depend on and who depend on us. Doing my job doesn’t make me a monster any more than it makes him one.

  It makes us loyal to our people.

  “You want a lapdog. I won’t b
e it. This isn’t my home.”

  A lapdog? That is ridiculous.

  “Everett,” I reach for him but he flinches away.

  My fingers curl into my palm as he steps around me. I turn, wanting to say more, to at least stop him so we can talk about this, but the set of his shoulders tells me more than words can that we won’t have a polite conversation if I press the issue.

  “Excuse me,” he mutters, leaving the dining room.

  I sigh. “Damn it.”

  He is wrong; I don’t want a lapdog.

  I wouldn’t mind a husband, though.

  Even if that husband is a Vârcolac.

  5

  For the past two days, Everett has done his damnedest to avoid me. Instead of pressing him to talk, I give him his space. It is getting ridiculous, though. I

  f we want this marriage to ever be anything other than silent meals and awkward morning boners, we have to learn to exist in the same place. If that means extending an olive branch—again—I am willing to at least once more.

  Searching the house, I find him basking in the glow of early morning sunlight in the sunroom. It is a space I rarely use since sunlight and I go together about as well as oil and water. I can spend a few hours in direct light, enjoy a day at the beach like a normal person, but anything more and I am pushing the limits of healthy. Too much sunlight gives a whole new meaning to the word sunburn for Moroii.

  Walking deeper into the room, I expect Everett to at least look up. He is hunched over in one of the chairs, focused on something in his lap.

  The view of his face from my angle is perfect. My gaze travels over the planes, taking in the fine curvature of his lips and jaw. He really is handsome. And he approves of male company. That is a dangerous combination.

  “Everett,” I call and he jerks in his chair, coloring pencils spilling across his lap and rolling onto the floor.

  “Shit,” he curses under his breath, tossing the notepad on the table. Dropping to his knees, he begins to gather the mess. I kneel, picking up the pencils that roll toward me. When they are all gathered, he sits back on his haunches.