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

by Autumn Breeze

  It might have been the truth but do I really want him to acknowledge I stumbled over my own feet? Tripping meant if he had really been a danger, I’d have been dead meat by my own stupidity. How . . . embarrassing.

  “On second thought, you definitely tackled me. Good job.”

  “You so tripped,” he sings, a smile tugging at his lips. There is immense satisfaction in his tone, maybe more than was present when he was claiming he tackled me.

  “You minx.” Snagging his hip, I roll him to his back. My knees knock his thighs apart and I settle between them. “It seems you’re pinned as easily as I am.”

  Everett’s eyes widen before he tosses his head back and laughs. I shake my head. He is completely vulnerable, but all I see when he looks up is merriment.

  “This is unfair treatment. I’ve done nothing,” Everett protests. Grasping his wrists, I pull them over his head. Our chests rise and fall in sync. Everything from our hips to breast plate are pressed together so tightly, not an inch of space separates us.

  It is my turn to suffocate him. Compared to the weight of his wolf, I am nothing. He is strong enough to handle the bulk of my body.

  “You managed to successfully tease me,” I mock, curling both of his wrists in one of my hands while using my other to prop myself over top of him. He tugs slightly, but I don’t release him.

  “Does that mean I get a reward?” he ask, wiggling under me. I become very aware that both of us are in pajama bottoms and not much else. This encounter could take our morning awkward boners to an entirely new level of unease. How would either of us explain away being hard when we aren’t half-asleep and bursting to take a piss?

  “What happened to the quiet man I married two days ago?” I inquire. He’s been replaced by the man I have pinned and I think I prefer it.

  Being friendly is easier when he isn’t scared, or is willing to joke and laugh. This arrangement feels more . . . natural when neither of us are hesitant and uncomfortable. It feels almost . . . familiar, as if we are falling into an old habit instead of trying to create a new one.

  “Oh, you fed him. Did your father ever tell you not to feed strays?” I shake my head, releasing his wrist and brushing my knuckles down his jaw. He looks up with imploring sapphire eyes that seem to hold a world of questions. I can’t even begin to know how I am supposed to answer them. At least I can answer the one he puts directly to me.

  “You aren’t a stray; you’re my husband.” Everett’s cheeks tint. It is so unexpected and out of place I can’t help but grin. “And you blush.”

  Bending, I press my lips against his flesh, feeling the heat of the stain. When I pull back, it has traveled down his neck and to the tips of his ears. He is a crimson crime scene.

  “Cute.”

  “Now who's teasing who?” he protests. I laugh, sliding my knees under his bottom so he is cradled in my lap. This position would be a whole lot more interesting if we were both naked and better friends.

  “Turnabout is fair play,” I mock.

  His fingers curl around my biceps. It is a possessive hold, one lovers used in the past to keep me against them when I was trying to pull away. I’m not pulling away from Everett. We are supposed to be getting closer and this is about as close as we can get without stripping.

  “Who knew a Moroii could be so bloodthirsty?” I scoff at his tease, bending to nip at his jaw. My teeth scrape against his flesh and I swear he trembles, only . . . I don’t think it is from fear.

  “I would hardly consider this bloodthirsty,” I mutter, my hands curling around his hips. This position is intimate, the kind lovers engage in. If I lift his hips after pulling his boxers away, I could easily sink into him. Neither of us are ready for that step in this marriage. Today has been a good day, though. We . . . bonded in small ways.

  The pile we engaged in earlier is something pack members enjoy doing together, a way of learning each other’s scent and forming attachments. It is okay if we bond.

  He is my pack now, or at least a part of it. We are married, husbands ‘til death do us part. A day will come when I will have lived and existed with him longer than I will have with my family.

  “What do you consider it?” he questions, his breathing shallow.

  My nose travels along his flesh, breathing his scent in deeper than I previously have. There is something rich and spicy tangled with the paint, earth, charcoal and fire of his natural scent that makes my mouth water.

  “Unusual,” I mutter, pausing to nuzzle his jaw.

  “Why do you consider this unusual?” he clarifies.

  “I’ve never had a Vârcolac under me quite this way,” I tell him, which is true. If one is under me, my teeth are usually embedded in their neck, making mincemeat of their arteries. Everett is perfectly safe. I have no desire to feast on him . . . at least, not in the way he expects.

  “I’ve never been under a Moroi, period.”

  If he’d ever been under one before, he would have ended up dead. Six months ago, before my father came up with his plan for peace, if Everett was under me, it wouldn’t have been this enjoyable for either of us. I’d be bloody, probably pissed about ruining my shirt or upset he put up a fight.

  “Does it bother you?” I ask softly, curiously even, because if I have to guess, I don’t think it bothers him in the slightest. Right now, he is as relaxed as I am with his thighs cradling my hips.

  “It should,” he whispers, the edge of shame in his voice.

  Maybe ashamed because he isn’t bothered by the fact that I am over top of him while one hand curls around his hip and the other rests against the pillow he lays on. Maybe ashamed because I am a man and he is as well, and this is something the pack, his former pack, frowns upon.

  “But it doesn’t.” I can see it doesn’t. That gives me hope for the future. It makes me think maybe an honest friendship and a comfortable marriage between us is possible.

  “What about you?” he asks.

  I press down on him, making his body sink deeper into the bed. He groans softly and I hide my smile in his neck. I hope my weight is a little difficult to bare because his wasn’t the easiest to lay under for hours.

  “I’m quite comfortable; I may even stay here for hours,” I reply, drawing the blanket up around my shoulders so both of us are covered. His legs slide along the back of mine until his feet are tucked on the inside of my knees. The shift causes our bodies to be in contact everywhere.

  This game is quickly turning dangerous, but I’ll be damned if I’ll back down.

  “Hours?” he squawks.

  “Mmm—” Shifting, I slide my hand up his sides until they rest just under his shoulders. My chin lays against the slope of his neck, effectively trapping him in much the same way he had me this afternoon.

  “Hours,” I clarify. He hums and I shift when his fingers slide into the hair at my temple.

  “I suppose,” he starts softly, “if turnabout is fair play, I deserve it.” I hum, closing my eyes and listening to his heart thump. His fingers trail into my hair once more.

  Opening my eyes, I blink a few times before focusing on the thick head of hair pressed to my chest for the fourth morning in a row. A pair of warm arms are wrapped around my waist, holding me securely. I hold the body attached to those arms just as tightly.

  A sigh is pulled from somewhere deep inside of me. This is okay. Despite the fact that we have been married less than a week, our casual conversations have shown me a man I could have been friends with if we grew up differently.

  Everett shifts, sliding our legs together as his fingers dig into my back. If this is what I have to look forward to for the next two hundred or so years . . . I’ll be okay.

  This is . . . good; it is better than good. I will go so far as to classify it as nice, comfortable. I don’t mind the position in the slightest. In fact, it is something I can get used to.

  7

  Yanking on my tie, it comes away from my neck and I shove it deep in my pocket. As I pass the mirror in the f
oyer, I catch my irritated scowl; it only serves to vex me further. The expression, the bad mood, my desire to find a Vârcolac, any Vârcolac at this point with the exception of my husband, and strangle the life out of them is entirely my father’s fault.

  He is to blame for the headache and three-hour conversation I had to endure with David and Oliver Dawson, two men I am now absolutely positive share half a brain cell between them and the four people in charge of their domestic operations.

  It is ridiculous that I am so . . . exasperated, but their derogatory remarks concerning my husband and our relationship pushed all of my buttons in an unexpected way.

  Everett isn’t my bitch. He’s my husband. That is a distinction Oliver didn’t understand when he made the offhand comment. David, Everett’s father, didn't rise to defend his son.

  If my father was in a meeting and someone spoke against me, they would be swallowing their teeth. It is only by the grace of God, Oliver still has teeth at all. I spent a good thirty minutes fantasizing about pulling his from his mouth with my fingers.

  Closing my eyes, I inhale sharply upon entering my office. An all too familiar smell surrounds me, but it isn’t one I normally associate with my work space. Everett is sitting behind my desk; his head bows over something.

  My normally organized papers are scattered everywhere.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Everett jerks up, stumbling to his feet.

  “Thanos, you’re home.”

  “Why the hell are you in my office?” I demand to know.

  We’ve been married fourteen days and he’s never ventured into this room. Why wait until I’ve left to invade? What is he doing with my papers?

  All of those papers pertain to clan business. They all have information that could bring the clan to its knees if anyone got ahold of it. I left them exposed like a fool, believing this place was a sanctuary, but forgetting I live with the enemy now.

  “I . . . I . . . ” Everett stutters.

  I step forward and Everett steps backwards, knocking into my chair. It spins, hitting the edge of a bookshelf, sending the normally sturdy case into a shaking fit. Books crash to the floor with a whomp. Everett flinches before scooping to gather them up with trembling fingers.

  “Leave it,” I snap. He recoils, rising to his feet with wide eyes that dance in every direction as if he is looking for a way out, but can’t find one that doesn’t involve the window or knocking into me. “Get out,” I order, stepping away from the door.

  Everett leaves, giving me a wide berth. I can still hear the loud thud of his quickly departing steps as I move to my desk. Everything is scattered everywhere. Sitting on top of the papers is a book I recognize well. Reaching for the black spiral sketchbook, guilt tears at my insides.

  He hadn’t been going through my papers. As I look at the desk, I recall in my rush to leave that I hadn’t put anything away. This is my mess, my . . . disaster.

  He’d only been drawing. My gaze flickers to the sketch and if at all possible, I feel even worse.

  A wolf that looks suspiciously like Everett is stretched out in a familiar wheat field. His body supports a man who is hidden behind a book. Color isn’t necessary to understand what’s happening in the picture.

  The man is reading a book out loud to the animal who relaxes in the sunlight behind him.

  I recognize the scene because it is me—us, the time we spent together in the field just a few days previous after Everett confessed to never reading Dracula.

  It had been a good day. In truth, every day has been a good day with him even if it has started or ended rocky.

  We share a lot of the same opinions and enjoy a lot of the same things. If we bicker, which everyone in any sort of relationship does, we always manage to talk our way through the issue after a couple hours of solitude. The issue now is I happen to be a jackass. I owe Everett an apology.

  Tucking his sketchbook under my arm, I leave my office and find him in the sunroom. He’s tucked into one of the window seats, curled into himself and staring over the grounds. There is a soft sniffle and my heart squeezes before shattering. I’ve made him cry.

  “Everett,” I call. He snaps up, his hands rubbing over his face as he keeps his back to me. “I’m a dick.”

  Rash judgment is one of my many flaws. He just got to witness that snap judgment in action.

  It isn’t something I am proud of.

  “You are a dick,” he mutters, still refusing to turn around.

  “I’m also sorry.” I take a couple of slow steps in his direction. “I overreacted. It was silly of me. If I beg, will you forgive me?”

  Everett turns and regards me with red swollen eyes and a puffy nose. I shift from foot to foot, feeling the weight of his stare.

  “You’re not going to beg,” he mutters.

  Probably not since I’m not one to plead my case, but I asked for forgiveness and if he is half the man I think he is, he’ll forgive me because I said sorry and sincerely meant it.

  “I might grovel,” I warn, taking another step toward him. He steps forward, too, until we are standing just a couple feet apart. I want to reach out and touch him as I so often do now but hesitate. If he flinches, I’ll never forgive myself.

  “You won’t do that either,” he mutters.

  He’d like it far too much if I were belly down in front of him, begging for anything. Usually when I’m lying on my stomach, a huge wolf is flopped over my back, blowing his rank breath into my ear and listening to me read something or just talk about my family.

  “I’ll take you into the city for dinner with my family,” I offer. He likes hearing about them and their antics. Maybe he’ll like sharing a meal with them.

  “Really?” he questions, surprise evident in his voice.

  It would be good for both of us to get out of the house, off the estate and interact with people I don’t pay to do as they are told. I’ve gotten my lungful of city air today, but Everett could use a strong whiff of the polluted city stench to remind him why I like living so far outside of the city.

  “Yes, and not just because my mother demanded we come visit at some point after I told her you’re an artist—” I hold his sketchbook out. “—a talented one, too, by the looks of it.” He takes the book, looking down at the drawing of us.

  The detail is amazing. Upon first look, it appears one dimensional but if you really stare, you notice our shadows playing in the sunlight. The wheat is bent slightly in an invisible breeze as thick clouds drift by. I can almost feel the warmth of that day just in the drawing.

  “You looked?” he ask.

  I shrug. “Just at that page. It’s really good. I’d like to see more, if you're willing to show me.”

  He looks down at the sketchbook, maybe wondering if I really do want to see his work.

  He already explained how it’s frowned upon in his pack. I have the impression he is the black sheep simply because he exists. That isn’t something I understand since Moroii stand by each other despite the bullshit, despite the differences of opinion and lifestyles we all enjoy. We don’t call each other pack, but we call one another family and those bonds are more than blood, species, or obligation.

  Family is . . . always, despite and in spite of everything.

  “Do you really want to see?” he ask.

  Stepping closer, I touch his chin to lift his head.

  “I would very much like to see. Maybe tomorrow when we take our walk, you can show me. Of course, that requires you to stay in human form. I’ll still let you squash me,” I tease. He smiles and I lean forward, my mouth touching the corner of his. He sighs, leaning into me as I curl an arm around his shoulder.

  “I’d really enjoy that,” he mutters, tucking his head against my collarbone. I laugh softly.

  “I knew you would. You’re determined to suffocate me. At least before you succeed I’ll get to enjoy your talent, or is it a skill? My mother insists it’s both but I’ve never been able to do anything remotely arti
stic.”

  Mother would scoff and tell me that I dance like a dream, but that’s because she’d spend hours beating the skill into my head with a ruler. My dancing is no more a talent than breathing is.

  “I’ll be talented. You be . . . you,” Everett says.

  My chest shakes as I press a kiss to his temple. “Dinner is at six so we’ll need to leave by four.”

  Dinner is always at six in my mother’s house. If you are late, you don't get to eat. Everyone’s butt needs to be parked in a chair before the first course is served.

  “I’ll be ready.” I step back and he smiles brightly. It is a contagious thing that soon makes a smile tug at my own lips. Reaching out, I push some of his hair behind his ear before leaning in and briefly pressing our mouths together.

  His wide eyes follow me out of the sunroom as I make a hasty retreat while listening to my heart slam against my rib cage. An hour later as we leave the house, I haven’t forgotten his shocked expression. It teases me on the drive to my family home even as we chat lightly.

  Is it too early to kiss him, even briefly as I did?

  We’ve only been married to each other for fourteen days. The wedding might have taken six months to plan, but we never had any contact before the vows.

  Is two weeks long enough into our marriage to be so . . . close? We are attached already, or I am, at least. It happened easily and suddenly. Maybe the combination of our daily walks and nightly snuggle sessions turned me smitten. Maybe I’m just being swept up in the wedding vows but I really like Everett.

  “I don’t miss the city,” Everett speaks, drawing me away from my thoughts.

  Muscle memory has carried us deep into the busy streets. Ahead, I see the tall iron gates that close off my parents’ home from the rest of Necropolis. I hated them when I was a child because they kept the world out, but now I understand they are necessary for safety.

  “We won’t stay long,” I assure him, pulling up to the gate. The guard opens it after I wave.

  It only takes us a couple of minutes to get parked and to the door. Instead of walking in like I did when I lived here, I ring the doorbell before slipping my arm around Everett’s waist. He looks at me curiously and I smile softly.