#I figured she’d like a cow print chair

[asymmetricallyanxious]

For anyone wondering I finished my Diana piece lol. No background and a chair instead of a throne with very minimal shading, and I didn’t turn off the sketch layer but whatever

[reddeaddufus]

Pheromones

Author’s comment: 

Tuberculosis doesn’t exist in RDR2 and you can’t tell me otherwise. Lycanthropy as an STD definitely exists. 

This one shot is the direct result of listening to a horrific amount of werewolf - themed power metal. At some point I figured if I wrote it all down I could move on with my playlist, but it hasn’t happened yet. God, someone save me. 

Warning! This includes animal death, a gory battle sequence, and hardcore smut. 

The saloon was packed. The dirty, familiar room hummed with the usual array of gossip, flirtations, and insults. Arthur Morgan nursed his glass as he watched warily. Despite the bustle and the noise and the verbal pissing contests, the room felt empty. If he listened hard enough through the din, Arthur could almost hear the voices of companions long since dead. The place stank of memories. The big man sighed and reclined, leaning back dangerously far in his chair. With his hat slung low over his brow he scanned the room. He wasn’t expecting to find anything to pique his interest - nothing did anymore.

There was some drunken feller touting his miracle oils, and another fixin’ to come to blows with his neighbor. Poor prospects for robbin’ or a distraction, Arthur thought wearily. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure why he was here. It had been a long time since he’d been back in these parts. He wasn’t sure why he was back this far east at all, actually. Every vistage, every town held ghosts he wasn’t ready to face. He hurt too much. 

He’d been a ghost himself, a rambler in the wind for some time since Micah and Dutch had left him for dead on the mountain. When he’d come to the sun was bright and painful on his skin. He’d managed to drag himself to cover before he passed out again. When he woke the second time he’d gathered what he could and headed west. He hadn’t looked back in the months that followed until recently, when he had found himself absent mindedly turning his gelding east. It had been muscle memory from there, and here he was. Reluctant and wary, but back in the memories again.

Arthur was ready to give up on finding a distraction in this town when someone at the poker table to his right mentioned a wolf. He listened with empty bemusement while a young man - just a kid, really - protested to his fellow players.

“Of course I could do it!” The youth argued. “You don’t think I could?!”

His closest companion snorted.

“I know ye’ couldn’t. You ain’t yet, have ye’? Bet ye’ were too scared t’ even look fer’ the thing.” Sloppy drunk, the older man sagged in his seat. He hawked something back in his throat and spat it on the floor before returning to contemplate his cards.

“I seen it!” The youngest man insisted. 

“You ain’t seen it,” The third companion drawled. He poked an accusatory finger in the youth’s face. “If you’d seen it, you’d be dead, just like that Ned asshole. And we’re still feckin’ stuck with you.”

The youngest man flushed as he slammed down his fist. “I seen it!” He bellowed. “I seen it over by that Hanging Dog place! Huge, the size of some sort’a pony!” Spittle flew onto the table. 

“Tell you what. You go find that thing, you bring it back, you’ll have tha’ reward and I’ll apologize to the mighty hunter. How ‘bout that?” His companion sneered. The youth scowled back. 

Behind them, Arthur slid from his spot in the corner and slipped out the door as quietly as he’d come. He’d heard enough. A dangerous hunt might be just what he needed.

~~~

If Arthur pretended a little, he could imagine he was alone in West Elizabeth. It was easy to forget the squalor of civilization and all the hell that came with it when he stood in the meadows and drank in the wild. The wildflowers brushed his thighs and tickled his palms when he dropped his hands to walk among them. Pollen tickled his nose and bird calls resonated through the breeze. Somewhere, a bull bugled. Without the shouts of men and the rattle of carts, the world felt a little kinder and a little more hopeful. Arthur felt at peace here, as much as he could. 

He’d ridden some time to get here and had set up camp as soon as he’d arrived. It had been a long day on the road and he and his horse were weary. He’d woken in the night with a cold sweat and not known where he was. What he’d frantically mistaken for the bright lights of a city in his sleep haze was just the cold glow of the milky way. He’d watched it until his pulse slowed and he could appreciate the vast cold beauty of it. It was fading when he finally fell back to sleep, and he slept better than he had in weeks. 

Come morning he set out to restock his food stores. He intended to craft some bait from whatever he caught. With any luck, it would bring the fabled huge wolf right to him. He left his slow big bay gelding back in the meadow to graze but took his bolt action rifle. A set of fresh elk tracks led him across a stream and close to the forest. When he found the herd he settled low into the grass and let the world grow clear and cold in his sights. Time slowed as he settled on the bull. It idly flicked an ear as he pulled the hammer. Arthur pulled the trigger. His gut told him that the shot was true as soon as he’d fired it, so Arthur let the coolness of his focus flit away. His emotions flooded back just in time to see his shot land.

The bull crumpled in a spray of red mist. The cows around him blanched and scattered. Something else startled and dashed away through the tall grass. Arthur scrambled forward after the disturbance. He grabbed his binoculars just in time to see the grass at the edge of the treeline part and still. He would have missed the wolf if he hadn’t been looking for it. The tawny pelt and creamy belly blended into the grass perfectly. It was a massive thing with a lean, powerful body. Through the binoculars he watched as she twitched a caramel ear and turned to stare directly at him. The glint of cool grey eyes was unnerving and unexpected. When he lowered the binoculars to raise his rifle, she had disappeared. 

He’d skinned and processed his elk as quick as he could. By the time he’d whistled for his horse and the old gelding had come, he was humming with the urge to hunt. He tracked her for hours. When it seemed like he was close he would dismount and leave Sue to graze. Arthur was startled enough by the she-wolf’s size - he could only imagine how Sue would react. But by the time he was a few dozen yards further down the track the paw prints would stretch into a lope and Arthur would be forced to whistle and mount his gelding again. When dusk came Arthur grudgingly called off the camp for the night and set up camp. With his belly full of elk and his mind heavy with the hunt he drifted off into a deep sleep beneath the stars. 

~~~

The wolf had been watching him all day. When she slipped closer to watch him that night his horse wickered nervously. When the breeze shifted upwind she padded closer on large, silent paws. This man had taken the bull elk before she could, and she had been a bit bitter about it. But that had been before she slipped into his camp and past the dying coals of his fire. That was before she’d stood close and watched the rise and fall of this man’s sleeping form. 

He was dirty and rough, but beneath the layer of grime and stubble was a set of ruggedly handsome features. Sandy colored hair poked messily from beneath an old black leather hat. He had a broad, crooked nose, obviously poorly set after several breaks, and a set of scars on his chin. A pair of full lips rested partly open with sleep. A ghost of a relaxed smile curved it into a peaceful expression. It made him look years younger than how he had looked earlier, the she-wolf decided. She quite liked him like this. 

There was something about him that made her want to remember what it felt like to live as a woman again. Her mother had called her Nathalie, but it had been a long time since anyone with a human tongue had used her name. She had done her very best to forget it for years. To think of her humanity now was strange, but not unpleasant. 

 She nosed through his satchel and around his boots for a bit. When she found a small book she was so intrigued and startled by the smell of graphite and sorrow and of the man’s own unique scent that she forgot herself and bumped it with her nose. It left a muddy smear on the cover. The wolf huffed and stepped backward. When she slipped away to pursue her own sleep, her thoughts chased her through the night.

~~~

The second day Arthur had woken in a good mood. He chalked it up to the good weather and gorgeous scenery. That had lasted until he’d squatted to start a pot of coffee and placed his knee directly over a mammoth proportioned paw print. To his further horror and dismay he found them all over his campsite and even up to a foot away from where he’d slept. Sue only flicked an ear at him while he swore. He didn’t shake the deep unease he felt until he was mounted and miles away. If there was any blessing to this, it was that the she-wolf had left a clear set of tracks for him to follow. That she’d left them starting from his campsite was something he was unlikely to forget anytime soon. 

The idiots in Valentine had mentioned that the wolf had killed someone. That hadn’t been surprising to Arthur. They hadn’t mentioned it’d be smart, Arthur grimaced. Smart and curious. That it had forayed into his camp and not attacked either Sue or Arthur was confounding. It was a small mercy it didn’t have a pack. The she-wolf was turning out to be a big enough headache as it was - It was no wonder that there was a reward on the thing’s head. 

Arthur’s brow was firmly worried over his eyes for the better half of the morning. It relaxed on the hunter’s face when the tracks began looking fresher, but his scowl was back in full force when he realized the wolf had led him in a big loop. The loops continued throughout the day. Whenever Arthur lost the trail he’d find another in the opposite direction, too fresh for comfort. Another time he found a spot where the wolf had clearly laid down, seemingly to wait for him to catch up, before trotting through mud just a few scant minutes past. By midafternoon he was throwing his hat and cussing every time the trails looped, crossed, or were fresher than they should have been.

Nathalie was enjoying it. 

He threw his hands into the air and exclaimed something indistinct when he found the carefully placed waste she had left for him. He must have given up for the day, as he shot the next rabbit that crossed his path and grumbled something when he turned his horse back towards the meadows. 

She let him cool off for a bit on his own for a few hours before she loped after his scent. She caught up easily, and quickly found his new campsite. She hesitated on the outskirts, uncharacteristically nervous. She hadn’t done what she was about to do for many seasons. She wasn’t sure why she was here at all, following this man, but she wasn’t one to stop herself now. 

She inhaled deeply and let herself chase the feeling the cold air being pulled through her lungs. Nathalie focused on the core of her own presence. She felt tight in her chest. The human was still there, where the warmth had always been. She tugged on it, and it all came flooding back. The shift was quicker than she remembered. Just a short minute later saw her naked and human form stumble and pitch forward. Instinctively she threw a hand out to catch herself against a tree. She felt deaf and strange without scent and sound flooding her. 

Nathalie took a quick steadying breath and studied herself. She was still as she remembered herself. Her hips were wide and stocky and supported by a pair of strong, shapely thighs. She was pleased to feel her breasts again - they were full, and she’d always been proud of her figure. Her mass of caramel hair, once restrained with ribbons, hung down in wild curls. But she was different than she had been a few years ago as well. She was tanned and wild. She felt beautiful. 

When she was sure she wouldn’t fall again she took an experimental step, and then another. With a little huff of breath she set her shoulders back and strode into the hunter’s campsite. 

Arthur was busy with the fire when he heard something move off to his right. The big man swung to his feet in an instant, the fire forgotten.

“Christ!” Arthur started. His hands spasmed to his guns and cleared them of their holsters before he could comprehend the sight. His eyes were big as he took in the woman’s state. 

“Christ,” he repeated, gentler this time. “Miss, y’ alright?” He crouched and slowly re-holstered his guns. Still crouched he slowly raised his empty hands in front of his shoulders. He looked like a man trying to tame a wild horse. Nathalie swallowed a smile at the thought. He was clearly trying not to scare her. Nathalie tilted her head a little as she watched him.

“I’m going to grab you a blanket, here. Yer’ alright, girl,” the big man cooed. This time she tucked a small lopsided smile into her shoulder. His eyes combed her body quickly, searching for bruises or wounds. There were none, of course. She hoped he liked what he saw.

“What happened, are you hurt? Are the men who did this still in the area? Let’s get you by the fire, an’ warmed up.” 

He approached her tentatively, offering her an old, patched wool blanket. When she didn’t respond he gently came closer and unfurled the thing, then slowly draped it over her shoulders. The way his ears flushed red as he averted his eyes made her smile despite herself. 

She would have thought him bumbling if she hadn’t been studying him the way he was trying not to study her. He wasn’t bumbling at all, of course. He moved like a predator. His movements were agonizingly slow, but smooth. He was shockingly graceful, fluid even, for such a big man. Nathalie would have been wary if she didn’t already trust him.

And how could she not trust him? She felt like she knew him. She read him like a book, from his mannerisms to his scent. And what a scent it was. She had trailed it all day of course, but now she felt dizzy in him. He smelled like leather and mint and wool, like guilt and kindness and an overwhelming, aching sadness. She wanted to curl up beside him and bathe in those smells, to replace that grief with a promise and tender touch. Instead she let him gently lead her into the campsite and down to the fireside.

She eyed it curiously while she settled. Arthur watched, brow furrowed. After a minute she spoke.

“I’m - ” Her voice cracked. She paused and tried again. “I’m well.” Her voice sounded hesitant, like the words were unfamiliar. Arthur wondered vaguely if she was foreign. He listened closely for an accent, but he couldn’t find one.

“The one who did this is -” She hesitated, seemingly looking for the right words. “He’s long gone.” At that she smiled wolfishly. 

Arthur nodded curtly, watching her from under his hat while he stoked the fire. She didn’t have more to say and Arthur wasn’t going to push it. The feral woman watched the fire with alien fascination. As he studied her she held her hand up to the flame. She wavered closer, leaning too far into the fire. When a tongue of flame met her open palm she snatched her hand away and stared at it as if checking for marks. 

Arthur cleared his throat.

“You hungry?” He asked. “I was just about to cook up some rabbit I caught earlier.”

“I saw,” Nathalie smiled. Her crooked grin was bold, too bold. 

Arthur was taken aback by the way she carried herself. Undaunted, unabashed, and intense. The way she looked at him - was that desire? Open desire? If it was, she wasn’t being shy about it. She took her time observing him, her gaze scalding his skin. He could feel his ears and the back of his neck burning as he flushed, unused to the attention. He scratched at his hair self consciously, too aware of how long he’d let it get. He hadn’t had a woman look at him like this in a long time. He was torn between hoping she’d look away and hoping she would never stop.

His head felt heavy. He cleared his throat and turned to his horse. The old gelding was hitched to a nearby oak. Sue huffed the air and flicked his head nervously. Arthur ran his hand absentmindedly along the horse’s neck while he pulled the rabbit from the saddle bag, murmuring something wordlessly soothing. The big bay horse stilled, but his nostrils continued to flare.

 “You got a horse, miss...?” Arthur asked while assembled the cooking spit. The woman watched this too. He meet her gaze when she didn’t answer immediately. She grimaced when she realized his question was twofold. 

“Not for a long time.” Looking away, she replied. Her brow furrowed. “My name is…” 

The outlaw waited patiently. 

“Nathalie, it was Nathalie,” the woman finished, mouth quirked into a little frown. Her brow was knit tight in thought.

Arthur smiled, and shook his head a little. He lent forward to turn load the spit.

“Well it’s a real pleasure t’ meet yeh, miss Nathalie. You can call me Arthur.” 

Nathalie nodded, as if this made sense. 

They didn’t say much more until the meal was ready. Arthur noted with some amusement that she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. She fisted the meat with a two hand grip. When she bit deeply into the hot meat she flinched, and immediately spat the steaming bite out. Arthur did his best not to smile and very slowly blew over his portion. She watched and hesitantly pantomimed him after a long pause. 

“You need a ride tomorrow, Miss Nathalie?”

Nathalie shook her head. Deftly she ran a small, pink tongue over the grease on her hands. When that wasn’t enough she slipped her fingertips into her mouth. Arthur tried not to watch the way her tongue flicked over her fingers, but he couldn’t help but stare. Her confidence, the way she moved, even the self assurance in her own peculiarities - it was strangely alluring. He could watch her for days. And when she shifted positions and her blanket slipped, revealing the swell of a tanned breast, he flushed and looked away. If she noticed her own indecency, she didn’t care. It was several minutes before the goosebumps on her forearms led her to cover herself more thoroughly.

To distract his wandering thoughts Arthur turned and rummaged into his satchel until he returned, holding a chocolate bar up for Nathalie to see. She said nothing and just stared. Arthur grinned and peeled back the wrapper.

“I figure some of this couldn’t hurt. You ever had it before?” When she said nothing he continued, lips curved into a boyish smile. His broad, calloused fingers quickly cracked a few squares loose and offered them to her. “It’s pretty good. Sweet. Think you’ll like it.”

After a moment she hesitantly accepted, but waited until Arthur had popped a square in his mouth before she copied him. Her eyes opened wide as she chewed. Arthur chuckled when she finished and immediately looked to him for more. 

They finished the chocolate bar quickly after that. He almost retrieved his last candy bar to split with her, but he restrained himself. It was delightful to watch Nathalie’s child-like bliss, but he figured it was better to save the chocolate for another, colder and lonelier night. He rolled out his bedroll for her and motioned to it. She gingerly moved onto it, and settled more comfortably once Arthur smiled at her. She shimmied to one side of the blankets and watched him. When he didn’t move she patted the blanket beside her. Arthur immediately flushed. 

“You are not joining me?” Her expression was naively innocent, but the glint in her wide gray eyes was mischievous. 

“I’ll, uh, be over here. I’ll keep watch,” Arthur stated lamely. He pulled his hat lower over his eyes to hide whatever he was sure was written on his face. Nathalie nodded, accepting his answer. She settled down quickly and was deep asleep within five minutes. Arthur envied her. He watched her and wondered about her while he kept guard. When he was sure she wouldn’t wake he pulled his journal into his lap and began to write. Arthur’s eyes drooped lower in time with the flames of the dying firelight. 

~~~

Nathalie was gone in the morning. Arthur had fallen asleep at some point in the night, and he woke to an awkward pinch in his neck. He wasn’t totally surprised to see his guest had left. She was certainly an odd one. A feeling in his gut told him that wouldn’t be the last he’d see of her. 

The shirt he’d planned on wearing that day was missing, as well as his last chocolate bar. More frustrating was a large set of paw prints bordering his campsite and leading away and into the woods. 

Arthur had practically growled. Somewhat resigned, he swung himself into Sue’s saddle and began tracking once more. The morning and then the afternoon passed quickly, and both were just as productive as the day’s prior. Arthur’s frustration was dimmed by the enigma of Nathalie. She’d been strange, sure, but Arthur had met odder. It was something else that drew him to her. Her boldness had tickled him. He was hard pressed to forget the mischievous glint in her eyes and the way she’d smiled at him. Strangest of all, he’d realized with a start, was the way he’d entirely forgotten his worries and his exhaustion while they had talked. She was heavy on his mind for this reason as he rode, and it was Nathalie he was mulling over when Sue whinnied uneasily and stalled. 

Arthur frowned and reined the big horse back into position on the trail. The horse’s ears were low against his skull. 

“What are ye doin’, bud? C’mon, let’s move,” he murmured. He patted Sue’s neck reassuringly and gently kicked him forward again. The bay tossed his head and shifted into a fast trot. Arthur’s brows quirked as he guided his horse forward. He was looking for a cougar when the roar of a bullet deafened him. Something hot and wet sprayed his face, neck, and hands. He responded milliseconds later, but it was too late. The old gelding crumpled beneath Arthur, dead instantly. 

Arthur’s shout was swallowed by the yelling of men and the crack of guns. Arthur hit the ground hard and for a moment was aware only of the air whooshing out of his lungs. That lasted until he saw the shadows of men streaming out from alongside the path. With a hoarse growl the outlaw rolled and careened into a trailside bush. He was firing his bolt action rifle before he could think to do otherwise. Muscle memory washed over his body and mellowed the kick of the rifle on his shoulder. The men looked like ranch hands, but their weapons and their aim was much better than Arthur was comfortable with. Laramie gang, Arthur’s thoughts offered unhelpfully. 

His bolt action was his favorite for hunting, but the recovery speed was not assisting in Arthur’s favor. Men fell in his sights but more moved in to replace them. His hat shot back off his head following the heat a bullet come too close. Arthur swore and stumbled backwards and deeper into the woods. There were too many. Fresh rounds slipped through his fingers, slippery with his poor horse’s blood. He scrambled to reload his rifle as he crouched behind a boulder. Another bullet chipped the rock next to his torso. 

Someone shrieked triumphantly in his ear and Arthur saw the barrel of a shotgun swing towards him. Arthur grabbed the length of his rifle and slammed the butt of it into the approaching man’s face. He twisted his body to the side just in time to feel the heat of the muzzle slid past his back even as he met his target’s nose with a sickening crunch. The man screamed and dropped the shotgun to clutch his face. Arthur spun to shoot the man point-blank and kick his body aside. 

Someone else shouted and Arthur dove forward to down the new opponent. Somewhere in front of him, someone screamed. Arthur would have noted it as his bullet meeting it’s mark, but it was followed by another man’s scream and a new volley of gunfire, now directed somewhere to Arthur’s left. Arthur used the new distraction to down two more men. He skidded into the cover that the bodies had formerly occupied and chose his next target. 

A man in a blue bandana settled in the outlaw’s sights. Even as Arthur pulled the trigger the man fell and screamed in horror. Something answered with a vicious snarl and yanked the man back several feet. The man’s leg snapped resoundingly, and Arthur saw bone as a wolf leapt forward and slammed her jaws around the man’s neck. Arterial blood spurted around the animal’s snarling muzzle. 

It was the wolf Arthur had been stalking for the last day and a half. She was a huge mass of cold, animalistic fury. Rage rolled off her body like a blast of icy air - Arthur could feel it race down his own body in response. Up close, the wolf was larger than Arthur had thought. She was spectacular, a writhing force of rippling muscle and fluid movements. The power rippling underneath the wolf’s thick amber pelt was immense, and it poured from her as she thrashed her prey. Blood darkened the creamy off-white of her belly, paws, and muzzle. 

The man with the bandana didn’t scream again, but the wolf did not stay stationary. The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck tingled as he watched her, his hands momentarily still on his rifle. That lasted until a bullet bit into the grass next to his foot. Arthur let muscle memory take over and guide him into a cool, time slowing haze. He fired through it and was dimly satisfied to see each of his bullets find their marks. 

He didn’t have time to think about the wolf he’d been tracking or the way she tore through men’s throats as easily as wet cloth somewhere beside him. There were no questions, no time for marveling. There was only a never ending stream of targets and the comforting burn of his rifle on his shoulder. . 

Fire.

Close the bolt.

Fire.

Close the bolt.

Fire. 

Gunsmoke burned Arthur’s nose. Someone else shrieked.

Close the bolt.

Fire.

A rush of fur through the aspens, bright with burgundy. Something snapping. 

Close the bolt.

Fire. 

Close the bolt.

Fire. 

The world rushed back, flooding Arthur with his senses and the normal rush of time. Beyond the dull whine of tinnitus he heard shouting, but the air was still. No bullets struck around him. Warily Arthur dropped his gaze from the rifle’s sights and rose into a crouch. As his hearing returned Arthur glanced around more fervently, scoping the trees around him for further threat of whistling bullets or unsheathed blades. There was nothing but a dull groan from a few yards to Arthur’s left. 

Arthur advanced guardedly, the sight inches from his eye. When he saw the source he stilled and raised his rifle. There was a man sprawled on the ground, his hands clawed into the bed of leaves in Arthur’s direction. He was alive, although clearly hurting. One of his knees bulged and twisted grotesquely, leaving his leg splayed in a direction it should never have faced. The man’s face was contorted in pain and anger, but he wasn’t looking at Arthur. His hands shuffled through the leaf litter, frantically feeling for something. 

A low grow stilled the man’s movements. Three yards back from the man’s boots stood the wolf. Slowly and deliberately she stalked forward. From Arthur’s vantage point he could see fear drain the color in the man’s face. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t twist to face the oncoming threat fast enough, but the man knew what was coming. His lips sneered around yellowed teeth as one of his fists tightened around something on the ground. 

The wolf leapt. Leaves scattered in a violent cascade of colors around the man’s form as he flailed. Burgundy and scarlet joined the selection of fall colors in drops and rivulets and pools. Arthur just watched. He watched as the wolf tore into the man’s shoulder, and how the man was yanked over and onto his back between the beast’s forelimbs. He watched as the she-wolf ripped through cloth and skin and bone with a fervent, enraged need. He watched and found himself empty of fear. Empty of fear, and, to Arthur’s mellowed surprise, empty of shock, anger, loneliness, or exhaustion. In this strange, violent moment he felt right, and he felt safe. Something within him told him he was going to be more okay than he had been in a long time.  

The man screamed something wordless and desperate and arced his arm high overhead. Light flashed on steel. It was a wild, frantic blow, but it was obvious that the knife would find its mark in the wolf’s neck. 

Arthur acted without thinking. Some long forgotten drive in his heart told him to act, and he did. The man’s head burst with a crescent of cruor and grey matter. The glen reverberated with the sound of his shot. When the ringing ceased, Arthur found himself gazing at his quarry with nothing but a lowered gun between them. Logic screamed a warning at him, but something else made his hands drop his rifle to the leaf litter below.

The wolf whined. Grey eyes flicked up to meet his as she ducked her head. Her ears dipped back against her skull and she licked her lips once. Arthur couldn’t look away. That feeling, the one of security and hope and solid reassurance, washed over him again. Arthur’s knees nearly buckled in response and he swayed on his feet. The wolf whined again and shuffled back, away from Arthur and the mess at her feet that was once a man. She whimpered as Arthur staggered again. When he reached out a shaky hand, she turned and ran. She was gone before Arthur could even try to comprehend the feeling in his chest. 

Arthur dropped to his knees. His hands clenched into the leaf litter while he gasped. The tears came then, fast and hot and out of his control. He wasn’t sure what he was crying for - Whether it was the loss of his horse or the loss of that feeling or both. He didn’t know. 

He just knew that something inside him had changed.

When he found he could stand again, he rose back to unsteady feet. Dazedly he assembled what he could of his gear and said his final goodbyes to his gelding. When he stroked the big horse’s mane one more time, he was surprised to feel the heat of tears flowing down his cheeks. He hadn’t noticed he was crying again. He felt numb. 

The big man left the scene of the ambush behind him and followed the first stream he found. It was near dark when it occurred to him that he needed to assemble a camp for the night. He built the fire first, stoking it unnecessarily high. His bedroll lay where he had dropped it, so he kicked it open and flat with the toe of his boot while he warmed himself. When he ground his palm over his scruff he was dimly surprised to feel an expanse of dried blood. Looking down, he realized he was filthy with it. The front of his shirt was saturated and stiff with a rust-brown stain.

He followed the sound of the river back to the waterside. He shrugged out of his shirt, thumbed the worst of the discoloration, and plunged it elbow-deep into the water. The shock of the cold was welcomed, but Arthur flinched nonetheless. When he’d rinsed it the best that he could he wrung it and tossed it to his side. Taking another deep breath he cupped the frigid stream into his hands and let it pool there. He splashed it into his face and gasped into the cold.      

“They didn’t get you, did they?” a soft voice asked from behind him. 

Arthur twisted to look. It was the girl, Nathalie. Something low in his gut hummed at the sight of her. She slumped her weight against an aspen and watched him, her clear grey eyes intense and guarded. Her hair was damp and dark in the fading daylight. She wore the shirt Arthur had noticed missing from his satchel that morning. Dampness pasted the shirt to her back and sides where her curls rested. 

Arthur supposed he should have been scared of her, of the way she came and went and of what he was starting to suspect. Instead he felt oddly at peace. He overrode it to gather some semblance of wariness and grit. 

“Nah, not this time.” He paused, and met her gaze. “Did they get you?”

Nathalie smiled gently and shook her head. 

Arthur’s mouth felt a little dry. 

He’d heard stories of wolf men, had even met some poor mad bastard who lived like a wolf. But this was different. Nathalie was different. He’d suspected something when he’d woken that morning, but couldn’t voice it. He didn’t know how to voice it. But having seen the wolf in the battle earlier and seeing her here now, he knew. 

It felt impossible, but at the same time it felt right. How could she not be the same beast he’d been following? Maybe somewhere in his subconscious he’d known all along. 

Wordlessly he pulled the damp shirt back over his body and stepped towards his visitor. When he was within a step or two away she extended her hand towards him. A bit hesitantly, Arthur slid his hand into hers. Her palm was warm and reassuring. Gently she tugged him to follow her as she stepped back to the little camp he’d managed to set up. She stilled at the foot of his bedroll. He watched the camp fire glint in her curls, igniting them into a color akin to sun-lit honey. When she sank to the ground he followed easily. 

“Arthur.” She said his name like a plea or a prayer. He wasn’t sure if it was the way she said his name or the questions he was about to ask that made his knees feel weak. 

"I'm sorry about your horse," she began quietly. 

Arthur turned away and swatted a hand at nothing. He hid the tight, exhausted line of his grimace to the side. He didn't want to think about everyone he'd lost, even the bitter old horse he'd picked up along the road. Sue hadn't been much to look at, and he hadn't been with Arthur long, but he'd been a good horse. If they kept talking about his horse he was pretty sure he would cry again.

Considering everything that had happened that day, it was much easier to talk about Nathalie - no matter how bewildering she was. Despite what his brain told him about her, he found solace in her, in the quiet and gentle sympathy in her expression and the warmth of her small hands. 

“I… ain’t ever met anyone like you before,” he started, swallowing. Their knees barely touched.

Nathalie looked down, tracing his rough hands with her fingertips. It sent pleasant, electric tingles up his spine. 

“I hadn’t either,” she confessed quietly. Looks up, looking him right in the eye. “The man who made me this way - he never asked. He wasn’t a good man. He didn’t help me through it or teach me, and he wasn’t kind.”

Arthur waited while she paused.

“He didn’t want a mate, he wanted a submissive dog to order and to fuck. So I killed him.” Nathalie chewed slowly on her bottom lip. She was looking down and away from him again. When Arthur didn’t recoil or say anything she continued. “I didn’t ask for this and I don’t want to be alone. But… it’s not all bad.”

“What’s it like?” Arthur asked, voice barely above a whisper. Nathalie smiled.

“It’s breathtaking. I’m so free. I think I had a husband once, a house. I must have been happy like that, but I can’t imagine it now. Nothing compares to the power, the ease of being. I know my place in the world. I’m part of it all, in the most exhilarating way. It’s headying. You can feel everything. Even now I can feel you, and the way you feel about me. I’m - I’m not wrong, am I? Do you feel that too?” There was something like uncertainty in her voice for the first time.  

Arthur absolutely felt it. She felt magnetic. His skin hummed from her proximity. He was certain he should have been scared of her, of what she was. He couldn’t bring himself to feel fear. He wanted to pull her closer, to tuck her into his arms and onto his lap. He wanted to feel the weight of her against him and to hold her tight. 

He must have hesitated, gotten lost in her for a moment, because she leaned forward and even closer to him and ghosted her hand gently over his cheekbone. It came to rest there and she stilled.  

“Of course I do,” he murmured. To his shame he heard his voice crack over the words. Nathalie only hummed in response. Her lips flicked into a small, satisfied smile. 

“Nathalie,” he continued, swallowing hard. “What is this? What’s happening here? Between us, I mean.” Arthur dropped his head a little, leaning into her touch. It took Nathalie’s breath away when he lifted the azure of his gaze to meet hers. He was an outlaw, and he carried himself like one. He was unwavering and self-assured, but there was an uncertain and tentative man there in his eyes. Those eyes disarmed her better than any fight ever could. 

“It’s a mate bond, I think,” she responded hesitantly. “I don’t really know. I’ve only heard about them. It happens when your wolf chooses someone. In the stories, they say they say your mate exhales the air you breathe. And when you inhale, your heart beats for them. I’ve never had a mate bond - it’s for life.” Nathalie paused, feeling a shiver traverse the length of her spine. “But I think, if you weren’t here, my heart might not beat at all.” 

Arthur exhaled hard. He didn’t ask what she meant by that. He knew. He knew in the way that his entire being yearned to be closer to her, to feel her and to take her into his arms. His mind warred nervously against the urge. His body knew what it wanted, but logic scolded and stilled his hands.  

“So your wolf chose me?” He murmured. He watched her through his lashes, flicking his gaze from hers to her skin in the firelight and back again.  

“No, ah,” she started, shrugging a shoulder in discomfort. “Our wolves chose each other.”

Arthur didn’t say anything to that. He couldn’t. The wave of emotions drowning his thoughts, his reasoning, was too strong. 

And then, as if Nathalie couldn’t resist doing so any longer, she slipped into his lap as if it was as easy as breathing. Arthur’s heart stuttered in his chest. He exhaled again then, long and shakily as he leaned around her. She felt right. Like this he felt whole. Something primal in him wanted to sustain that smile of hers, to make sure it never faded. He wanted to cover her and hold her and eliminate anything that dared get in his way, and that, more than anything, scared him. 

She fit perfectly against him, a warm and soft force of nature. Her knees tucked perfectly into the crook of her arms, and it felt right to tuck his arms over hers and run a calloused hand gently over the tanned expanse of one of her legs. She shimmied her bottom snugger against his groin and tucked a collection of small, slow, open mouthed kisses against his biceps. The warm, earthy spice of her filled his nose and he had to swallow a rumbling groan. 

“Together, we can be free,” She murmured. Her nose skimmed against his jaw as she leaned against him. “I want to show you everything. I want to take this all away.”

Arthur didn’t have to ask what she meant by ‘this.’ He knew his exhaustion and sorrow hung off him, off his clothes and the set of his shoulders. He could feel it in his bones - it was only natural that Nathalie could feel it too. 

“What if I said no?” Arthur asked, his voice quiet.

“Then I’d let you go,” Nathalie croaked. She wished she could see his face. She settled for tracing Arthur’s hands with her fingers. “I would never do that, I couldn’t.”

She began to pull away. She stopped when she found she couldn’t. Arthur’s arms tightened around her, simultaneously unyielding and painstakingly gentle. She wondered if that gentleness had come naturally to him, or if it was learned. He was such a large man. He already moved like a wolf, even if he didn’t know it. But she’d bet that this aching tenderness was natural to him, as natural as the way he breathed. She ached to feel all sides of him and every duality he possessed. She wanted to have him in every way - here, soft skin against soft skin, and also free and wild and feral. There was so much to feel, to enjoy, to show him. 

The big man sighed and tucked his head against her neck. Goosebumps rippled pleasantly on her body in response to the warmth of his breath. His eyelashes flicked against her cheek. 

“Would it hurt?” The deep timber of his voice rolled through her bones. 

Nathalie smiled against his temple. 

“No, not like this. Not if you don’t want it to.”

Arthur chuckled at her response and lifted his head a little. He stared into her, his blue eyes tracing her face. Unable to resist she bumped her nose into his playfully. Her lips settled a feather-light kiss on the smile curling the corner of his mouth.

“I’d be free?” He asked, his smile fading a little. 

Nathalie met his gaze seriously.

“Freer than you’ve ever been before. Free to roam, to love, free to do whatever we want.”

“And I’d be with you?” He asked, his voice still achingly low.

“With me until the day we die. You’d never be alone or forgotten ever again,” She whispered. 

Arthur almost whimpered in response. She kissed the sound away then, pressed her lips so softly against his that he worried it wasn’t really happening at all. He pulled her snugger against him and kissed her back fiercely. She met him reverently. They luxuriated in one another’s lips like that until they forgot there was anything else. Their kisses were tender, but lingered with a deeper, needier edge. 

When his tongue flicked lightly against hers, Nathalie was the first to groan. He surged into her, and in a second their hands gripped each other wildly. Something burned between them, something that had always been there. When Arthur ripped his head away to gasp for air it was there, smoldering in his eyes like stoked coal. The heat was there too in Nathalie’s swollen lips, in the rhythmic roll of her hips against his groin. Arthur wanted to drown in that flame, wanted it to wash over their bodies until there was nothing but a burgeoning love left.

Unable to take the distance between their bodies anymore, Arthur slid his fingers down, down to cup under Nathalie’s ass. He swallowed the noise she made in response and roughly pulled her body around and over his. His fingers created pale divets on the flesh of her ass as he gripped her. Nathalie responded eagerly in kind, gripping his hair between her fingers as she spread her legs over his hips. When she ground herself against the hard pressure in his pants he growled. 

Nathalie’s shirt - Arthur’s shirt, really - was gone in the next moment, ripped clean away from her body by the hands of the outlaw. He was too impatient to worry about the clasps, and he had a feeling that neither of them would have much of a need for clothes after this. He ducked his head to her breasts as soon as they were revealed. His lips settled over a dusky nipple. When she gasped he plucked at it with a swift, light bite. Nathalie mewed and pulled his head tight to her chest. Arthur complied eagerly. He growled against her flesh when her fingers tangled and pulled in his hair. Nathalie’s only response was to tug a little harder. When his hips thrusted automatically Nathalie smiled into the back of the outlaw’s neck. She placed an open mouthed, sharp little bite there and his body shivered in response.  

Despite her ministrations, the man was focused. A hand worried her other nipple while he flicked and nibbled the first. The scruff of his chin was a delicious contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. When he laved the second he looked up to watch his writhing partner. The blue of his eyes looking up at her almost finished Nathalie right there. He grinned around her as she panted and wordlessly keened. 

When she couldn’t take it anymore Nathalie frantically ripped at his collar. Stubbornly, the man kept at his assault on her breasts while his shoulders rolled out of his suspenders. He growled a protest at his partner when she pulled away to tear his shirt down his arms, but was immediately rewarded by the feel of her burning flesh against hers. They both moaned at the feeling of skin on skin. Something electric burned there. Neither had ever felt more alive then they did like this, sinking against each other and losing themselves in the burning need for the other’s pleasure. It was only a moment before Nathalie was surging forward with her hands against his chest and pushing Arthur back onto his elbows and his bedroll. 

When he tried to capture her lips with his again he was met with a finger. Nathalie pressed it there for a moment and tried to gather her thoughts. Impatiently Arthur pulled the digit into his mouth and laved at it. Nathalie laughed around a groan and pulled away.

“Arthur, Arthur, wait, wait,” she protested. The smile on her mouth didn’t fade, much to Arthur’s delight. She could feel the heat of his erection against her vulva while she tried to gather her words. It was almost impossible to concentrate as is, but she nearly gave up entirely when he ground his length against her. 

“Arthur!” She laughed. He grinned back at her from his spot on the ground. 

“Cold feet, darlin’?” Arthur asked mischievously. 

“Never.” She grinned down at him. She bucked on him before she could prevent herself and relished the way his lips parted. When she found it in herself to pull away, she did.  

“Are you sure about this, Arthur?” She stilled and stared down at him. Her brows and mouth were buckled into a serious, concerned lilt.

“Sure about what?” He asked, jokingly playing naive.

Her lips twitched but she didn’t smile.

“I need to know. Do you really want this? Do you know what you’re getting into?” Nathalie asked. 

Before he could respond she continued. If she stopped now she worried she’d never get it all out. 

“It’s not all perfect. We’ll probably rove a lot. You’d never age, not like anyone else. You’d be you still, but you’d be different,” She blabbered nervously. Arthur’s hand casually traced her shoulders, then the shape of her neck and jawline while she talked.  “I mean we could still do human things like have a house and a horse but you might not want to and - ”

Arthur stilled her with a thumb gently pressed over her lip.

“But I’d be with you. Right?” He asked her gently.

“Of course.” She blinked owlishly at him. “Always. But wouldn’t you want to have babies and live in cities and …?”

Nathalie trailed off when Arthur smiled and shook his head. 

“I had my chance for all of those things,” He told her with a sad smile. “I’ve tried ‘em all. It wasn’t fer’ me. Not like this, not like you.” He paused to marvel at the way she was looking at him. When he found his train of thought he continued. “I’d be a fool to pass up on this. Now that I know you’re here, nothin’ can hold a candle. If I still have a soul, it’s yours.”

It was true. They felt like two halves of a whole. Nathalie swallowed. She’d heard about mate bonds before, but she hadn’t expected it would feel like this. It felt like she was complete without ever having known she was deficient. 

“What do we need to do?” Arthur asked. Nathalie searched him for any sign of unease or reluctance, but she couldn’t find one. She smiled back at him and raised a lascivious eyebrow. 

“Well, I’m going to give myself to you.” She leaned down conspiratorially. “I’m going to give you everything I have,” her voice was husky. Her hands traced a burning path down from his shoulders and over his chest and lower, lower still. He instinctively arched into her touch. 

“I’m going to ride you until I can’t anymore. And then you’re going to take what’s left,” she murmured against the arch of his neck. One of Arthur’s hands tensed over her hip. The other crept lower to cup her ass. It brushed dangerously close to the wet heat of her arousal. 

“You’re going to take me so hard that I can’t do a thing but cum around you, over and over again,” she growled and bucked closer to his fingers. 

Arthur hissed at her words. When he slipped his palm lower still, cupping her, she crumpled into his fingers. A calloused thumb casually brushed her clit, inducing her into a full-body shiver. 

“And when I’m an absolute mess, when I can’t go any farther -” she gasped. Her hips rolled against his hand, which in turn ground it against the strain of Arthur’s cock. Arthur grunted in response and bit Nathalie’s collar bone. She mewed and Arthur grinned into her skin. 

“When you can’t go any farther?” He prompted devilishly. Before she could respond he slipped a finger into her heat and beckoned. She cried out and arched into his palm. Her eyes were wild, her pupils huge with lust. Arthur captured her lips with his and deftly slipped a second digit to join the first. His hand was slick with her arousal. His cock strained against his trousers, but he ignored his desire to savor hers. 

Nathalie panted as she rocked against him. She feverishly gripped at his chest with one hand - the other palpated over his length. The two rocked together, wordless in their pleasure.

“When I can’t go farther,” she gasped. “I’m dragging you down with me.”

Arthur laughed at that, but the sound was cut short with his own groan as she pulled his cock free and circled her thumb over the tip. She was satisfied to feel the bead of cum already there. Arthur’s fingers pulsed into her quicker in response. She bobbed on his hand haphazardly until she managed to pull down the rest of his waistband. Arthur removed his hand to help her. When she whimpered at the loss and he was as naked as she, he pulled her to the ground and rolled over her onto his hands and knees. 

His fingers quickly slid back between her folds, inducing another little cry. He began to pump into her quicker and rougher. Nathalie’s grip contrasted his with torturously slow undulations. Her hand stilled entirely when Arthur placed steady pressure against the bead of her clit and pulled a dusky nipple between his teeth. His hand began to pump hard. The noises his partner made in response were frantic and unrestrained and he knew she was very, very close.

“Say my name,” he growled. 

“A-Arthur,” she gasped. 

“Again!” He snarled. 

Her response stuttered in her throat and he felt the slick heat of her walls clench hard around his fingers. Her eyes rolled and slid shut. As she rode her orgasm he bit down hard on the column of her throat. Still pumping his hand, he used the other to guide his cock against her slick. When he felt the last of her shudders wrack her body he slid his hand away and immediately replaced them with the aching length of his cock. In a quick thrust he slammed into her, sheathing himself to the hilt.

Both Nathalie and Arthur gasped. Arthur dropped his head between Nathalie’s chest as he began to move. He started slowly, only letting himself pulse shallowly. He knew he was larger than average and he didn’t want to hurt her. In truth, she felt so deliciously good that he also knew if he let himself go now, he would lose himself and spend before he was done pleasing her. When his partner relaxed around him and arched closer he met her gaze and grinned. She matched his smirk and sunk his length deep into her. Arthur’s eyes fluttered closed with a throaty groan. 

Her fingers raked hot lines up his back and shoulders. He lost himself in her heat and her cries. When she’d fully recovered her strength Nathalie met him thrust for thrust, each one more wanton than the last. The sound of flesh on flesh reverberated through the clearing. The sound drove Nathalie wilder still with need. Her legs arched around him. In response Arthur pulled one over his shoulder and leaned forward. 

The new position gave him access to a new depth and fullness. He had to close his eyes to the sight of his mate before him, keening and panting his name. He was too close already. If he came now, before he made this woman clench around him and cry out again, he wouldn’t forgive himself. When he opened the shock of his cornflower blue eyes he found Nathalie’s hands cupping and fingering the bounce of her breasts. Her grey eyes met his. He snarled and set his thumb steadily against her clit. He was rewarded when she cried out his name. 

He was a sight to behold. His brow was furrowed harshly in pleasure and concentration. A bead of sweat shimmered on his temple when he dropped his head back, his body taut with a barely restrained white-hot orgasm. His lips were parted and slack, the picture of burning passion. She feverishly drank in the sight. When he opened his eyes again she met them and was almost bourne away by the primal heat there. 

“Whose - ”

“Are - ”

“You - ”

He growled. Each word was punctuated with a violent thrust. He was seconds away from his end. He wanted to hear it, wanted the world to hear who Nathalie belonged to as she came on his cock. 

“Yours!” She cried out. “Y-yours! I’m yours, Arthur!”

He responded with a particularly brutal slam of his hips and she screamed as her orgasm flooded her senses. Nathalie’s fingers scrabbled over Arthur’s and locked there as she writhed. 

As she clenched around his cock, the white heat of Arthur’s orgasm washed over him. His hips bucked erratically, and he cried out with a hoarse, wordless shout. He pulsed into her, scattering ropes of spend deep into the grip of her core. Transfixed in their pleasure, the two shuddered against each other. Electricity shot through Arthur’s veins, gripping him in awareness and bliss.

When the last waves of his rapture faded Arthur crumbled over his mate, shaking with exertion. It was an eternity before the aftershocks of pleasure faded enough to let him speak. He slid an arm beneath Nathalie’s neck and gently pulled her to face him. They rode out the last of the aftershocks like that, with his face buried in the crook of her neck and her lips against his brow.

“I love you,” he breathed. His voice was muffled against her feverish skin. He knew she could feel the words on her body and this soothed him in an exhausted, mindless sort of way. He felt drunk with the scent of her. It didn’t matter that they’d only known each other so recently. His body and the beast inside of him had known her his whole life. 

“I love you too,” Nathalie whispered. Her lips pressed a smile onto his brow. She traced lazy, feather light touches over his body as their breathing slowed. His nerves sparked weakly behind the path of her fingers. It felt strange and wonderful and voltaic. He could almost swear each new touch felt more raw and more charged than the last. Every one of his senses felt sharper and vast. He would have been nervous, had he not felt so relaxed and safe in Nathalie’s arms. She pressed another kiss to his forehead and he melted into it. He let the smell and feel of her wash over him. 

When he was ready to move he rolled to his knees and, in one movement, pulled Nathalie into his arms and off the bedroll’s blankets. She squeaked in protest and he smiled. She was still grinning when he gently set her back down onto the bedroll. He swiftly settled back over her and pulled the blanket up and over them. She crooned something wordless and happy and Arthur responded with a slow, lazy kiss. They stayed like that until another wave of sensory awareness flooded Arthur’s body. Nathalie must have recognized it in the way he tensed, because she murmured soft assurances into his skin until he relaxed again. 

When the two of them finally drifted off to sleep they did so awash in the heady scent and feeling of each other. 

~~~

Once every other month or so John found himself seeing ghosts and shadows around Beecher’s Hope. It had started off just subtle enough that he thought he might have imagined it. An outlaw never learns to forget to trust his gut. So when Abigail would groan and groggily glare when John slipped from bed, he would ignore her chidings and grab his pistols from their spot in the chest. Abigail was right of course - there was never anything there. The noise of a footstep in the kitchen never bore fruit. The shadow of a man in the barn never really was a man. 

When John noticed Arthur’s hat had been moved from where he’d put it, Uncle just laughed at him. Once he’d heard something outside the house during dinner and had felt quite vindicated when Jack heard it too. He’d rushed outside only to find nothing but a pair of paw prints. He couldn’t explain his disappointment or even what he thought he would find. He learned to ignore it when he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise like there was someone nearby.

Recently the little ranch had definitely developed a wildlife problem. Wolves had never been an issue before now, but John kept seeing them. It was just two - a large honey colored female and a massive dusky brown and gray male. He’d been intent on taking them out until he’d watched the two dispatch a pair of Pinkerton agents. After that he’d figured it couldn’t hurt to let them live, so long as they didn’t bother Jack or Abigail. They never did, and he usually only saw them once or twice a year.

When he did see them, it was usually at a great distance. The exception was the time Jack had taken Old Boy out for a ride and had nearly accidentally trampled his sister. John had immediately thrown himself over her. John had been sure they were both going to die in that moment. But then the sounds of Abigail’s scream had been interrupted by a snarl and the snap of large jaws closing on empty air. When the dust of the road had settled Old Boy had flailed and bucked far in the opposite direction and left John curled over his toddler alone with a wolf.

It was the male, and he was far bigger than any wolf John had seen before. 

The big animal had just stood there, watching John with cornflower-blue eyes. Two scars crossed the wolf’s chin and, at closer inspection, more flecked the length of his hide. When John had tentatively inched his hand toward his holster the big animal had huffed. After a moment of further stillness the wolf broke into body-long shake. Clouds of dust rolled free of the dense charcoal-brown coat. John coughed and closed his eyes reflexively. When he’d opened them again the wolf was gone. John still dreamt of those strange eyes occasionally. They reminded him of someone. He knew who, but he felt silly thinking it. He didn’t tell Abigail about his dreams, or about the memories they pulled from him. He knew she’d cry, and god, that he might too. 

So he went on with his life. He grew old with Abigail and watched their farm and children grow. And whenever he saw the big wolf and his mate John just tipped his hat and tried not to think too hard about Arthur Morgan. 

[cathygeha]

-REVIEW

Temporary Wife Temptation by Jayci Lee

Heirs of Hansol Series #1

Arranged marriages...would YOU want one? I wouldn’t…

Marriages of Convenience...would You want one? I don’t think so

So…

Why would two attractive people in this modern age opt to move into a situation that would put them together 24/7 and create havoc with their hormones KNOWING that they should not succumb to one another even though both feel the chemistry?

AND then…

Throw in a bit of

*cultural information

* a hunky and wealthy Korean American super-handsome male thinking he has life his life all planned out only to find out that his grandmother has another plan in place for him...one he is not willing to go along with

* a woman working in the family business that might help him out while he helps her out by providing a partner that will increase her likelihood of adopting the daughter of her deceased sister

* a hanbok (that REALLY caught my attention because my sister told me all about wearing one to her son’s marriage and how it fit and felt and all the rest)

* how one deals with the person one wants but can’t have...according to the contract for the marriage of convenience

* information on how to deal with in laws in a culture you did not grow up with

* a baby that more than one couple wants

* avoiding falling in love...or not

This book was not what I thought it would be but am glad that I read it and in reading it learned a bit, laughed a bit and enjoyed the reading while wanting to find out what will happen next in this series.

Thank you to NetGalley and Harlequin-Desire for the ARC ~ This is my honest review

3-4 Stars

BLURB

Much more than he bargained for… “You want me to find you a wife?” “No. I want you to be my wife.”

Garrett Song is this close to taking the reins of his family’s LA fashion empire…until the Song matriarch insists he marry her handpicked bride first. To block her matchmaking, he recruits Natalie Sobol to pose as his wife. She needs a fake spouse as badly as he does. But when passion burns down their chaste agreement, the flames could destroy them all…

EXCERPT:

Garrett resisted the urge to glance over his shoul­der to check on her. Natalie was a grown woman and he didn’t need to protect her from being swarmed by admirers. Besides, she was the one who had proposed they refrain from other relationships, so she wouldn’t do anything to hurt his reputation or hers.

Earlier, at her apartment, he’d caught fire at the sight of her in her little black dress. It was demure compared to the one she’d worn at Le Rêve, but it hugged her hour­glass figure and highlighted the curves underneath just enough to tease his imagination.

He walked to the bar for his Scotch and grabbed a flute of champagne from a server on his way back. As he’d anticipated, Natalie was now surrounded by a group of men and he lengthened his strides to reach her.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sweetheart.” He pressed a light kiss on her lips and handed her the champagne.

“Thank you.” She leaned her head against his shoul­der when he pulled her to his side, playing her part like a pro.

“Natalie was just taking us to task about USC’s new head coach. It seems neither he nor I truly understand college football,” said one of Mike’s college friends.

“Is that so?” Garrett raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged.

“Taking you to task is a bit harsh.” She hid her grin against the rim of her champagne flute as she took a long sip. “It’s just that I have a better understanding than you guys.”

The audience winced and guffawed at her cheeki­ness. As Natalie continued with her lecture, all the men listened intently, as did Garrett. She was funny and down-to-earth, and her mind was quicker than light­ning. Lost in her words, Garrett belatedly noticed the crowd had grown. Her champagne glass was depleted and her smile was becoming strained.

He leaned down close to her ear. “Tired?”

“And hungry.”

“All right, gentlemen. I’m whisking away my date now. I’m tired of sharing her.”

When the crowd finally dispersed, Natalie slumped against him with a groan. “I need food, champagne and somewhere to sit.”

A server walked over with a tray of bacon-wrapped shrimp and Natalie snatched a couple of them. She popped one in her mouth and mumbled around her food, “Not necessarily in that order.”

Garrett laughed and guided her toward the French doors leading out to the garden. Natalie ate every sin­gle hors d’oeuvre she met along the way and finished another glass of champagne.

“Holy cow. Is everything really, really delicious, or am I just famished? I would totally go back for that crab cake if my feet weren’t screaming at me to get my butt on a chair.”

He glanced down at her zebra-print high heels. They did amazing things for her legs but didn’t look remotely comfortable. “There’s a bench around the corner.”

“Oh, thank God.” She kicked off her shoes as soon as she plopped onto the seat.

Garrett shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders before sitting next to her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, gazing at the garden. “It’s so beautiful out here.”

“Is it?” He and Mike had grown up tearing apart that very garden, but Garrett had never sat still and taken it all in, like they were doing now. “I guess you’re right.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He studied her profile, her high, regal cheekbone and the graceful curve of her neck. Half of her hair had escaped the loose knot behind her head and fell down her back and shoulders. He wanted to sweep aside her hair and feel the softness of her skin, which he abso­lutely should not do.

“So how do you know so much about college foot­ball?” He tore his gaze away from her and stared at an old maple tree ahead of him, hard enough to make his eyes water.

“Long story.”

“We’ve got time.” He made a show of checking his watch. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

Her laughter filled the garden, then ended on a wist­ful sigh. “My dad and I, we weren’t very close. The only time he didn’t mind my company was when we watched college football together. He was a huge fan. I don’t think he even noticed I was sitting there half the time.”

Garrett understood what that felt like. As soon as he finished graduate school, he’d thrown himself into his work. It was satisfying in its predictability and it created a common ground for him and his father. His dad had stepped down from the CEO position when his mom died, but returned to Hansol a few years later as an executive VP.

“I thought if I learned enough about the sport, he’d like me a little better.” Her shrug told him it hadn’t worked, but Natalie told her story without an ounce of self-pity—like she owned her past, hurt and all. His respect for her deepened. “But soon I noticed I wasn’t faking my enthusiasm anymore. I’d grown to love the sport. Who knew it’d come in handy at an intimate birthday party for a hundred people?”

“You certainly won over quite a few of them.”

“I did?” Her eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise.

He huffed out a laugh. “Why did you think that crowd was hanging on to your every word?”

“Watch yourself, Garrett Song.” Natalie narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at him. “I know where you live.”

He snatched her hand and tugged her to her feet. “Yes, and you’ll be living there with me starting Sun­day.”

“Ugh.” She hooked an index finger in each of her shoes, not bothering to put them back on. “Do you ever stop thinking about work?”

“Yes.” He cocked his head and pretended to con­sider her question. “But only when I’m thoroughly dis­tracted.”

Her lashes fluttered and color saturated her cheeks, and his gut clenched with heat. She could definitely become his most dangerous distraction.

AUTHOR BIO

About the author JAYCI LEE: Jayci Lee writes poignant, funny, and sexy romance. She lives in sunny California with her tall-dark-and-handsome husband, two amazing boys with boundless energy, and a fluffy rescue whose cuteness is a major distraction. She is semi-retired from her 15-year career as a defense litigator, and writes full-time now. She loves food, wine, and travelling, just like her characters. Books have always helped her grow, dream, and heal. She hopes her books will do the same for you.

[reekierevelator]

On the Eve of the Wedding

Finishing up at work on Friday nights was never easy.  There was always one last thing to do.  And then another last thing.  And another. It was never easy ensuring all the vans had returned from making deliveries and all next week’s orders were fully processed and ready to be loaded first thing Monday morning. And presentation was important. If the vans came back filthy a quick hose down was necessary.

Being loading bay supervisor was a reasonable job but I was hoping to make transport manager before I hit thirty.  After that I figured it might be time to settle down. But that Friday all I was thinking was at least it was the end of the week. So, at last, time for a pint at the local, the works’ crowd gathering in the Sheared Sheep, just to be sociable and wind down, reducing the week’s stresses and strains to old war stories, something to make each other laugh about.  

And Friday nights I liked a drink. Didn’t take the old jalopy in on Fridays. So later I’d generally pick up fish and chips or a pizza, or end up in an Indian restaurant with some of the gang.  If I got the early bus back to my little bachelor pad on the outskirts of town I’d maybe get something delivered. But this Friday night was different.

It was Rebecca Ralston, the red head from the marketing department. I seemed to have been bumping into her for the last few weeks. The main offices were at the opposite end of the site to the loading bay but somehow she’d felt the need to come over several times, wanting to talk to me about planning new adverts for the vans, different colour schemes, scheduling printing, application to the vehicles and so on. And this even though the current advertising contract still had almost a year to run.

Not that I minded. She was a bubbly sort of girl, an effervescent personality. Irregular teeth like pushed over tombstones but still easy on the eye. She brought a little brightness into the windowless little office in the dark cavern of the loading bay. She liked to talk with a hand on my arm or my shoulder, making sure she had my attention. And that day she hinted that after work on Fridays it wasn’t unusual for her to find her way to the Sheared Sheep. As it happened it suited her, she said, living close enough to just walk home if she happened to stay late.

Unfortunately, it was nearly eight when I finally got everything wrapped up and made that watering hole. The pub was already in that in-between phase where most of the early evening ‘couple of pints after work’ crowd had already been, drunk their quota, and gone off to catch buses and trains, while only one or two of the genuine locals had as yet made an appearance.  

But Rebecca was there, sitting on the edge of one of those leather sofas they’d refurbished the place with, the typical modern décor reflecting the changing functionality; more coffee shop or restaurant these days than the traditional beer-swillers’ second home.

The sofa was angled towards the door and as I entered she looked up at me under her curls and neatly shaped eyebrows and I could see she already had a glow on. She smiled that girlish crooked teeth smile and raised her hand in a nominal gesture of welcome. The black jacket of her office trouser suit was slung over the arm of the sofa. Her pretty powder blue blouse and black trousers looking fetching.

Two of the new young recruits to Accounts sat beside her. They noticed me as they followed Rebecca’s gaze.  She introduced them as Jerome and Melissa but as I joined them they both rose to leave, even refusing my offer of a round, insisting instead that they had other obligations and had to rush home. But they would be sure to see me around the office – sometime. People from the main office don’t mix much with the van loading fraternity.

Rebecca held out an empty glass saying she wouldn’t mind another double vodka tonic with lemon and ice, and when I returned from the bar the pub was even emptier.  Rebecca made a show of looking around all points of the compass, her short red curls bouncing, before she declared the Sheared Sheep mutton.

‘It’s really dead here, isn’t it?

I nodded and took another swallow before concluding the guest real ale, Crafty Brown Cow IPA was something less than acceptable. It seemed fermented from liquidised mince.

‘There’s another place up off the main road that’s livelier,’ Rebecca was saying, and I’d hardly had time to sit down before she’d grabbed my hand and we were on the move.  

The Hardened Artery wasn’t my usual kind of place but it was certainly busy. A three piece guitar band was playing 50s rock n roll on a tiny stage and there were even young trendy types trying to dance.  I rooted around and managed to scrounge a couple of stools and we proceeded to shout at each other, exchanging inane pleasantries over a medley of Johnny B Good and Hey Bo Diddley.

‘I like your shirt,’ she shouted, making me glance down at my red and blue striped button-down Ben Sherman.

‘I like your blouse Rebecca,’ I shouted back.

‘Call me Becky,’ she insisted.

‘Ok,’ I said, ‘call me Steve.’

 The band were roaring into Promised Land as Becky drew her stool much closer to mine saying she couldn’t hear, and I picked up floral notes from her eau de cologne as she pressed her legs up against mine. She waved her hand around ostentatiously like a fan in front of her face and undid the top buttons of her blouse as she complained about the heat. I felt myself definitely getting very warm too. I might not be quite God’s gift but I was sure I was picking up signals and the sap was rising. I wasn’t wearing a tie I could loosen but I took off my jacket and instead undid a few buttons of my shirt revealing the pecs and heading to the six pack.

Another few drinks in that sweaty room and the long working week was catching up with me. I was dreading the long cold bus journey home and found myself glancing down at Rebecca’s newly revealed cleavage with a certain amount of wishful thinking.

‘After a final couple of brandies we fell out into the cold dark street and, saying how late it was, Becky suggested, as even in my increasingly inebriated state I somehow thought she might, that I spend the night at her place and leave off travelling home until the morning.

After a twenty minute walk, or rather stagger, including various impromptu stops for clinches and kisses, her place turned out to be a bedsit in a big old converted house, part of a street of big old converted houses.  The furnishings were Spartan. A lack of chairs meant I had to sit on the bed while she retrieved a couple of bottles of beer from an otherwise suspiciously empty cupboard.  After she’d applied the bottle-opener and handed me mine she plonked herself down across my knees, draping her arm around my neck.  I only had time for one more sip of beer before her lips locked on mine and we toppled backwards on to the bed.

She was wildly enthusiastic and I wasn’t complaining, but that degree of gay abandon did engender a certain sort of ‘last time before the end of the world’ feeling. It was a long time before I was allowed to sleep.

Afterwards, in the morning, I commented that of the various women I’d known she was unusual in not living amid a clutter of clothes, shoes, accessories, and a jumble of make-up jars and bottles.

She said ‘Well, to be honest, that is usually me too, but I’ve already moved almost all of my stuff to Denis’s place.’

‘Denis?’ I queried cautiously.

‘My fiancé.  I’m moving in to his place after the wedding.’

For a moment I thought, hoped, I’d misheard. But Becky rambled on, unselfconscious and unconcerned. ‘The wedding’s at three o’clock tomorrow. Well, three o’clock today now, of course,’ she said peering at her little bedside alarm clock and giggling. ‘The dress – floor length, dazzling white and lacy - is laid out at my Mum’s, along with all the other stuff.  The cake’s a beauty – three tiers. I’ve got to get to HairWays at eleven. Full hairdo and manicure treatment. I’m going for cherry red nail-varnish to match my lipstick. The make-up will take forever. Sorry, it’s a bit late to send you an invite. But there are still one or two things no-one’s chosen yet on our gift list – I mean, only if you really wanted to…’

‘You’re… you’re… getting married - today?’ I managed to stammer.

She stretched her arm under the bed and brought forth a little box. ‘Yes, I am,’ she said, opening the little box and putting the ring on her finger. She held her arm up in the air to watch the diamond sparkle.

‘And Denis?’

‘Oh, he plays rugby, professional now. And he’s been working nights as a doorman, mainly the Jacaranda Club, - to help pay for the wedding.’

‘Ah... he sounds like a great guy.’

‘Yes, but I’m not married to him yet, am I Steve?  And you’ve got lovely blue eyes and you’re really quite firm and muscular too – it must be helping to load all those heavy boxes. You know the girls up at the office have been talking about you for a while. We like to see your hose on the forecourt. I thought, well, I might as well make use of my last legitimate opportunity. At least that’s what they all told me when we were out on my hen night last week.’

‘Oh really?’ was all I could find to say.

Maybe I looked a little disappointed or pensive because she peered into my apparently lovely blue eyes and bit her lip with her unusual teeth. ‘Oh dear, I hope I haven’t offended you.’ she said. ‘Steve, you don’t feel I’ve just been using you, do you?’ She burst into a big smile. ‘I mean, it was good fun, wasn’t it?’

‘Well, yes,’ I had to admit. ‘Really, it was great.  And no, I suppose… I mean, I was as keen as you were… It’s just…’

‘Oh, well that’s all right then, isn’t it?’  Her eyes shone brightly. ‘And it’s only nine o’clock. I won’t be Mrs Denis McGlone for another six hours. We’ve still got at least another hour before I have to be going.’

And as she fell into my arms I tried hard to clear all the frightening images of giant prop forwards and burly bouncers from my mind.    

[mosylufanfic]

Sidekicks

Killervibe Fanfic Week! Monday June 18th: Role Reversal

@killervibedaily

I thought this was a pretty fun prompt, and of course, the first thing I thought of was Cisco Frost and Caitlin Vibe. That would have been pretty neat! But then I started to wonder what they would be like with swapped personalities, and that notion wouldn't let go. So here you go.

Sidekicks

Francisco Ramon had pulled his hair back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, one so secure that the wind whipping down the runway didn't budge a single strand. Barry wondered if it gave him a headache. Maybe that was why he had such a dour expression.

He shoved his thick-framed glasses up his nose and studied Barry like he was a bug. "We've theorized that you were moving so fast, it only appeared that the world was slowing down. That's what we're testing now." He glanced back at the other two people from Star Labs. "Dr. Wells will be monitoring your energy output, and Dr. Snow, your vitals."

"And what do you do?"

"I build the equipment, of course," the other man said. He held up a black circle with a lightning bolt on it. "This is a two-way headset that I've modified, with a camera attached. It's designed to combat battlefield impulse noise."

"Or a sonic boom," Barry suggested.

"The speed of sound is three hundred and thirty-two miles per second. It's unlikely."

Okay. Fine then. He took the black circle in his fingers and studied it. "I like the lightning bolt."

Francisco rolled his eyes and took it back. "That was Caitlin."

Caitlin herself strolled up. The wind tossed her pink-streaked braids and set her bright blue dress and man's trench coat flapping  She grinned at Francisco. "Are you complaining about my lightning bolt again?"

"It's pointless," he grumbled, yanking the helmet off Barry's head.

"It keeps it from being boring!"

"It doesn't need to be exciting, it just needs to work."

"It can work and not be boring," Caitlin said, pulling a gummy bear out of her pocket and popping it in her mouth. The three or four charm bracelets tangled around her wrist jingled.

He grumbled under his breath and took the helmet back to the table where Dr. Wells sat.

Caitlin rolled her eyes and muttered, "Stick in the mud." She turned back to Barry. "Okay. Let's get you synced up and see what you can do."

"You're a doctor?" he said doubtfully as she jabbed at the various sensors on his chest with purple-glittered nails, then tapped her tablet. "Like, really a doctor?"

"Nah, you got me. I printed my M.D. from the Internet." She ate another gummy bear. A stray sunbeam bounced off the pink sequined heart on the front of her dress and momentarily blinded him.

"Wait, what?"

"Yes. I'm a real doctor. School loans and everything."

"It's just that you're not - uh."

"Very professional-looking?" She flicked the pink-striped braid back over her shoulder. "Oh, I know. And I did spend a lot of years conforming. Pencil skirts, little pearl studs - " She shook her head so that the mess of metal that swung from her earlobes jingled cheerfully. "- neutral nail polish, that kind of thing."

"What happened?"

"The same thing that happened to you." She made a note in her tablet. "My once-promising career in bioengineering is over, my boss is in a wheelchair for life, and the explosion that put you in a coma also killed my fiancé. So, I figure I've got fuck-all to lose by wearing leggings with cats on them to work."

He glanced down automatically. Not only did her leggings have cats, they were also floating in outer space.

He looked back up, and she smirked at him. "Cute, huh?"

He smirked back. "Bet your co-worker over there loves that."

But instead of agreeing, she said, "Look, Cisco's kind of a stiff. I'll give you that. But he's the most brilliant, inventive mechanical genius you'll ever meet. Ever. And he's there when you need him."

Probably with a judgemental frown. Or a lecture. "Cisco? He said to call him Francisco."

"Yeah, you should probably stick to that for awhile, until he decides to let you in."

Barry looked over his shoulder at the scowling young man, working on his machines. "I'm not holding my breath."

"Give him some time. Let him warm up to you. In the meantime, don't push it."

Barry decided it was unlikely. "Do you think I can break the speed of sound?" It felt possible to him, with the lightning crackling in his blood.

"Tell you what,"  she called over her shoulder, already on the way back to the RV. Her heavy Doc Martens splashed through a puddle. "If you do, I'll give you a gummy bear."

When Cisco drifted into her lab, she didn't look up as she asked, "So, what do you think of our speedster?"

"So he runs fast. It's scientifically intriguing, but functionally pointless."

"You're just annoyed because the blowback landed you on your ass out there." She lifted her head and grinned at him.

He scowled at her in a way that as good as admitted she was right. "Really. What can he do with that ability?"

"What can't he do with it? He makes Usain Bolt look like a grandma in a walker. Fastest man alive!"

"This is real life, not a comic book."

"You could fool me, lately." She looked up. From this angle, she could see one of the "teeth" that curved over Star Labs, broken in half by the explosion nine months ago. "Maybe a superhero would have stopped this from happening."

She wanted to bite her own tongue off when she heard the words slip out. Wincing, she turned to look at Cisco.

He'd taken off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "We didn't need a superhero. We needed better engineers."

He always looked younger with his glasses off. She suspected that was why he wore them, and why he tied his hair back so tightly.

"Hey," she said. "How many times do I have to say it? That - " She gestured up at the broken tooth. " - was not your fault. Ronnie was not your fault."

"If I'd done better - if I'd made a different choice - you would still have him."

"Maybe," she acknowledged. "And if I hadn't asked him to come along, he wouldn't have been here that night. And if his mom had never flirted with his dad at the roller rink in high school, he wouldn't have been born."

Cisco gave her a long suffering look.  

"My point is, you can what-if until the cows come home, but this is the world we live in." She bit her lip, thinking of the engagement ring entombed in her jewelry box at home. But that hurt, a knot right under her breastbone, and she said, "Speaking of that, do you ever wonder about those cows? I mean, what are they doing out so late? Probably up to no good. Bovine delinquents."

Cisco's mouth quirked up at the corner, and she felt a flush of triumph. She didn't get a smile out of him very often. "Your shoe's untied," he said.

She glanced down. "Oh, yeah. I'll get them in a moment. I'm almost done with these samples." She didn't want to have to put on a new pair of sterile gloves after she'd handled her dirty shoelaces.

He nudged her wheely office chair over to her. "Put your foot up."

She raised her brows, but propped her foot on the seat. He leaned over, took her loose laces, and retied them. Double-knotted, of course. He gave the toe of her boot a quick pat and straightened up. "There," he said. "I imagine it's not very sterile to trip over your shoelaces and faceplant into your lab bench, either."

She settled her foot back on the floor, feeling a flush creep up her face. "Not particularly, no." She focused on her samples again.

When she had them all prepped and set up for the morning, she looked over at him. He was fiddling with her shelf of beakers, turning them all so they faced the same direction. "Hey," she said. "What are you thinking about?"

"Air friction," he said, brows drawn together in concentration.

Her hands paused. What had she thought he was going to say? I'm thinking about the way I look at you sometimes, when you don't think I notice? I'm wondering if you ever look at me that way?

(The answer was yes, but it wasn't an answer she was ready to give. Not yet.)

"Of course you are," she said, stripping her gloves off and chucking them toward the trash can. She started to put everything else away. "What else?"

"We clocked him at 220 miles per hour today. He only ran about a mile, but what if he does longer runs? The effect of air friction would be considerable."

Caitlin considered it as she hoisted herself up on the counter. She leaned over and pulled open a drawer, plucking out a mini Krackel bar. "His skin should be okay - he's got that healing factor - but his clothes, his shoes? Yeah, they'd be pretty thrashed, I'd say."

She unwrapped the chocolate bar and bit in half. With her mouth full, she rummaged through the drawer for a moment and then held out a piece of candy. Dark chocolate with almonds.

He started to tell her he didn't snack between meals. She knew it, she could hear the words practically gathering up on his tongue. But he took the candy bar and unwrapped it carefully, biting off the corner.

The only reason she didn't throw all the dark-chocolate-with-almonds away when she filled her chocolate stash was because they were his favorite. Weirdo, she thought fondly.

"Since you brought it up," she prompted. "I'm guessing you got something in mind for air friction?"

"I have been working on that heat-resistant material."

"The fire suit?"

"The fire suit."

She played with the wrapper from her candy bar. "Just for proof of concept, of course," she said innocently.

He shot her a look from behind his glasses, but before he could say anything, the door to the cortex thumped open and Barry's voice called out, "Guys? Hey, where is everyone?"

She called out, "In here!" and Barry appeared with two large boxes in his arms.

"Hey," he said. "You guys got some time to talk?"

"I was about to go home for the night," Cisco said coolly.

"But we can make the time," Caitlin said, giving him a warning look. He pushed his glasses up in a gesture of annoyance, but didn't argue.

"Great," Barry said, thumping both boxes down on the table and pulling files out. "I've been going over unsolved cases from the past nine months. There's been a sharp increase in unexplained deaths and missing people. . . ."

Caitlin listened as Barry explained what he wanted to do. Superhero, she thought. He wants to be a real-life superhero.

She looked across the table at Cisco. He had his arms folded tightly, his hands gripping the opposite elbows. His face looked blank as he stared down at the files scattered over the table. Unexplained deaths, missing persons, general weirdness. They all knew that Central City had gotten much weirder lately.

If all of them, or even some of them, were due to the particle accelerator explosion, then that was even more that they needed to atone for. But if Barry's idea panned out, maybe they could actually start on that instead of marinating in regrets.

"I can't do it without you," Barry finished up. He glanced at Caitlin, and then looked longer at Cisco.

When Cisco lifted his head, though, it wasn't to return Barry's gaze. Instead, he looked up at her. Anybody who didn't know him wouldn't have been able to see the mix of emotions bubbling in his eyes. Uncertainty, hope, wariness, excitement.

She knew him.

She tilted her head and raised her brows. He let out a little sigh and pressed his lips together. She smiled at him.

"If we're going to do this," he said slowly, as if the words were being pulled out of him, "I have something that might help."

FINIS

[laventadorn]

You said you headcanoned Snape as loving sweet things. I would love to read a drabble where Harriet sees Snape adding like a bucket of sugar in his tea, or his eyes shining when he sees chocolate and squeeing on the inside because it's so goddamn cute.

once again, this is not exactly what you asked for... turns out, as life consistently proves to me, i am terrible at sticking to plans!

more experimental sketching, with some parts taken from HBP, chapter “silver and opals.”

It was around eight o’clock on a Tuesday night when Harriet first suspected The Truth.

The thing was, she would’ve thought she’d just imagined it -- the stress of too much homework, she liked to tell Snape innocently, for the spectacular sarcasm that his face could mold itself into -- except that it made certain . . . anomalies more explicable.

Data, data, data, she thought. Can’t make bricks without clay.

Since she had the Prince’s book with her all the time, she started making notes on what she observed and tucking them between the pages. At breakfast, lunch, dinner, she kept her eyes peeled. She even went down to the kitchens and asked around the house-elves. That was maybe cheating a bit, but it wasn’t like Snape disapproved cheating.

He might not be so thrilled, though, if he found out that her subject of study was his sugar intake.

#

On that fateful Tuesday, it started like this:

Snape always laid biscuits out for her visits. She knew they weren’t from the Hogwarts’ cupboards: sometimes they were Belgian, or French, or Italian, and they were fucking divine. She reckoned he must have got them from his jaunts with Narcissa Malfoy, or perhaps she shipped them in to him. One time he’d had little transparent cakes with icing-flowers inside. Harriet had developed a Pavlovian response of almost drooling when she walked into his parlor.

That Tuesday, he’d brought out some kind of sugared violets. Harriet was snapping them up, idly leafing through the Prince’s book while Snape savaged some essays, when she accidentally knocked her quill to the floor. Dusting sugar off her fingertips, she bent down to get the quill.

When she sat up, Snape was sucking on the tip of his finger.

He dropped his hand and went about his marking as if nothing was out of place; quite casually, really. Harriet was prepared to shrug it off -- maybe he’d stabbed himself in his fury at Gryffindor punctuation -- but then she noticed it:

A finger-shaped mark in the leftover sugar on her plate.

The fingerprint was too big to be hers.

Snape had just swiped a taste of the sugar and sucked it off his finger.

Slowly, she dragged her own finger through the violet flakes and licked them off. Snape just carried on eviscerating the ego of whatever poor student whose composition was under his quill.

Well, he was a spy. It would take more than that to smoke him out.

He always had sugar waiting out with the tea. . . and she never ate all of the biscuits, but there was always a new box each time, never leftovers on the second trip. . .

He’s got a sweet tooth, she thought. An eat-half-a-box-of-biscuits in a day sweet tooth.

She bloody had to know more.

#

Fortunately, that weekend was a Hogsmeade weekend. It was going to be thick with snow, but for the possibility of actually seeing Snape eating biscuits, Harriet would endure any weather.

“You haven’t been this eager to get to Hogsmeade in ages,” Hermione said suspiciously as they bundled up, Harriet humming to herself.

“Oh, well, you know,” said Harriet, trying not to grin too broadly, “fresh air and all that.”

Hermione directed a speaking look out the window, where sleet lashed at the pane, but only picked up her hat.

Harriet remained cheerful even on the walk, where the wind blew stinging snow into her face and her feet froze in her boots. She, Hermione and Ron piled into the Three Broomsticks, which smelled like mud and wet cat, to defrost by guzzling hot butterbeer.

“I’ll order,” said Harriet, “I wanted to ask Madam Rosmerta a question.”

Ron’s face fell a bit; Hermione’s grew stony. Harriet winced as she pushed through the standing crowd to the bar. She wondered what she would do if Snape showed the slightest inclination to admire anyone. Probably be horribly jealous -- his friendship with Narcissa Malfoy was irritating enough, a fact which made her wonder if she was really an awful person. Surely it was wrong to be jealous that he had a friend. If it were Remus or somebody, she was sure she wouldn’t mind. . . but Narcissa Malfoy. . .

Maybe I’m just a jealous cow, she thought moodily, leaning against the bar.

“Three butterbeers, please,” she said to Madam Rosmerta. “Are there any sweet shops around besides Honeyduke’s? Like gourmet ones or something really posh.”

Madam Rosmerta looked blank for a moment. “There’s always Adele’s,” she said, after a funny pause. “Quite pricey, though.”

“Thanks,” said Harriet. Madam Rosmerta stared at her, then nodded and turned to get the butterbeers. Harriet watched her, half curious, half worried; maybe she was just having an off day.

Ron and Hermione had made up by the time she squeezed back through the crowd to their table. They were sitting close enough that when they saw Harriet, they immediately nudged their chairs apart a bit.

“Ever heard of Adele’s?” Harriet asked as she slid the butterbeers across to them, pretending that she hadn’t seen a thing.

“It’s a tea shop, isn’t it?” Hermione said. Harriet wouldn’t have been too surprised if the only thing Hermione hadn’t known about was Snape’s sweet tooth -- and she’d be doubting Hermione’s ignorance extended even that far if she hadn’t spent a great deal more time with him and only just cottoned on. Of course, she had no idea how Hermione learned half the things she did, so maybe she had already figured it out. Harriet wasn’t going to ask.

“Want to get something sweet to take back,” she said.

Hermione’s suspicions were clearly reawakened. “Why not Honeyduke’s?”

“Isn’t it good to try new things?” Harriet asked innocently.

Hermione snorted, but drank down her butterbeer and didn’t pursue it.

Harriet offered to let Ron and Hermione wait for her in the warmth, but Hermione was clearly still in investigative mode and Ron was doubly tempted by the promise of sweets and sticking with Hermione. So after cramming themselves back into scarves and cloaks, they waded up the high street to Adele’s.

After defrosting her glasses, Harriet immediately saw that this was where Snape had to get those treats of his. Little printed boxes full of sweets lined the walls; in front of her was a massive case displaying the stuff that needed to be kept cold: chocolate cakes, cheesecakes, bonbons, macarons, truffles, and more things than Harriet could name. An expertly coiffed witch behind the counter was staring at them dripping snow onto her fine carpet with no great enthusiasm.

It was a bit disappointing that the place wasn’t pink. Snape in here, shopping for sweets surrounded by Umbridge-pink, would have been a picture to sustain her on the most dismal night. But the paint was only a tasteful cream, the wallpaper some kind of bland silk striping. 

If the sweets Snape shared with Harriet were an indication of what he liked, he preferred things that weren’t chocolate. She therefore steered herself toward the packaged sweets on the shelves. They were even tied with silky ribbons, which Snape always took off before he brought out the box, and she could see why; it had the shop name printed on it. She recognized the apricot-filling biscuits as a kind he’d laid out two weeks ago.

She also caught sight of the price tag, and reeled a bit.

“Anything here must cost a fortune,” Hermione hissed at her.

“Yeah,” Harriet said dazedly.

“I’m afraid to touch anything,” Ron muttered.

Harriet could have browsed in there for ages, weighing all the mouth-watering sweets for their likelihood of appealing to Snape (did taste hardly matter, or did he have a real favorite? Would he try whatever you put in front of him? Was his shopping at this place a bid to impress her, or did he prefer this kind of ultra posh dessert? Would he eat Galaxy bars if she brought them?) But, in addition to the shop-witch radiating a desire for them to get out, Hermione and Ron clumping up against her wherever she moved flattened her enthusiasm. In the end, in a spirit of mischief, she ordered two small cakes that looked like a mound of flowers from the cold case. Though the shop-witch was clearly hoping she’d seen the last of them, she put a stasis charm on them so that it would keep in transport, boxed them up and tied them off with a mint-green ribbon.

“There you go,” Harriet said, handing one box off to Ron. The mischief was still strong, and she added, “Share it with Hermione, if you like.”

“Harriet,” Hermione said, clearly scandalized, though whether it was from the price tag or from embarrassment, Harriet couldn’t tell. Grinning, she tugged her hat down and made her escape while Ron was still sputtering.

She waited for them out on the street while they bundled up; an unpleasant experience, for the wind was higher and the snow thicker. It would be better to say they staggered back toward Hogwarts than “walked,” at times almost bent double against the driving sleet.

The rising storm kept Harriet from hearing the commotion up ahead until she was almost right in the middle of it.

“It’s nothing to do with you, Leanne!” 

The voice was familiar -- Katie Bell. She and her friend were struggling with a package, fighting over it -- either Katie dropped it or Leanne ripped it out of her hands, for it fell to the snow, and the next moment --

Katie rose into the air, like she was being gripped by the front of her robes and gently pulled upward. Sleet lashed at Harriet’s glasses, but she felt a deeper chill, a prickling all over her arms and legs beneath her winter clothes, as Katie’s hair writhed in the icy wind, her eyes shut, her face blank --

And then her eyes shot open and she screamed. The shock of the sound shot to Harriet’s core; before she’d even thought about it, even collected herself, she was standing beneath Katie, reaching up to grab at her ankles where she hung in the air. Leanne had seized Katie’s other leg and was screaming too, though a very different sound, one frightened and panicked, while Katie sounded like she was dying --

Ron was there, too, tall enough to grip Katie’s arm where she hung over their heads, and Hermione was trying to shout over the wind; but a second later, they were all knocked into the snow when the magic holding Katie aloft severed and she crashed down on top of them.

Katie lay in Leanne’s arms, thrashing, screaming, as her friend sobbed her name. Hermione’s eyes were almost black in her pale face, her scarf having been pulled loose, and Ron was trying to held Leanne hold Katie steady. Harriet looked frantically around, but they were the only ones out there on the snow-piled lane.

“Stay there!” she shouted over the wind, clambering up from the slushy road, “I’m going for help--”

#

Harriet looked at the crushed cake box and sighed.

Ron made a noise of agreement and offered her a smear of blue icing, which once had been a very intricate flower. Harriet took the fork and dispiritedly sucked the icing off it.

“Poor Katie,” Hermione said quietly. She stared absently at the icing blob-on-a-fork that Ron had put in her hand, but didn’t eat it.

“Think she’ll be all right?” Harriet asked, subdued. It was going to be a while before she forgot the tenor of that scream or Leanne’s weeping. The warmth of the common room fire seemed far away.

“They’ll have to send her to St. Mungo’s, I reckon,” Ron said, voice low. “A curse like that’s no small thing.”

Harriet desperately wanted it to be lights out so she could go see Snape. Professor McGonagall had sent the necklace to him; if he knew the curse, he’d know what would be done about Katie. But, though the common room windows were black, it would be some hours before bedtime, when she could reasonably disappear without raising suspicion.

She hadn’t seen him all afternoon. She’d half hoped for some glimpse of him, for him to come and ask her about the necklace, perhaps. But that was both stupid and selfish -- he was helping Katie, and anything he needed to know, Professor McGonagall would tell him. She wasn’t the kind of person who’d report something inaccurately.

“Are you throwing that out?” Hermione asked.

Harriet looked up; Hermione was nodding at the battered cake box. Harriet had chucked it away when she’d rushed to help Katie; she’d have forgotten it on the lane if she hadn’t stepped on it at the last moment, as they’d gathered up the necklace and the sobbing Leanne to follow Hagrid and Katie off to Hogwarts. It was now flattened, stained, and thoroughly ruined. Harriet only hadn’t binned it yet because she felt curiously sentimental about it.

“Yeah,” she sighed, and swept it into the rubbish bin.

Ron gave her the last bite of his cake.

#

Even under those subdued circumstances, Harriet couldn’t repress the flutter of a thrill when she cast the spell to unlock Snape’s door. It wasn’t from getting up to anything illicit -- not any real sense of illicit, though she definitely wasn’t supposed to be down there at all -- but from the fact of Snape’s trusting her enough to give her the power.

Door shut and locked again, she tiptoed to the door of his parlor and peered in. No one was there, aside from himself. He stood over the fire, his back to her, a solid pillar of black against the shadows of the room and the bronze light of the fire. Pulling off her Cloak, she hung it on a peg, and just the soft sound of that made Snape raise his head.

He pivoted and strode toward her. Harriet’s legs momentarily tried to back her into the wall, but she ordered them to stay put. Even if Snape’s face was carved out of marble, his eyes so black they swallowed light, and he looked like Death on the warpath --

He seized her arm -- firm but not crushing -- and pulled --

And a second later, she collided with his chest; his other arm folded around her, his hand gripping her shoulder, his forearm pressed across her back --

He was hugging her.

Snape was hugging her. His cheek was resting on top of her hair; his chest rose and fell in tightly controlled intervals. She could feel his heartbeat under her cheek.

Harriet was stunned, completely motionless. A sense of unreality, mixed with giddy elation and bewilderment, wouldn’t have kept her still for long, though, had she not suspected that any movement from her would send him running back to the fireplace. If she tried to return the hug -- it was all too easy to imagine him snatching himself away and hiding on the other side of the tea table, the way he always did when he let her down here.

She wanted to memorize the moment, the exact placement of his hand and the thin warmth that seeped through his wool robes; but by the time she’d made up her mind to do so, he was pulling back. Disappointment swelled -- but he wasn’t going far at all, just enough to look down at her, brushing her hair out of her face, and she quite definitely could not move then, from the shock, which was just as well, because she’d have certainly scared him off if she’d given in to that joyous thrill of having him right there, close and tactile, the way he hardly ever was --

“You aren’t hurt.” His voice was low and dangerous, as if he was ready to throttle any possible pain she might be feeling.

“I didn’t touch it at all.” She wanted to take his hand, wished he’d allow her. It was right there, smoothing over her shoulder, as if straightening her jumper, so bloody tempting to --

But then he was moving back, his hands returning to knot in his robes, his gaze darting away like a shying hippogryff, ferocious yet nervous.

“You did touch Miss Bell,” he said, darting a glare back at her. “Some curses transfer through touch -- ”

“I wasn’t going to leave her like that,” Harriet said, exasperated. “You know me.”

“I do, which is why I know this caution to be pointless.” His glare was head-on now; she folded her arms, uncowed. “But you know me, and you know I’m going to bloody say it anyway, I’ll thank you.”

“Yeah, right, fine.” Harriet sighed and dropped her arms. Snape didn’t look at all appeased, so she changed the subject. “How’s Katie?”

“She’s been transported to St. Mungo’s.” He turned away, his own arms still tightly folded, his profile cutting up the firelight like a hatchet. “I could slow the curse but not stop it. If she’d touched the necklace with any more of her skin than she did, she would be dead.”

Harriet felt a chill like when she’d fallen down in the road, Katie a dead weight on top of her. “What was it?”

“A very Dark curse,” Snape said, and wouldn’t elaborate. “You don’t want to know the particulars.”

“Seems worse that way, honestly,” Harriet muttered, recalling the look on Katie’s face as she’d lain in Leanne’s arms. At the same time, she knew she couldn’t imagine all the things dark curses could do. Snape could, though.

“Had you touched it,” he said, staring down into the fire, “you’d be just as she is now.”

Harriet glanced at him -- at his forbidding profile, the lank crow-colored hair that hung over his sharp cheek, and remembered the flutter of his heart against her ear. There was something about Snape that always felt . . . fragile, yet somehow unbreakable. In a way, though, that was scant comfort: it meant he could be hurt over and over again.

(Though she’d never tell him that in a million years. If he knew she’d ever thought he was anything but hard and vicious to the core, he’d throw a fit.)

She needed to distract him.

“I was bringing you a cake,” she said. “I saw the other night that you like sweets.”

He raised his head and stared over at her, his face for once quite blank.

“What?” he said at last.

“You were sampling my sugared violets. I caught you. They came from that Adele’s, didn’t they? Yeah,” she went on, when he only continued to stare, “the shop-witch looked at us like we were a bunch of raccoons someone’d let loose in her shop, but I got this cake with all these iced flowers. Only it got. . . squashed.” Oops, that brought the conversation back to Katie and the curse. Damn.

Snape was silent for a few moments more. “Are you using this opportunity to root out a secret of mine, while I’m emotionally compromised?”

“Er.” She thought about it. “I dunno?”

“If you were, I’d be proud.”

She grinned, though she felt like sleeping for days. “So you’re going to stop hiding it from me, then?”

“I’ve made no such concession.” His face was immobile, grave, carved with its usual sharp lines. But she caught a hint of something, like a light shining in a deep stairwell far below, or the soft, buried beat of his heart when he’d held her for a moment against him.

Guess I’ll have to make you, she thought. It was perhaps more Slytherin than Gryffindor not to make the declaration out loud. Snape probably read it in her face, anyway.

But he called for tea and gestured her to the other arm chair without another word.