Page 1 of Our Dark Winter Wish

1

Archie

Iadd more wood to the roaring flames in our fireplace. The fire spits and hisses at me, and the smell of smoke and roasting chestnuts fills my nostrils.

It’s a large fireplace with soot-covered stone slabs from the constant heat. We haven’t let the fire die for weeks. Especially since the snow started to fall. Above, dark green vines climb the walls, and purple flowers bloom all year round. But around the hearth, sprigs of Fir and Pine twist and wind in a beautiful arch. Bright red berries and holly grow beside great golden leaves that shimmer in the firelight, and a constant dusting of fresh snow covers it all, never melting, no matter how high the flames in the fire grow.

Pix. That wonderful little witch of ours. She’s made this place a winter paradise.

I wipe away the thin layer of sweat building on my brow, take a moment to roll the muscles in my neck, and enjoy a deep swig of whiskey that pleasantly burns my throat.

Four red stockings hang from the branches coming out of the walls. Each one is filled with trinkets and treats we think eachother will enjoy. Red and green candles flicker all around the room, exuding the scent of cinnamon and spiced apples.

It’s just how it used to be when I was a pup and lived here with my pack all those years ago. When the winter solstice celebrations ruled our village and consumed our lives.

It was my favourite time of year, and now, I am getting to celebrate it with my new family.

Lazily, I stoke the flames with a poker and take another sip of whiskey before sliding my hand into my pocket.

I take a deep and content breath, feeling warm inside and out, failing to remember the last time I was this happy for this long. This settled and safe.

Fuck. The whiskey is good, too. I’m so glad I had the forethought to fill the ship with spirits before we sailed.

This cottage has been our home for almost a year. It lies deep in the forests of my ancestral pack, with trees so old that I swear they move on their own. And plants that have long since been forgotten are thriving here.

Pix loves it. She claims she feels a primal connection to this land. One of mystery and incredible strength. I feel it, too. In a wolfy way. And I love that we share this connection.

The foundations of our cottage were my parent’s home. This chimney was theirs. The floors beneath my feet belonged to them. I took my first steps on these very slabs.

I have looked for any signs of a surviving pack for months, but there’s no one here. Either they were all killed by the blood witches, or the survivors fled. There comes a point when too much blood has been spilt for a place ever to be called home.

Luckily, I’ve grown indifferent to the thought and smell of blood. I do not need to consume it anymore. It has no power over me.

I place the whiskey bottle on the mantle above the fire and turn, admiring the home she built using her earth magic.

Ourhome.

The walls of my family home were destroyed long ago. Pix rebuilt them from three ancient trees that she bent and twisted into shape to form solid walls. Branches bend into arches for doorways. The stairs are knotted roots leading up to a first-floor bedroom, and the ceilings are beautifully crooked and covered in leaves and vines. The walls are living bark that shift and groan, reacting to her moods. Her presence. Her earth magic.

The floors are a mix of stone, moss and clover. And sometimes red daisies bloom in the lounge when she dreams.

But when she’s angry, oh shit… when she’s angry, thorns and thistles emerge all around us. Inches long and as sharp as a sword.

But now, it’s perfection.

I sigh, utterly content.

And look down at my very reason for living.

Pix is a naked and quivering mess, kneeling before me with her hands bound behind her back and my belt buckled loosely around her neck. Her breasts are beaded with sweat as they rise and fall with each shuddering gasp.

She’s blindfolded. Her damp silver hair falls in dishevelled curls down her bare back. Her lips are swollen and parted, and the sweet scent of her arousal mixes perfectly with the earthy aroma of our little palace of wood and stone.

Perfection.

I step towards her, and her head shoots in my direction, keen to find out where I am and what I plan on doing next.

Between her legs, the end of a smooth wooden cock protrudes. Several inches of it lie inside her. Warm and coated in the three orgasms I have already given her.

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