Page 41 of The Howling
I nod, attempting to see past Bessie to catch a glimpse of my mate.
“And”—Bessie moves to one side, entering my view and blocking that of her shop—“you need to tell your ancestors she will only marry you when she’s ready.”
“My ancestors have nothing to do with what or whom I mate,” I growl.
“Unless you’re in the habit of handing out wedding dresses, it was those you left behind, and their pushing will not break your curse, Barghest, not without her consent.”
I feel the snarl before I hear it.
“My mating is my business, and mine alone,” I say.
“No.” My sweet Wynter steps from behind Bessie.
She’s wearing a dress which is made from deep blue silk, setting off her beautiful hair and skin. The softness of the silk matches the softness of her.
“No?”
“It is my business too, Reavely.”
She is right.
Bessie glares at me, her gaze, as always, almost painful. Like the first pair of trousers I ever wore. This witch knows me more than I know myself.
I give my Wynter a deep bow. “Of course,” I say. “It is always the female’s choice as to whom she mates. If you have other suitors, I will gladly rip them limb from limb in a contest to the death.”
Wynter gasps. I’m relatively certain Bessie chokes back a laugh. Meddling witch.
“I don’t have any othersuitors,” Wynter chokes out, “but even if I did, I would not want anyone to bekilled.”
“Then how does a human mate prove himself to his female?” I query. “Without bloodshed?”
“This is your conversation now, Wynter,” Bessie says, a wicked smile playing over her lips. “I’ll leave you to it. And presumably you can return to Chilburgh by a more conventional route now you have clothing?” She eyes me as if she challenges me.
Which Wynter is also doing.
“Yes, that’s something I’d prefer, along with less limb removal.”
I feel myself wilt under her gaze.
“Yes, mistress,” I hear myself pant.
“And you will pay Bessie for her time and expertise too,” Wynter says.
“Yes, mistress.” I meet her eyes. “And what do I get in return?” I chance the question.
Wynter narrows her eyes. I’m sure I scent something about her which isn’t fear, and it isn’t disinterest.
“You get me to come back with you,” she says. “And not run away.”
My heart pounds, blood hot, my prick like iron in my pants.
“What if I’d like you to run?” I do my best to keep the rasp from my voice but I’m not sure I’m successful.
“Then I won’t run,” Wynter says defiantly.
I think my prick might have messed my trousers. My chest heaves with the effort of not sweeping her from her feet and taking her away instantly, the heat inside becoming molten rock and cooling once again.
“You always have a choice, little deer.” I shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. “To run or not to run, to stay or not to stay. Your every wish is my command.”
