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BRIAN
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FROM MY WORKSHOP WINDOW, I watched Elizabeth skillfully maneuvering the Aston Martin into the garage. A minute later she came out with several shopping bags in her hands. She strode toward the house but then stopped and bent to tie her shoe. I got a nice side view of her firm, round little ass. My cock gave it its own admiration, with instant, pain-bordering stiffening.
Something else made me smile. Elizabeth wasn’t in her customary skirt and high heels. She wore jeans and sneakers.
Still bent, she lifted her head and turned in my direction, as if she could feel my eyes on her.
She flashed me a smile, further hardening and melting me, all at once.
I waved to her to come in. She pointed to her bags then gestured toward the house.
I opened the door and stepped outside.
“Want me to bring you coffee?” she asked.
“I have a coffee machine here. Just come.”
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THAT MORNING I’D DECIDED to use Elizabeth’s absence to go to Red Cliffs and see my parents. They’d just returned from Winston and now they were staying with Astrid and Jack. I had to cut my visit short because my mother wouldn’t stop asking me about Elizabeth. She couldn’t wait to meet her.
I missed Elizabeth whenever she went to Copper Ridge or Red Cliffs. At the same time, I was glad she wanted to go. It told me she felt comfortable here. It was a way to meet people, to talk to them and to get to know them better. The more she knew of us the easier it would be for her to stay among us.
That was what I hoped, at least. I knew I’d have to negotiate with her about returning to Rosenthal. She really wanted to do the Baker Block renovations. I couldn’t imagine a better restorer for it than Elizabeth. She meant much more to me than the Baker Block, but I wasn’t in a situation to hand the job to contractors, put Elizabeth in the Cessna, take her to a remote tropical island and, god help me, have my way with her. She wouldn’t accept it, even if I promised to buy her a dozen heritage buildings to restore later. Elizabeth Chatwin was a proud woman, and that included professional integrity. I could understand it, even though it didn’t suit me at all.
Flying a plane was out of the question anyway. And there were more obstacles. I’d be lucky if she didn’t think by now that I had a problem with sexual potency. From her perspective, it could easily look like I was avoiding her. To tell the truth, sometimes I did, when my desire became too strong to be contained in her physical presence. Or her mental presence, for that matter, in my thoughts and my dreams during the short few hours before dawn.
Even though I slept in my wolf form, in my dreams I was a man. We made love, in known and unknown places, some secluded, some open. Our lovemaking was different every time. I was positive that we covered most of the variations that could happen between two people who ultimately trust each other.
Yet there was always a particular sensation that repeated dream after dream—the moment I entered her. What happened then shouldn’t be happening with a human woman, only between two werewolf lovers: the swelling and locking of my knot inside her, the most potent sensual stimulation we could experience.
In spite of the maddening lust I felt for her, I’d decided not to sleep with her until she knew who I was. I owed her that much.
I wouldn’t need to wait long. Elizabeth was close to finding everything out. Our protection was starting to wear off. She could hear us in our private rooms, and we still couldn’t hear her in her room, smell her except if she was close, or follow her outline.
We gave her plenty of clues. It was a matter of time and her courage to put them together. Her subconscious mind was preparing her for the big revelation. She liked us, and she trusted us, and that would also help.
I was tired of disappearing and hiding, night after night. She wouldn’t say anything, but more than once I’d first caught hope and then disappointment in her eyes when I announced I had to exercise or to go outside, never asking her to accompany me. She was upset because she knew I felt better yet still I refused to join her for her morning rides.
If she only knew how much I wanted to.
Every morning I’d hide behind the stable and wait for Elizabeth to come to take Blizzard or Breeze for a ride. She was always in her fancy riding suit. Trust Elizabeth to have something like that in her wardrobe. It suited her well, no arguing with that, particularly the tight beige pants made of some stretchy fabric. God, wasn’t she a magnificent sight from behind. I wished I could to shift back to human at that very moment and, sweaty and hard and mad with lust, with my wolf still close, take her there, in the stable, on the hay, and I wouldn’t have even bothered to take those boots off. Dear lord. I’d never been any sort of fetishist, but there was something in Elizabeth’s footwear that made me crazy for her.
I even considered telling her the truth and then letting her decide. But how could I say to her, “Listen, Elizabeth, we’re werewolves and you’re a vardanni. We won’t hurt you. There are also a few wizards and a sort of vampires among us, but we’re all quite timid.” There was no way to tell her little by little. It wouldn’t satisfy her curiosity. But all at once might be too much for her.
Better let her find the answers herself.
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“I’LL WORK LATER TODAY, just to let you know,” she said as she stepped into the workshop. “I had a coffee with Lani and lost track of time.”
“It doesn’t mean you need to work longer.”
“Well, it does.”
“Do you want coffee or tea?”
“Tea. I had a double espresso at the Waxing Crescent. One more coffee today and I’ll spend the night ...” Her voice trailed off and she glanced at me from under her lashes. “Tossing and turning in my bed. Not my favorite nocturnal activity.” She shrugged and walked to the desk where she gently picked up the carousel that I’d made for Rosie. “Have you finished it?”
Little vixen. Sooner or later, I’d get a chance to show her my favorite nocturnal activities, just to see if they matched with hers.
“May I?” she said, pointing at the winding key.
“Go ahead.”
A wide smile split her face as the carousel started spinning and Mozart’s gentle tune filled the shop. “It’s so beautiful, Khalid,” she said softly. “Rosie will love it.”
“Saturday is going to be her big day. There will be lots of people at Astrid and Jack’s, including little ones.”
“I can play with them. I know how to make balloon animals and origami.”
We stood across from each other, the big table between us. “How about next time?” I said. “This time you just enjoy.”
“I have a present for her,” she said and raised her hand to stop me when I opened my mouth to protest. “I know what Astrid said, but still. It’s Rosie’s first birthday.”
“What did you buy for her?” I asked, giving up.
“A quilt. It’s quite beautiful, you’ll see. It came with the roses. I mean, I ordered it from Alain’s mom. She’s a quilter. And an expert in roses. So, I asked her to send me something pretty for a little girl. I think Rosie will like it.” She paused. “You know that Lottie and Jacob are coming?”
“Lottie’s a friend of the family.”
“By the way, thanks for the roses,” she said.
I arched my eyebrow.
“In my room,” she clarified. “They are red,” she added quietly.
“You’re welcome.” Last night I’d asked Harriet to put a bouquet of red roses in Elizabeth’s room. “Hope you like them.”
She trailed her index finger along the edge of the table. “I do.” A pause. “There is a symbolism in red roses, Khalid.”
“There is, Elizabeth.”
“You confuse me sometimes more than anything or anyone else here, you know.”
“And you excite me on multiple levels.”
The kettle whistled. I turned to the counter and poured the boiling water over black tea leaves infused with cardamom.
“Ah, smells so good,” she said and then, without changing her tone, asked, “What do asanni, ellida, and vardanni mean?”
I still stood turned away from her, and that gave me the necessary time to prepare an answer. The question itself hadn’t surprised me; it was rather its suddenness that had caught me a bit off guard.
I turned to face her. “They’re from local folklore. Asanni means a wizardess, ellida is a sort of spiritual leader, and it’s always a female. Vardanni is a female guardian.”
“All three the principal females, so to speak?”
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“Of some mythology. Where did you come across these words?”
“Overheard them. Repeatedly. What mythology? The mythology of Red Cliffs and Copper Ridge? I recognize the root of the word vardanni, it’s from the Anglo-French ‘wadere.’ It’s also the Latin word for ‘guardian,’ as in many other languages, with the same meaning: protector. Asanni, I suspect, must come from some Old Norse mythology. In proto-German, Os or As means demi-god. Thor’s name is Asa-Thor, for example. Aesir is plural of As, in other words, the Norse principal pantheon. Female demi-gods—not wizardesses—are called asingyr, or something similar, I can’t recollect now, not asanni. And I’ve never heard of ellidas. So?”
She arched her eyebrows, waiting for the answer.
Should I mention how impressed I was? “It is from Norse mythology. You’re on the right track. Among the first settlers to this area were people from Northern Europe,” I said.
“Ah. Sort of the-best-of mythology, huh?”
“A compilation? Perhaps. There are better authorities on local folklore than me. You should talk to them.”
She was quiet for a moment, and then she changed the topic once more. “I won’t work longer if we can sit together later tonight and go through some details of my plan for the Baker Block.”
“Perhaps tomorrow, or one of these days.”
“We need to talk. You’ve been avoiding me.”
Of course I had, even though it was a lost battle. She was determined to make me work on the Baker Block project. Fine. It was time to update her about the financial plan, legal aspects and timeline.
“Okay, we’ll do it tonight,” I said with a sigh. “I know how much the Baker Block renovations mean to you. I won’t snatch it from your hands.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not dragging my feet. I just think that maybe you don’t need to be there all the time when the renovations start.”
She crossed her arms and locked her eyes with mine. “But I have to be there. I don’t do ‘online renovations,’ Khalid. I’m sorry. The Baker Block project is not a term paper I need to submit.” She took a deep breath. “You can come to Rosenthal. You don’t need to stay there all the time. You’re the owner, or you will be soon; you should show up there from time to time.”
I wouldn’t mind following her to the North Pole, but I was still undergoing daily, involuntary changes. Rosenthal might be a town of cosmopolitan and kind people, but I wouldn’t put their open-mindedness to such a test.
Popping into a wolf outside of our sacred and protected territory was a risky business, and we avoided doing it. It rarely happened that humans saw us in our alternative forms, but if they did, they were not thrilled. It was in their nature to react aggressively to the unknown and unexplained; it’d helped them to survive. If they were caught by surprise, they could harm us—their weaponry was often sophisticated and lethal. In any case, we had to deal with the aftermath of our encounters by alternating their memory and monitoring their thoughts for a while. An easy job on a small sample, far more complicated en masse. It was much better to avoid any conflicts with humans, for everyone’s sake.
For the time being, I could pretend that such a decision was out of my hands. I walked to Elizabeth’s side of the table and lifted her chin. “We’ll see what my doctors say. You know that I’d love to come to Rosenthal with you, don’t you?”
She looked at me and smiled, but I could see she wasn’t convinced. I couldn’t blame her. I’d been sending her mixed messages since we met.
“I know you would. I just don’t understand why you couldn’t.”
“Well ...” You will, and soon, as it looks.
“I’m going to work now,” she said, keeping her golden-speckled grey eyes on mine. Her voice was barely a whisper, but her heart was beating loud and fast. She smelled delicious. And then her translucent skin, those red lips made for kissing, her breasts almost touching my chest, her hips a fingertip from my groin. A deep growl rose in my throat. With all the strength I could summon, I stopped it from reaching my lips.
She’d woken up my wolf.
He reacted to her as if she were a blaidd benywaidd indeed, a she-wolf, not a human woman. How was it possible? She didn’t have a wolf spirit inside her to connect with my own.
For a moment I was sure I could hear my wolf’s deep, satisfying laugh inside me. He was dangerously close.
Yet ... I wasn’t sure what had happened, but I was certain I wouldn’t change form. For the first time in many years, I was in control of my shifting.
I felt my wolf’s presence, however, in a way I hadn’t experienced until now: he was separate from me, yet still part of me. How crazy was that?
Elizabeth blinked several times and let out a tiny moan. I shook my head to break the spell she’d put on me. We simultaneously took a step back.
“I ... I have to go,” she stuttered.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. You? You look pale and your eyes—”
“My eyes?” I repeated as my mind frantically searched for a plausible explanation. The color of my human and my wolf eyes were almost the same, the wolf’s only a bit darker, but the shape wasn’t.
Good god. She’d just caught a glimpse of my beast.
“They were different,” she said. “Exotic. Almost like ... They were beautiful, full of ... of ...”
“Of passion? Desire makes eyes darker. Your physical presence sends my senses into overdrive, Elizabeth.”
She took a deep breath in and let an even deeper breath out. “Khalid, my art dealer friend, William Morgan, remember? He sent me a list of items he’d want to see. Can you find a delivery company to take them to Boston?”
“I’ll ask some local guys to do it.”
“It’s very valuable cargo.”
“That’s why I want them to deliver it,” I said.
“Good then. So, we agreed to talk about the Baker Block, right? Is five o’clock okay with you? We can work in the library.”
“Yes, Ma’am! Five o’clock, the library.”
She nodded, casting me another curious look. “Off I go now,” she finally said. “I want to finish the appraisal of the Königliche Porzellan figurine collection before five.”
“Regardless of their artistic and historical value, get rid of them, please,” I said. “Ship them to Boston. Ask Morgan if he wants to buy them from us.”
“Why do you dislike them so much?”
“It’s, like someone said, the degeneracy of art. Kitsch.”
“Who said that?”
I smiled. “François-Marie Arouet.”
“Later known as Voltaire. Hmm.”
Trust Elizabeth to know such details. “Is there anything you don’t know, Miss Chatwin?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You use his name with such familiarity as if he were your relative.”
Not precisely; he was my friend. “He vocalized his criticism of contemporary art in one of his early works. Before he became known as Voltaire.”
For the longest moment, she studied my face, thousands of questions on her lips. She opened her mouth to say something, but changed her mind, shook her head and shrugged.
I opened the door for her.
“I’ll see you later then,” I said quietly, still rattled by the little incident with my wolf.
I watched her walking to the house. At one moment she turned, gave me a tiny, confusing smile and a little wave. She proceeded toward the main door, stopping briefly to inspect her rose bushes before she entered the house.
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WE SPENT TWO HOURS working on the Baker Block files. Despite my fear that her presence would challenge my beast, the early afternoon experience hadn’t repeated itself. Elizabeth had business on her mind, and even my wolf submitted to her authority.
Elizabeth’s enthusiasm was contagious, and I soon found myself drawn into the discussion about her plans and ideas. She had the rare ability to see the global picture and all the little details at the same time. Her work was methodical, accurate, well-researched and realistic, yet showed her great vision, innovation and connection to the community. She stayed within the budget I had approved. She knew where she could save money, and she didn’t spare expenses when she was convinced we should have the best money could buy.
It was almost six when Harriet knocked and came in, followed by Zana. They were both dressed for outside.
“Hey, you two! We’re going now. We’ll be back around ten.”
“Who’s going? Where?” I asked, moving my eyes from Harriet to Elizabeth.
“To Lily’s parents,” Zana said.
“They invited us all for dinner,” Harriet added, “but Elizabeth said she should stay to finish something. We assumed you wouldn’t go either, so we didn’t bother to ask you.”
The initial sense of something very close to panic—We can’t stay alone in the house! I’m not ready! She is not ready!—quickly vanished, leaving behind only the traces of tension and an abundance of sweet excitement.
Elizabeth looked straight at me, her eyes slightly narrowed, her smile as old as womankind. “I really had to finish this today. But don’t let me keep you here if you want to go, Khalid.”
Yeah, sure.
“Maybe you can finish tomorrow, Elizabeth. Then we can all go,” Zana said hopefully.
“Elizabeth and Khalid have lots to work on, Zana,” Harriet said to her. “We’d better leave now.” Then to Elizabeth, “I left lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry later.”
“Thanks, Harriet,” Elizabeth said.
Zana ran to Elizabeth and hugged her. “Are we going to ride tomorrow morning?”
“I might be busy tomorrow morning with something else,” Elizabeth said and kissed Zana’s hair. “How about tomorrow afternoon?”
Busy with what?
“Okay,” Zana said, unconcerned by the change of their routine. “Bye now.”
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I WAS STILL PONDERING this unexpected development when Elizabeth turned to me and, tapping her pen on the open page of the thick Baker Block file, said in a businesslike voice, “As for the former old Courthouse, about eighty percent of surveyed townspeople want it to be a local history archive. I think we should follow their wishes.”
We worked for one more hour, until Elizabeth closed the file, piled up the papers scattered on the table, turned off her laptop and announced in the same pragmatic voice, “Now I’m going to my room to take a shower.”
“Do you want me to put the lasagna in the oven?”
“I’m not hungry. You?”
“I’m fine. I’ll be in the parlor.”
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WHILE I WAS WAITING, I wondered what I should do. Elizabeth was obviously tired of my contradictory behavior and determined to force me out into the open.
Now what? She’d come here, all soft, warm and smelling wonderful after a long shower—and why is it taking her so long? It’s been more than fifteen minutes since she went upstairs—in one of her tight dresses and high heels. Even if I pretended my leg hurt, she wouldn’t believe me.
She may think that I was unable to perform. Yes, that would be her conclusion. What an irony. Her voice, her touch, her sense of humor, her intelligence, even her business proposal, damn it, everything about her aroused me. My balls were the size of oranges, my cock, iron-hard, jerked and twitched in my jeans, and she would think I had erectile dysfunction of some sort. Great!
Another ten minutes passed with no sign of Elizabeth. How long did it take for a woman to shower? I needed less than five minutes. She’d been in the bathroom forever.
Was she alright?
I went up the stairs to her room and knocked on her door. She should be able to hear me. For safety reasons, doors were left out of Privacy Protection. I waited, but nothing happened. I tried to open it. It was locked.
I went to my room and knocked on the private door. Well, this time she might not hear it for a reason: the damn door was upholstered with leather. There was no knob on my side, god knew why. It could only be opened from Elizabeth’s room.
I left my door open to hear when she came out of her room and started pacing up and down. Maybe she’d fainted. She did have low blood pressure. Maybe she’d fallen asleep. Even worse, what if she’d fallen asleep in the bathtub? That was dangerous. She could drown.
Or maybe she was doing her hair. I didn’t understand why she didn’t like her natural hair. Although, I didn’t have any idea of what her natural hair looked like. I had heard her complain a couple of times about her curls, but in truth, she always came down with her hair smooth. Only toward the end of the day could I notice tiny ringlets and swirls on her neck and around her small, delicate ears. They looked incredibly sexy, although she didn’t seem to be aware of it.
I pulled out my phone and called her. It rang four times, and then I heard her voice message. Fuck!
“Elizabeth, are you alright? What’s going on? I’m here in my room and don’t know if you’re still in the shower or what. Call me back, please.”
I disconnected, strode to her door and knocked once more. Nothing. I called her again and left another message.
I was about to break down the private door when it suddenly flung open. “Why are you panicking?” she said. “I was in the shower. I didn’t hear the phone.”
And there she stood, barefoot, in a loosely tied light blue terry robe. The opening revealed the soft valley between her breasts and their inner curves. Her dark hair was wet; my mesmerized eyes followed a single drop from the end of a dark strand curling at her throat, as it slowly traveled downward and disappeared under her robe. I lifted my head and looked at her face: slightly flushed cheeks, red lips, shiny silver-gold eyes.
She was small and soft, she smelled of orange blossom. Of woman. Of longing.
My breath caught. “Elizabeth, we ... we need to talk,” I stuttered. “Before we have sex. You have to know about me.”
She shook her head. “No, Khalid,” she said. “Unless you suffer from erectile difficulties or have some terrible venereal disease to report, we won’t talk.”
Venereal disease? “I don’t have a damned venereal disease! And I don’t have erectile difficulties either!”
“I didn’t think you had,” she said with a smile and took a step forward.
She was in my room now.
I opened my arms and she threw herself in.