Her Wolf King

{le mariage}

THE WEDDING

HE WATCHED THE castle through the shifting shadows of the branches, silvery moonlight seeping through them. Somewhere in that castle, he hoped Lenore was sleeping peacefully beneath a mound of blankets and furs and soft pillows, not keeping herself up worrying about the wolf she was about to marry.

Although he wasn't quite sure why that hope, that wish, was light in his typically heavy heart. He never hoped. Never longed for things he couldn't have, things that he knew damn well wouldn't happen.

So why was he here in the snow, pacing in his anxiety before his second wedding, thinking about a woman who would never love him? He knew damn well the cost of emotions, the cost of hoping—early in his curse he had tried it. He had hoped. He had wished.

And he had despaired. Everett had found the cost of hope to be bitter and crippling, rather than buoyant and pleasant as everyone had promised. Then again, what could he have expected? Hope and wishes were not tangible things. They did not produce results, did not line one's pockets or put food on one's table—they were supposed to make it more bearable to wait for those results.

Hope was for children. Acceptance—acceptance was for those who were grown. And if nothing else, Everett had gone through enough to accept every brutal event that met him.

The sun rose just as he padded silently to the entrance of the manor, glittering ice and blue-tinged snow turning to bright, blinding hues. Peach and coral and lilac clouds, the smoky mountains casting long shadows over the white-dusted grounds. He gazed at it for a moment, before his snout flattened into a less threatening face, before paws became hands and feet, before thick, coarse fur was replaced by rich clothes. Before he lurched as though drunk into the foyer, and was met by an even more brilliant sight.

Decorated for the wedding, the manor house appeared more grand today than it had in even the years he had shared it with another woman. Garlands of green and gold wound around the columns at each corner of the ballroom, gold flowers shining bright against darker wreaths of pine.

Lenore leaned against one of the four pillars lining the corridor that led into the ballroom, wearing a gown of pure white. Pale grey fur trimmed the sleeves and the high collar that wrapped around her neck, leaving room for the diamond droplet that sparkled between her collarbones. She looked up at his arrival.

"Husband," she greeted him with a wry smile, sweeping her golden hair off of her shoulder. "Is the gown too much, do you think?"

"I'm torn," he quipped. "On one side of my conscience, it was a gift from me and I'm likely to be offended if you don't wear it."

"And on the other side?" She pushed herself off of the pillar, and made her way over to him, putting her hands on his chest. Everett could feel the heat of her body through the material of his tunic, searing him like a brand. Marking him.

"On the other side..." He sucked in a breath, inhaling the scent of iron and wine, sharp and intoxicating. "You look awful in it."

She smiled, unfazed by the insult. A woman after his own cold heart. "So awful... that I ought to take it off?"

Yes. "No," he responded, he lied. "Not quite that awful."

"On that heartwarming note, should we go attend our own wedding now?" She looped her arm through his, not waiting for an answer. A command, not a question, from a woman with steel to match his own.

"We shall."

Outside, the snow was crisp and pure, though nearly a foot deep. His breeches, covered by high boots as they were, were spared from the cold and damp, but Lenore's gown was not so lucky. She wore high, fur-trimmed boots that stopped just above her knees, but had to pick up the heavy train and cape of her wedding dress as she walked, putting her off balance. After much grumbling and stumbling into him, she relented to let herself be swept into his arms. Lenore let out a whoop of laughter—unladylike perhaps, but vivacious, full-bodied.