Werewolf Consort Page 2

  “You can’t win a fight against me Bg, you know that.” Paris says not even slightly phased by my partial shape shift. As if I’m a threat to him! My claws are just itching to slash at his skin, because I am so damn pissed at him. There was no reason to make me having a wet dream into an issue. Only he sees it as cheating. That I’ve cheated on him with another wolf, because it wasn’t his name I called out. Because it was a lycan who was making love to me in a dream, I don’t even remember. Because that lycan is our friend, Booker Parish and Booker and I once upon a time, long time ago, dated and were in love. Or so we thought.

  “Oh I can win a fight against you Paris D’arenberg. Just not a physical one!” I growl at him. “I’m not the one who wants to fight here. I’m the one who woke up in the middle of a fight with you that she didn’t know she was even having! All because of some stupid, subconscious dream.”

  “The subconscious doesn’t make that which matters to us any less real. You were clearly having sex with Booker in your dream. You orgasmed because of him!”

  Learning control over my orgasms is something we’ve been working on the whole time we’ve been together. It’s not like Paris and I lack a decent and active sex life. Far from it. We have an understanding, that in the bedroom, I am the beta werewolf, his submissive. It’s what we both like, what works for us and only when I am truly being punished do I not get to come. But we’ve never had this happen before. A dream for fuck sakes. This wet dream with Booker Parish, that I don’t even remember the slightest detail from, is something else.

  “Are you still in love with him?” Paris sounds more unhappy than angry as he asks me this. “is that it?”

  I feel a breath leave me and my shoulders relax, the blood is rushing around through my veins pounding in my ears, deafening me. My claws retract painfully and shift back to my hands and I gulp for air as my teeth shift back to my human teeth. Paris sees the small shape shifts and I wonder if my eyes have changed back. I can’t tell without looking at a mirror.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He mutters beginning to pace. I honestly have no idea how to answer. So I say the only logical thing I can.

  “No, of course not.” I reply and he looks over at me and tilts his head. I’m not sure even I believe myself, but honesty wouldn’t make any better an impression than lying, if that is indeed what I am doing. I’m not sure. Booker confuses me. Besides it doesn’t matter, I hesitated, that’s a sure fucking sign of guilt, right?

  “You seem to forget little wolf, I can practically taste it when you’re lying.” He looks away again, before saying “You’ve still got werewolf eyes.” Which is another way of saying, I’m still on edge, ready to fight, because my werewolf self, is still emotionally wound up and invested in this thing beating in my heart with confusion.

  “I’m not lying. I’m in love with you, I want to be with you. I’ve no desire to be with Booker again.”

  Paris walks over to me slowly. “Maybe that’s what is. What I can taste on you.” He says still keeping a bit of distance from me.

  “What?”

  “You might be in love with me, but on some level, you desire him.” My mouth opens to retort something back, but I find myself speechless. Because it makes sense what he says. Booker and I may have not been a long term relationship. But he was my first love, and my first lover. We’ve lived around each other ever since. We’ve watched each other have partners, pack mates, boyfriends, girlfriends and still when we look at each other. We spark and we’ve both known better than to let any of our friends, see that. And then I had to go betray that, by having a wet dream about him. And I don’t even know why. I haven’t seen Booker in something like a month. It’s not like we interact with each other every time I’m in Brooklyn or doing something for the Breukelen.

  We have different placing’s in our pack and this means we move in different circles. Sometimes they cross.

  “You should uh, go.” Paris says softly backing away from me. And I feel a cold void come between us. Damn empathic abilities! I can pick up exactly what he feels when he says these things to me. Paris is hurting.

  “What?” I can feel tears welling in my eyes.

  “I had no idea you felt this way about anyone, let alone Booker.” Paris says. I don’t know what those words mean. Booker Parish is also his friend. Close friend. And a lycan, is he saying he’s ashamed of all of this because of Booker’s wolf standing? Or just because of me and my wet dream?

  “I don’t feel this way, whatever way, about anyone else, just you.” I implore. My fucking werewolf head, such a trouble maker if ever there was one.

  “I want to believe that Bg, but…” Paris sighs. Oh he is really messed up about this. And I don’t know how to fix this, to fix us. “I get that we’re similar looking, the physique, and maybe I’m just a substitute for him, that’s why you were attracted to me.”

  “No, no, no.” I rush out. Although maybe, subconsciously it was why I initially liked him. They’re both big guys. Good guys, with muscles, looks, dark looks, dark hair, dark eyes. They handle me in similar ways.

  “I think over the weekend, you should go back to Brooklyn and really ask yourself if it’s me you want or deep down, it’s Booker. And at the end of the weekend, tell me your choice, so we can move past this, however we need.”

  Absolute dread fills me and I don’t know if its because he’s giving me this ultimatum or because I’m not sure I can come back here in all honesty without some part of Booker still within me.

  I try to tell myself this a good thing. But I don’t actually believe that. My relationship with Paris is the most positive, romantic, relationship I’ve ever had. It’s the best. It’s not without the odd bump along the way. But it’s real and it’s passionate. Which is why our fight in the bedroom hurts so damn much. I toss my clothes into my weekender bag, leaving the bag open before slipping on my shoes, grabbing my cell, and purse and tossing them in on top of the bag. I walk into the bathroom and grab my hairbrush and a hair tie. Paris is standing in one corner of the bedroom, arms crossed over his chest, watching me. Silently. He has no intention of stopping me. He wants me gone.

  I could keep pleading, I could try talking sense to him. But why should I? He’s supposed to love me, he’s supposed to believe me, and believe in me. He’s not supposed to loose his mind over me having an erotic dream that I don’t even remember! I know there’s no point trying to see reason with him. Right now, Paris D’arenberg is in full war strategy mode, he will not be deterred and he will not hear me out. So I’d just be wasting my energy trying to convince him otherwise.

  Snatching up the weekender bag and with my hairbrush in hand, I don’t even bother to look at him, as I storm out of the apartment as quick as I can. My hair can wait. My dignity can hold, my tears however, will barley contain. And fuck him if he thinks he’s going to get me to cry in front of him!

  2

  An hour later, tears have been shed and my anger is still contained, which really isn’t a good thing at all.

  I’m back in Brooklyn. My home town, in my house in Red Hook. I rang Booker on the way over, to say that I needed to see him and talk to him. Nothing more. Booker reacted like Paris would, he dropped everything and said to meet me at my house. So like a fool, I went with it. The werewolf memory is great catalogue of sensory information. So despite what I might have once felt for Booker Parish when he first became a lycan, and joined my pack, the Breukelen. It doesn’t mean I feel it for him now. Rather, that memory of him, of how great it felt to be in love with him, of how incredible those lips felt gliding over my skin, can trigger me to fool my emotions into thinking that’s how I feel now. But I know it’s not the case.

  We’ve barely spoken to one another since I’ve stepped foot into the house. He took my bag off me, opened the door and waited for me to walk in. Allowing me to lead this whole thing, literally. I looked at the sitting room and walked past it. I don’t feel like sitting, if anything I feel like hitting something. So instead, I walk st
raight to the kitchen. And too late I realized the significance of picking this room for our meeting.

  Booker follows me in and puts my bag down in the doorway. I don’t know how to start this. I don’t know what to do at all. I feel at a loss. So I just stand there in the light, airy, clean, kitchen. Booker moves and stands opposite me, he’s leaning back against one kitchen bench and I’m leaning back against another. We just look at one another.

  I wonder if I really have to use words with him. Is my connection to Booker, as magical as it is with Paris? Did it really start with him? Lycans and Werewolves, a lot of people who don’t know better would tell you they are one and the same. But in my world of werewolves and the paranormal that is our culture, I can tell you, the two are different. Lycans are humans bitten by werewolves and werewolves are humans born with werewolf biology. Well that’s the text book definition, the company line. Whatever you want to call it. But the two types of wolves are so far different than they look. Werewolves are all about control. Control of their abilities and emotions, these are the traits that allow them to blend into society and still be wolves. Lycans on the other hand…Lycans are easy to anger and from what I know, can be highly, emotional. Like the human side can’t let them give in to that control they need to be a true wolf.

  Booker Parish, is a lycan. Me, I’m a werewolf.

  So imagine how my family and friends and by this I mean, the werewolf variety would act if they knew about me and Booker once being not only in love, but lovers. Shit might hit the fan. Especially since Booker is my sister’s friend. Shit has already hit the fan for me. And now I find myself in a familiar situation.

  I’m in the kitchen on top of the bench top. Looking back at one, Booker Parish, who is three years older than me and taken. Like I’m taken. I have a pack mate, he has a girlfriend. Sure she’s a non, but it works for him I guess. Funny thing, I’ve never met her or seen here. He keeps her distant to the pack. But I hear her mentioned here and there. He’s leaning back against the other bench top and resting his hands at the edge of it looking at me. He has dark brown eyes, and black shoulder length hair.

  Only last time we were in a kitchen together and I was sitting like this, and he was standing opposite me, we ended up having sex. But that seems like it was a lifetime ago now and neither one of us is so naively young. We’ve grown up, we’ve become wolves. We know how things work now. Well perhaps not matters of the heart.

  This is like a courting. We haven’t even spoken yet. If we don’t speak to one another soon, it’s going to get all too physical. Because that’s how easy it is to fall into this attraction thing I have with Booker Parish. We’re fine when we’re in a group setting, and there are plenty of people around us, to act as buffers and distractions. But alone time together, is a test. Most of the time.

  I asked him over to my place in Red Hook cause we need to talk. Or should I say I do.

  I need to put this thing to rest, to bed. Because I’m in a relationship with an alpha werewolf who does not play nice with others, when it comes to me. But I’m finding it hard to know how to begin without seeming foolish. Maybe Booker doesn’t feel about me the way Paris seems to think he does.

  I very deliberately wore jeans. I don’t really wear jeans all that often. But I didn’t want my armor to be weak around this lycan. Didn’t want him to think I am dressing up for him. So I wore boots, jeans and even two tops, a long sleeved Raglan top and a t-shirt over that. Deliberately didn’t wear make-up and left my black hair down instead of doing anything with it. I don’t want to him to think I’m trying to court him in this dance around each other. Because that’s not my goal.

  “He knows about us doesn’t he? Paris.” Booker says breaking our silence because something had to give. He pushes off the sink and moves steadily towards me. I nod my head.

  “He knows about the past us.” I state back at Booker.

  He sighs wistfully and keeps honing in on me. “I guess we couldn’t keep us a secret thing forever huh? Even though I hoped.” He says lowering his voice so it’s a almost a husky whisper. I wonder why he would want to keep us a secret. Booker’s not ashamed of loving me. Maybe it’s kind of the other way, he wants me so badly he’s not willing to share the knowledge of him loving me with others. I watch him come over and his hands, push my knees apart, standing between them, at the edge of the kitchen bench.

  This is comfortable, familiar and he slips a hand up the back of my neck and into my hair. I decide to ignore the fact that my pulse is racing and I’m not pushing him away. I didn’t call this meeting to reignite something, I called it to put it right.

  “Don’t do it Book.” I state softly, eyeing his lips as I say the words. I remember those lips, very well. That’s the problem with the werewolf brain, it’s sensory memory is incredible. So are those lips.

  “What? Hold you again?” He mutters softly inching closer. “I should never have pushed you away to begin with. I’m going to kiss you.” Booker mutters moving in to my mouth. “I always want to kiss you when I see you Baby Girl.” I didn’t know that. But then again, I didn’t need to, did I?

  3

  I can tell Booker holds back when he’s around me, when we’re in company of others. But I didn’t know it was this bad for him. He tilts his head and I am lost to the approaching anticipation of one last kiss, with the first love of my life. Do you ever forget the first love of your life? Maybe that’s why this seems so hard to figure out. Booker and I never worked out. Just couldn’t get it to work. But then when we were around each other, alone like this, that never seemed to matter to me.

  What am I doing? Reverting ?

  His lips brush over mine, and like Paris you’d never assume, such a big guy he could be so damn soft and tender. Big bulky lycan, who knows how not to crush me. Just how to touch me. I guess he should, I was the first thing, Booker Parish saw when he opened his eyes after the werewolf attack, that left him a lycan forever. The kiss is deep and growing hungrier for more access to me and I feel Booker’s fingers curling into the back of my hair, gripping me. This kiss tells me he misses me more than even I knew. More than he wants to admit. It’s almost painful for him.

  He awoke in a hospital room after the attack, but smelt the fur and wolf and sweetness of my scent. It would’ve been confusing to figure out, when he was looking at a human female before him. I remember he tried to struggle out of the hospital bed and I tried to stop him. The hospital gown doing nothing to lessen the look of his physique or the erection he was sporting underneath it. Booker grabbed my wrist so hard, it bruised with his finger marks on it. Of course, it faded away after I shape shifted. But now it’s like an invisible reminder. A lycan marking a werewolf, territorial and unheard of I’m pretty sure. Not that I think he meant it, but even now as we kiss, I feel his thumb brush over the soft inside of my wrist, back and forth, back and forth.

  Like he knows, this is where he bruised me, branded me his, at least, in his mind he did. I think that was it for him. I was locked into him, in a truly deep way. Because I was there at the time, all his lycan senses kicked in as he awoke, a wolf for the first time. I don’t know how it is with lycans and love, but despite our attempted dating, breaking up, hovering around one another, having other partners since then, Booker has always had eyes for me. And the thing is I’ve always damn well known it. And now, I have to do something about that. Other than return this kiss.

  But still we kiss, his tongue delving into my mouth, my lips moving with his, our breathing syncing together as we deepen the kiss and I feel a familiar heat that rises in me, with his ownership of me. My connection to Booker is unique one. It wasn’t me that turned him into a lycan. But I was the first mate he found after he’d been turned. We part for air and slowly open our eyes to look at one another.

  I sigh and put a hand to my forehead, hoping to prevent a headache. I think I get our connection now. Can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before now. I’ve always been empathic. Never really got a hold of it though, neve
r understood it until something happened recently to have it pointed out to me. My new found abilities, tend to work fast when I’m in a highly emotional state. So it’s no wonder I’ve felt this connection to Booker, deeper than most people would. We met when I was fifteen. And I was fighting with my father, the pack leader of the Breukelen werewolf pack. He and I didn’t see eye to eye about lycans at all.

  I’d been attacked the year before when I was fourteen by some lycans. I was lucky to be alive. My fifteenth year, was supposed to represent survival, moving on, overcoming what had been done to me the year before. Somehow, I don’t really know how. I think Booker picked up my empathic ability, something about it, that I can’t put my finger on. And this thing, that drives us together and apart and near again, this feeling, it’s something other than love, probably obsession, which is never a good feeling for a werewolf to develop. I mean, we didn’t get together till years past that. But it didn’t matter, we always sought each other out in settings.