Weregirl (7 page)

I could learn to love him, I’m sure of it. If I let myself. If I ever let Sage go. Or, at the very least, I could care enough for him this could work, he and I. The question is, can I keep Sage’s memory from him? Can I shield Piers from the knowledge he will always come second in my heart? Sadness wakes my wolf, makes her whine softly in my head. Piers remains silent, smiling, unaware of the pain I endure at the thought of hurting both of us this way. But what choice do I have? Maybe it’s cruel to include Piers in this farce. I should send him away, choose some werewolf I can tolerate instead of ruining both of our lives with lies and old sorrows.

But Piers’s smile lures me in, and I manage a smile in return though this all feels familiar. I’m giving in to the will of others, putting aside my own wants, wants I never knew I had until I met Syd, for duty. And while doing so isn’t as comfortable and easy to slip into as it used to be, following protocol and the orders of my superior was my way of life for a very long time.

I can’t bear to spend the rest of my life with someone I can’t stand. Which means I’m dooming my friend to this hell of the heart with me. So be it, selfish weregirl. So be it.

Piers finally closes the distance between us and grasps my hand in his. The flesh is cool, his fingers stiff and tense. I squeeze gently back to soothe him as he draws a breath.

“I would like to court you, Princess Sharlotta,” he said.

So formal. My smile widens when I force it to and I purposely close the distance between us, my free hand cupping the back of his neck. My wolf rumbles approval, the pressure of my touch pulling Piers’s face down and close to mine, my lips touching his without hesitation.

I’ve kissed him on the mouth before, but never with any intent but friendship. This time I put effort into it, forcing Sage from my mind though the memory of his kiss is still fresh. I breathe into Piers’s lungs, exploring the inside of his mouth with my tongue with a hint of desperate need. Please, let me not be making the biggest mistake of both our lives. He holds back a moment, as though startled by my forcefulness, unaware it’s fed by duty, before pulling me against him and answering my kiss with one of his own.

It’s different than kissing Sage. The heat isn’t there, the fire I’m used to between us. Sage is more raw, less polished, with the passionate heart of a warrior. Piers is reserved despite his expertise, heart guarded, power holding back. Does he fear I will hurt him, or the other way around? How right he is—we may end up hurting each other, in the end, when he finally realizes I can never love him as I love another.

Whatever his cause for reservation, he’s an excellent kisser and by the time I pull away, licking my lips and smiling my satisfaction, I’m pleased with the result. I can do this. I can pretend, fake it until it’s real, or real enough to hold us together. For how long, I have no idea. But I’ll do my best to shield him if I can.

He flushes again, so adorable I barely resist pinching his cheek. Piers’s nervousness makes me feel powerful, as though I have some hold over him. An equal would be ideal, but being worshipped will have its delights.

“I accept your offer, Piers Southway,” I say, softly punching his arm. He rubs it though I know I did him no hurt, snarky grin returning.

“I’ve heard that before,” he says, but goes no further. His desire to be with Syd is no secret, though she told me long ago he removed himself from the running after Liam’s death of his own accord.

“We must open the search to eligible weremales,” I say, “if only to appease the pack. But as far as I’m concerned,” I allow him to feel the pulse of my wolf, her happiness at the direction this conversation takes us as Sage’s image wavers in the background, “you have no competition here.”

Piers’s grin widens. “I trust you’ll keep me posted if that changes?”

His question makes me sad as Sage’s scent passes through my memory. But barring a miracle, I have no doubt Piers will be my choice.

“Agreed.” I kiss him one more time, lingering. His lean body engulfs me, his strength wiry and tight, unlike Sage’s—no. I will no longer compare the two. I release my love’s image to the wolf and accept this fate, love or not.

Piers leaves at last, disappearing into darkness he creates, backing into the tunnel of black until it devours him, leaving only the new sunrise behind. I blink into it, catch sight of the white wolf watching me from the edge of the woods.

She feels sorrowful, even from this distance. I move toward her, wondering what she is looking for. But she turns and lopes into the trees long before I can reach her and is gone by the time I step into the chill dark of the forest.

Why do I have the feeling she disapproves and why does that disapproval make me sad all over again?

***

I run, this time in human form, too irritated to enjoy the game or to embrace my wolf. I may not be as fast in this shape, but there is a certain satisfaction to the pounding of my feet, and the air rushing from my mortal lungs.

It’s easier to tire myself out, to wear down the edges of my frustration and pique without the boost of supernatural energy I gain from my werewolf body. And I’ve had more than enough werewolves in my life in the last week for me to ever desire to take my other shape ever again.

He had to put the call out for mates, didn’t he? I underestimated my grandfather’s intentions. I believed he would only do so locally, that our own pack would be the extent of his reach. When I discovered the truth, it was far too late to stop him from his plan—to call out to every single eligible weremale in the world to come and woo his granddaughter for her hand and the position of prince consort.

The old fool. I bite down hard, clenching my jaw against the need to scream curse words into the quite forest air. I’m far too much returned to Charlotte Girard, too well trained to allow my true feelings out, especially now. I have no choice but to hold myself to the highest level of my embedded discipline while packs from places I’ve never even heard of continue to trickle in, their panting, hungry offerings one sickeningly self-centered ass after another.

Disgusting, the lot of them, with their common arrogance and need to prove they are better than me. I’ve humiliated publicly more than one of them in my grandfather’s throne room, but they do not learn and they just keep coming.

When I confronted Oleksander about his decision, he seemed hurt by my anger.

“Sharlotta,” he said. “We must find for you the very best mate possible.”

While there are a few specimens that might perhaps be trainable into decent runners-up, I find myself thinking of Piers and wishing I could simply announce he is to be my mate. I’ve waffled over the past seven days, between running away after all, and simply ending this entire masquerade by upsetting the werenation, choosing the sorcerer over all of them.

How simple my life has been until now. I had no idea, so innocent and naïve. Syd would laugh at me, I’m sure of it, tease me for my worldly face hiding a nervous and now upset girl behind the mask of my duty.

I hear them behind me, following me on my run. A few of the weremales have taken to joining me every day. But this terrain is mine, and I know it far better than they do. They maintain their own human shapes, bumbling through the foreign forest, noisy where their wereshapes are silent.

Irritation turns to bitterness as I toss aside my shirt and strip my pants from my body, shifting in an eye-blink. It costs me pain, but I embrace the feeling. I’ve used pain in the past to make me stronger, years of it my training ground, and today is no exception.

I cover more distance, laughing spitefully into the air as they fall behind, struggling to shift and follow me, catch me, even. They have no hope. They might be bigger, and, in some cases, stronger than I, but I am more powerful and my smaller body swift.

If they can’t keep up with me, I don’t want them. Nor does my inner wolf.

My mood lightens as I feel them fall away, stretching out, running at my fastest deeper into the forest. I allow the wind to wash away my anger, the rush of passing trees and scents and sounds to clear my mind. I only pause when I sense my wolf pack, waiting for me, coming to a panting halt not far from their den.

They’ve never made themselves known this close to their home before and the moment I stop, I know why. They are upset. Something is troubling them, some creature or creatures close by threatening their territory. I worry at first it’s the males who follow me and the flood of werewolves now expanding the population of the palace, but no. This is something entirely new.

The pack retreats, the white wolf and the alpha the only two remaining. I sniff the air, stiffening myself, a low growl escaping my jaws as I catch an odd scent. The ocean mixed with something bitter and almost putrid, hidden by the salt smell of the surf. I turn to the two wolves, only to find them gone.

A chill runs up my spine as I feel a pack approaching. No great surprise more weres are on their way. But these feel off, odd and unusual, enough my wolf inside forces me to back up and tense as a group of werewolves flow into the clearing.

There are only about twenty of them, but that is enough. Their unusual scent washes over me, silencing the few birds overhead still chirping, sending the last of the tiny creatures of the forest scrambling for cover. I hold my ground, feeling the approach like an assault on my body, though they offer me no physical aggression as they form up into a pack and observe me.

A giant gray leads them, his ears at least a foot over mine, shoulders so broad I wonder what his human shape looks like. He shows me a moment later, perfectly formed body morphing to tanned skin covered in thick, black tattoos. I keep my eyes on his face though he is fully naked, my inner wolf pacing, unsure if she is attracted or repulsed by this werewolf.

He takes a step toward me, as casual and unconcerned as though he were fully clothed on a city street. I secretly admire his confidence and the pure masculinity exuding from him even as I shudder from the odd sense of wrongness I smell on him.

“You,” he says in a voice deep and cold, “must be Charlotte.”

Anger snaps a rubber band, a flash of sparking rage forcing me into human shape. I stare him down, icy exterior well practiced and perfectly flawless in the face of his arrogance.

“You have the honor,” I say with chill disapproval, “of addressing your heir, Princess Sharlotta Moreau of the werenation.”

He grins at me, teeth flashing white against his tanned face, the scruff of his dark beard. He’s shaved his head close, stubble showing the perfect shape of his head.

“Your Highness,” he says as though he doesn’t mean it as an honorific.

I will tear his heart from his chest and devour it before his dying eyes. But we are no longer alone, his pack gathering behind him, shifting to human form, watching me with contempt and what I feel is some secret deceit as the pack of suitors who followed me finally catch up.

The new leader observes them as they crowd around me, only a dozen or so, but more than enough to give his pack a fight. I have no doubt he would fight them, if I allow it.

Who is this were and why does he smell so strangely?

“I am Cicero Caine,” he says, gesturing behind him. “My pack. We heard the summons to compete for your hand,” his smirk tells me what he thinks of his competition as he looks at the panting weres behind me, “and I have come to win you, Princess.”

“You have wasted your trip.” I know already he will never touch me, not with my consent.

“We’ll see.” He shrugs his wide shoulders, tribal tattoos rippling. “We’ve come all the way from California. Surely you won’t send us back without at least the chance to pay our respects to our king.” Caine uses the word like it’s a joke, as though my grandfather’s position amuses him. Irrational need surges, the desire to leap on this were and rip his throat out with my teeth so strong I shudder.

He may be handsome on the outside, one of my wolf’s prerequisites, but internal beauty is just as important to her, and this Cicero Caine is rotten to the core of his being.

I don’t know how I know, only that I do. The more time I stand here, smelling his funk, feeling the contempt of his pack, watching him stare at me with eyes holding nothing but hunger, the deeper my antagonism grows.

I would love to send him packing, right here, right now. But I know my place. This isn’t my job to fulfill, but my grandfather’s. I will ensure, however, Oleksander knows exactly how I feel. And will personally escort Caine and his people out of Ukraine. By the scruff, if I have to.

I really hope I have to.

Caine’s grin is feral, and yet amused at the same time. “Give me time, Princess,” he says. “You’ll come to appreciate I’m your best choice for a mate.”

The werewolves around me growl their unhappiness at his affront.

I finally allow my anger to win, turning my back on him. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

And, in a surge of renewed agony, I embrace my wolf and run back the way I came.

Just let him try.

***

I hear them all chasing me, not just Caine, ignoring them in the effort to run as fast as I can. For all I know, the Californian pack leader hasn’t taken the bait, but I doubt it. The challenge is something no were of his arrogance could possibly ignore.

I pour everything I have into that run, my wolf howling in my head as I reach for depths of speed I’ve never tested, almost flying as I skim the floor of the forest. No were will ever catch me, not unless I want him to.

The pack falls behind, their panting and barking fading into the rush of the wind blocking my ears. And though this run has a certain purpose, I begin to enjoy it, the way my body responds to my need for more power, how my wolf legs move without effort, the power flowing evenly throughout me, driving me on. I’ve never felt such strength before, the call of true wolf form almost enough to tempt me. But I know better. The enticement of allowing myself to transform fully will only lead to the loss of my humanity. No were who has given in to the lure of the wolf has ever returned from it. Our half-turned shapes are our only option.