The Garden

Derya stared out over the moon-drenched garden while standing in the shadow of an ancient oak. The full heavy disk hung low and called to her, nearly boiling the blood in her veins, and the powerful need to shift ached through her marrow, but nothing happened.

How many times had she resisted the shift and spent her night indoors when she could have run free over the moors and through the forests? Now, she would never experience that rush of being alive and seizing the moment unconstrained by anything but the wolf and its nature.

Why had she fought her werewolf? Why had she not appreciated the gift of being fae and more than human?

"Derya?" he called out, close to her, and already that intoxicating smell of his reached her on the lazy breeze.

Maybe meeting him out here with her wolf so close to the surface wasn't a good idea. She tested the night air, drawing it carefully over the back of her palate, but Argana's scent was absent. Only the two of them were out among the night-blooming flowers and plants.

"I am here," she said, and his footsteps changed direction to meet her.

Anticipation spiked through her veins, and she almost ran to meet him, but she forced herself to remain still. A week in his presence had ingrained his scent into her brain, the sound of his measured thread had become familiar, and the thrum of his heart was a comforting presence.

Why did this human fascinate her and the wolf? What would have happened had she not crossed the veil and Bailey had not claimed her? If she had never met this man, would she have found a mate among her own kind in due time? Why did she think of mates now? A human cannot be a mate to a fae.

The horny werewolf was to blame for this and the full moon.

She scoffed at the ridiculous notion that a human being could be more than a fling, but the butterflies in her stomach, as he emerged into the light, paid no heed to her disdain.

Why did he have to be so handsome? She had tried to ignore the chiseled perfection of his face and the broad set of his shoulders into narrow hips and strong legs that could have passed for one of her kind.

Self-control, Derya.

She stepped into the light, and Andor tensed until their eyes met, and he recognized her.

A smile curved those handsome lips and his right cheek dimpled. May the Creator have mercy on her soul,

this was such a bad idea.

How had she gotten so close to him when she couldn't remember moving? It didn't help that his pupils flared and then contracted when she got close to him, and she really should not have worn this dress.

Damn Argana and her whiles.

"You are gorgeous, fiancé."

The baritone of his voice sent shivers down her spine, weakened her knees, and sent a lazy heat through her lower abdomen.

No man had ever affected her like this.

The depths of those bright eyes caught her like a moth in a flame while heat devoured her from the inside out.

"As are you."

That was not what she meant to say, but he smirked, raising a brow at her.

"You think I am gorgeous?" he teased, closing the distance between them until his breath tickled her lips.

"Yes," she breathed, and his chemical reaction to that single world made her realize she was in trouble.

This was a human world, and werewolf behavior would not pass muster.

He lowered his head, giving her all the time in the world to step away, but she met him halfway. Their lips touched, and the night exploded into stars and birdsong.

What the actual fae?

The thought faded before the skilled onslaught of his lips, and she didn't even know how she got to be in his arms. Why did she feel so safe and content with him? Why did she never want to be away from his embrace again?

At least they wouldn't have a problem with physical compatibility, not when a simple kiss almost sent her up in flames.

"We need to talk, and we have little time," he groaned, breaking the kiss, and her werewolf very nearly disregarded him, knowing it would take very little for her to seduce him into pressing her up against that wall and giving her what they both wanted.

No.

Nothing had ever been as hard as to let go of him and step back.

Please? the wolf begged, but she overcame her urges.

"Yes, we have to speak," she reluctantly agreed.

"I'm glad we don't have to worry about chemistry," he teased, rubbing his face and taking a few steps away from her as if he needed space, but he probably needed to adjust some things.

Why did his discomfort please her? Because she was extremely uncomfortable right at that moment?

***

When he could trust himself again, he returned to her and took her hands in his.

Another not great idea as attraction sparked like static between them, but he couldn't seem to help touching her.

"Although I know being in a strange land cannot be easy for you, and not being among your own kind cannot be great, especially with the danger it poses to you, I understand that not having your family at your wedding will be difficult and painful, but we have no choice.

"It pains me that you miss them and that you hate having to live with the idea that they would never consent to this union. And I am so sorry for all of this, but I'm grateful that you saved my sister, despite not realizing the price of your kindness."

"There was no world where I could leave her there for a mob of enraged humans to burn."

Admitting the truth aloud cleansed the wound and made her admit that doing anything else would have violated her nature.

"Would you have rescued her if you knew the consequences your actions would have?" he asked, and she considered him for a moment.

"Unfortunately, yes."

The expression in his eyes changed as he looked at her as if something that worried him had been laid to rest.

"This may not be an ideal situation, Princess, but I will be good for you."

The promise made something inside her settle.

"Marriage, to whatever prince my father chose for me, would have been no different," she admitted.

"Except that your father would have chosen one of your kind."

There was no arguing with that.

"And it would have been a choice that served your kingdom and broadened his reach."

Or that.

"The same can be said for you."

"No. The choices I had among the available royal princesses in this region would have left me carrying a country smaller than my own with the resources of my country or being absorbed by a bigger kingdom. Neither of which I fancied, and it is the reason why I am still unwed at nearly thirty."

"I am two years older than you," she said, tongue in cheek.

"You look twenty, but it makes more sense. Why are you not married then?" he asked, a little taken aback, and a perplexed frown furrowed those dark brows.

"My kind live a long time, Andor. There was no need for my father to rush his decision to find me the perfect husband that fit his criteria."

"At least it would take a while before people realize you do not age," he said, worried again.

"They have yet to realize that Argana looks scarcely older than Bailey."

"Yes, but it has concerned her for a while. At least when she has to leave, you will remain, and when I am gone, Bailey will not be alone; she will have the two of you."

How sweet that he cared so much for his little sister.

However, the idea of him dying twisted her insides as much as knowing that, at some point, she would have to leave him.

Would she be able to go away, knowing he would die alone?

If the idea was this unbearable when they were still virtual strangers, what would it be like after twenty or thirty years of marriage? Her gut hollowed out, and ice filled her veins.

No.

"Why don't we take life one day at a time?" he suggested, concern darkening his gaze as he touched her cheek, and their gazes locked.

***

"Where are you, Andor?" Safiya called out, suspicion lacing her voice, and they ruefully smirked.

Derya fought the touch of annoyance flaring to life.

"She still thinks she can change your mind, and she'd be the better choice," Derya murmured. "We may not be able to have babies, and with everything else..."

"I have chosen, and I accept all that it entails," he assured her, gently kissing her lips one more time.

"Andor!"

Safiya was close to them, and taking a reluctant step back, Derya melted into the shadows, passing so close to the human woman she could have snapped her neck if she wished.

"There you are! Where is she?"

"Most probably in her bed, where good girls are supposed to be at this hour," Andor needled, and Derya smirked as she lingered in the doorway's shadow, shamelessly eavesdropping.

"My love, we must speak. There is no way you can marry that woman."

"What is the meaning of that? I am an engaged man, and I have made my choice. The papers have been signed, and the accords were struck. Please do not presume to touch me again," his voice could have frozen lava.

Safiya must have kissed him or tried to, her werewolf growled, clawing at her insides to get out.

"Why would you marry someone of lesser blood? It is an affront to my father that you have denied us."

"Then he should not have threatened me or tried to manipulate or coerce me. Nor should he have proposed his way of ruling my country before you even had the ring on your finger.

"The assurance of his victory was premature, and the both of you overplayed your hand when you had Naghar withdraw from negotiations with me. This port is the heart of our region, and it has been in my family for a thousand years. A ring on the finger of a pretty girl will not steal it from my hands."

A wise woman would have noted the finality in his voice.

"It was never our intention..."

"The witching hour is neigh. I aim to go to my quarters, excuse me," Andor said.

"My love, please... give me another chance, let me persuade you," the way her voice lowered and softened told Derya she was trying to seduce him once more, and it took everything inside of her not to let her werewolf handle the situation.

"I am not your love, nor will I repeat myself. Let go of me," he warned.

"Don't force me to act against you," Safiya spat.

A meaty slap rang out, and fabric tore.

"Take back your words and marry me or I will scream and tell the guards that you attempted to dishonor me."

Derya started instinctively moving toward them.