Run-away mate

Melting

*Tia*

I hesitate only a second before stepping over the threshold and onto the landing that leads to the stairs descending into the musty-scented room. Cautiously, expecting the dull floor to give way beneath my feet with each step, I walk to the railing. I want to wrap my hands around it, allow it to provide some sort of support, but it’s covered in a thick layer of dust.

As far as I can see, everything is adorned in a powdery film, decorated with lacy cobwebs. At the grimy windows that line one wall, the faded red draperies are drawn back, revealing dust motes waltzing in the afternoon sunlight that filters in to touch the vases filled with withered and dried stalks of flowers, their blooms long gone.

“On our way here, we passed several rooms with closed doors. Are they all neglected such as this one?” I ask softly, almost reverently. The setting seems to call for quiet.

“Yes. After my mother passed, my father ordered that nothing be touched, that everything in the residence be left just as it was when she died.” He says.

Trying to fathom what sort of impact growing up in a house like this might have on a lad, I look over my shoulder at him. He stands tall and erect, his face reflecting no sadness, no happiness, no joy, no sorrow. He is accustomed to this bizarre attempt to keep everything as it was. “But nothing stays the same, nothing goes unchanged.”

“No, it does not.”

“You’re grown now. I have the impression you’re the one managing things. Why don’t you have the rooms tidied up, restored to what they were?”

“Because it would upset my father, just as hiring additional staff, having new faces walking through the residence, would unsettle him.”

So he lives in this dreary house filled with its empty memories. For his father. I can’t help but believe that he is a man capable of great love, great compassion. I have a fleeting thought that if I confess all to him, he would make it right. What a silly lass I am to think he would look at me with anything other than disgust. No, I am on my own in this matter, I have to see to my own needs, protect what is mine.

“You can’t compete with her, Mrs. Goldpaw. My mother.” He says softly.

“I have no intention of trying. I know what your father requires, what he wants of me. I accept what the limitations of our relationship shall be.”

“Why are you willing to settle for so little?”

Because it is my only opportunity to gain so much. “The son I give him will be a prince.”

“He will be the spare. He will not inherit until I die.”

In truth, I doubt he will ever inherit. Killian will marry, gain his own heir. “Still, he will be prince Whatever-We-Name-Him. He will move about in the right circles, have opportunities, marry well. As for myself, I will be a Luna princess, also move about in the right circles, and be very well provided for. He has promised me a dower house.” I look over the railing. “May we go down?”

“If you like.”

It isn’t so much that I like, it is more that I need to distract myself from the doubts that have begun to surface. If there is another way to save myself, I can’t see it.

He offers his arm; I nearly refuse it, except I am averse to using the dusty and cobwebby banister. As he begins leading me down the stairs covered in the faded red carpeting, I don’t like noticing how sturdy he is, how strong. Or that he smells of sandalwood tinged with oranges.

Once we reach the center of the room, I reclaim my hand, turn in a slow circle, and imagine all this room has once been with an orchestra playing in the balcony, guests waltzing, Prince and Princess of Evermarsh entertaining.

“What will you do after he’s gone?” I ask quietly.

“Pardon?”

Twisting around to face him, I realize by his blank expression that while he might consider his father old and shriveled, he hasn’t truly accepted that he is in the winter of his years, will not be here forever. “When your father dies, will you restore this castle to its magnificence?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought.”

He truly hasn’t. I can see it in his eyes, and I like him for it. What must it have been like to grow up here, alone?

Only he hasn’t been alone. “The Alpha of Ashebury and the Alpha of Greyfur were wards of your father, they lived here when they were children.”

“That’s correct.” He says.

“They refer to all of you as the Hellions of Evermoor.”

He arches a dark brow, his gaze intensifying as though he can see straight into my soul and read every story etched there. “It seems you already move about in the right circles.”

Damn it. I’m not being as cautious as I should be when speaking with him. “I read the gossip sheets.” Needing to distract him, I give my full attention to the wall of windows, the glass doors that lead outside. “May we go out onto the terrace?”

“I insist. It’s part of the tour.”

He leads the way, flicks a bolt, and swings open the door. “After you.”

I step onto the stone veranda, wander over to the wrought-iron railing, and stare at what has obviously long ago been gardens but has since been reclaimed by nature. Still here and there remains evidence that great care had once been taken with it. “No gardener.”

“No. Our outside staff is comprised of a head groomsman who also serves as coachman, and a couple of stable lads.”

“A pity. I so enjoy gardens and flowers. Does your father never leave the residence then?” I ask.

“Was the answer not provided in his correspondence?”

I shift my gaze over to him. “I didn’t think to ask.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans his hip against the railing, painting quite the picture of raw masculinity. “I wonder what else you might not have thought to ask.”

“I was striving to make conversation, my prince. I don’t care whether he goes out. I obtained the answers to the questions that mattered to me.”

“Perhaps I should read your correspondence. I would like to know what questions mattered to you.”

I smile at him, “I’m an open book, my prince.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“You are a suspicious sort.”

“Am I wrong?”

No, he isn’t. I have secrets I will keep carefully guarded from him, from his father. I doubt the Alpha prince would mind, but I suspect his son would care a great deal. Marsden merely wants an heir. Killian wants to understand me. “I assume you go to Blackrock city for the mating Season.”

I would welcome the months he is away.

“Occasionally. Not as often as I should. I don’t like leaving my father alone. Although it appears he can get into as much mischief when I’m here as he can when I’m gone.”

“With me about, you won’t be leaving him alone. You can go to Blackrock city as much as you like. I’ve also heard you enjoy traveling. Where do you plan to venture off to next?”

He shakes his head, “I haven’t journeyed anywhere in a couple of years now. Have no plans to in the near future.”

“But again, with me here, you’re free to do whatever you wish, go wherever you want.”

“Why am I left with the impression that you’re striving to be rid of me?”

Because I am and I am no fool. Still, I know the value of a good bluff. “I’m simply trying to be a suitable mother to you. Give you some freedom. Lessen your burdens.”

Unfolding his arms, he steps forward and touches his thumb to my lips, before very slowly outlining them, his gaze homing in on my mouth. Heat slams into me. While he is only caressing the edges, it feels as though he is tracing his thumb along the very essence of me.

“I have to confess, Mrs. Goldpaw, that I’m going to have a very difficult time viewing you as my mother.”

“You promised to behave.” Sounding breathless, my voice raspy, every aspect of my body attuned to him, I curse him for his ability to stir to life what I am striving so hard to keep banked.

“So I did. But you are not yet wed. It seems like we should at least have a taste of each other before you are.”

He moves in. My hand shoots up to the center of his chest, his firm hard chest. Beneath my fingers I can feel the steady thudding of his heart, the tension riffling through him. “No.”

His eyes become heavy lidded, slumberous. “Afraid you will like it too much?”

Terrified that I would indeed be enamored of it. Although he is no doubt testing my loyalty. “I’m betrothed to your father.”

He angles his head slightly. “Betrothed is a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? You answered an advert. It’s not as though he caught sight of you across a ballroom floor, became ensnared by your beauty, and courted you. Before today, you had never met.”

“Still, we are to marry.”

“What can it hurt to simply have a sample?” In spite of my hand pushing on him, he manages to lean in until his breath skims over my cheek. “He will never know.”

“I will know.”

“So you are afraid. I would wager you’re as aware of me as I am of you.”

“You would lose that wager.”

“Prove it.” His lips, soft and warm, land at the corner of my mouth. “Prove you are not drawn to me, that there is naught between us.” He presses his lips to the other corner. “Surely your resolve to marry my father will not be undone by one kiss.”

It is dangerous, so very dangerous. I need to shove him away, know it is the wise course, but my strength seems to leave me while he nibbles on my lower lip. My eyes slide closed as the heat swamps me. His tenderness takes me off guard. It has been so long since anyone has shown me any tenderness, since anyone has enticed me with a light lapping at the seam of my mouth.

I can’t prevent the moan from escaping, and in the sound, he must hear my surrender, because the gentleness recedes and his mouth comes down on mine, hot and hard, hungry and greedy. I should push him aside, kick him, and step on his foot, but the awareness has been shimmering between us since he opened the door.

He is young and virile. Where is the harm in one last kiss of youth, of being held in strong, sturdy arms, of having my breasts flattened against a firm, broad chest? Everything within me screams that I should run. But his mouth is working its delicious, glorious magic.

And I melt against him.