Bound to my Wicked Stepbrother

“What number does this one make?” “It’s called dating, Violet.” I explain as I press my body to the glass counter containing potions with eye-catching titles like ‘relive your happiest moment’ or ‘spend five minutes with your lost loved ones’. Though the humans in the town would deem this shop a ‘mystic gothic store’, demeaning its actuality to belief, my best friend, Violet, is a real witch. My phone buzzes and a reminder for my upcoming date pops up. “Imagine having so many dates that you must put reminders on your phone lest you break the heart of someone’s son. Your confidence in still referring to that as dating is baffling.” I laugh sarcastically at her comment as she slides my order toward me in a glass box that I open instantly. She makes no secret of her disapproval of my consistent use of the concoctions she brews; she even changed their packaging from a warm orange liquid to a glittery dark blue that looked downright unpalatable. To emphasise my protest to her protest, I down one of the bottle’s contents in one swig. “Gah! This is awful...and It burns its way down too? I thought you said you’d make them taste like cotton candy?” “Smell; I said I’d make them smell like cotton candy.” I shudder, trying my best to focus on anything other than the horrid sensations in my body, but it feels like I have swallowed cotton candy perfume. “You can’t keep taking these potions; it is unnatural for one to try and suppress their wolf!” Christ, here it comes. “Not suppress, kill.” I correct her, but she does not take it as lightly as I do. “Alba!” “‘Alba’ what? You are a witch that intends to live as a human, and I am a wolf that intends to do the same. Must we play the moral high ground with each other?” “I am not taking dangerous concoctions to suppress my abilities!” “Oh, so we are bragging now?” At my avoidant response, Violet raises her hands in defeat. We have been through this conversation before; it always ends the same. Before she changes her mind about pursuing the argument, I pack the remainder of the concoctions meant to be taken once per week and leave her store. At six, the setting sun, though giving the evening its slightly warm hue, does nothing for the cold. I tighten the sash of my brown trench coat over my body, but even that minor distraction does nothing for my racing mind. Raking the blackness of my straight hair out of my face, I press the button that would change the traffic flow for my favour in crossing, then stare at the mass motion of car head and tail lights. I can hardly hear her anymore; my wolf, that is. The calm voice inside me that awoke too early to hint at nothing but misfortune, is almost gone. Almost. “Alba?” A voice calls my attention from a blue sedan that slows despite still having the right of way. “Peter?” “Yeah!” He confirms before lowering the passenger window further. His eyes roam my body, perhaps for a sign, yet because the trench coat I have on covers all, his puzzled look remains. “Are you trying to check if I am ready for our date?” He flushes. “Am I that obvious?” The car slowing behind him hoots aggressively, so without awaiting a second honk, I slide into the passenger seat next to him, and we drive off. The scent of his cologne reminds me of the bottle I had chugged. But do male colognes have such sweet feminine undertones? I turn to examine him more fully, perhaps I am mistaken, or maybe it was a family member’s- No... the fresh red kiss mark on his blue-collared shirt confirms my suspicion. The boyish charm that made him cute suddenly added an air of immaturity to his physique. I hate it; my sense of smell, my seemingly insatiable hunger, the feral instincts that plead me to dig my fingers into Peter’s flesh and demand fidelity from him. But humans don’t do that. They go on dates for fun, not to seek life partners. I want to be like that. To abolish the part of me that craves a mate...that craves my mate. But the fact that I already know who they are makes it even more difficult to pretend the moon goddess forgot me. But this isn’t the time to brood. ‘Dates’ are my time to play ‘pretend’, to act ‘human’, at least as long as my wolf remains alive. I turn my gaze to Peter. He looked so cute when we met in my boutique, but I cannot see that now. “Where are you from anyway? Your store isn’t around that area.” I must have stared at him for too long to prompt such a blatant admittance of caution from him. I wonder, does the woman who gave him the stain live in that area? “I like walks.” “This far from your- I mean, exercise is good. But I hear that area isn’t safe, so try avoiding it.” The only thing unsafe on that street is Violet’s store. Still, the conversation does not fruition because he makes a turn at a high-end restaurant, the kind of place I have only ever visited with Jax, an old friend, and never again because the portions were too tiny for a wolf’s appetite. I cannot find a reason to go through with the date other than the fact that I am already dressed for it. Need there be a reason greater than that? The restaurant’s valet makes quick work of helping me step out of the car, and before I can offer my gratitude to the valet, Peter tosses the car keys to him as if to remind him of his position. I want to comment, but repulsion claims me when his hand slides intrusively to my waist. He leads me to the host’s station to claim the reservation, and while they converse, I feign interest in the art hanging by the wall and use it as my excuse to escape his hold. The host is kind enough to escort us deeper into the core of the regal ambient restaurant; truthfully, the entire space is spectacular, from the white marble flooring that emphasises the nude shade of my heels to the white walls with a gold finish, perhaps to match the harpist’s instrument or the dining tables. But the best part of it, aside from the live music, must be the scent. The menthol hints of pine trees in the air combine beautifully with a smoky pepper-minty finish ensuring the scent is not too strong but just enough for one’s lungs to crave more. The scent soothes every hesitation, every worry, and every uncertainty about the night. It lulls me into a mimic of the sensation of walking a few inches off the ground. I wish to dive into the scent, drown in it, to have it lather my body…but before dry humping the scent, I should perhaps ask if they have a candle of the same. ** "And the cut? It was this big-" Peter continues animatedly, dropping his fork to elaborate with both hands on how large…something is (?) It is improper of me, but my focus has grown hazy since the host seated us. I cannot tell what his story is about, who its protagonists are, or where it originates, even the poor juicy steak before me seems to get overpowered by that intoxicating scent that it feels like I am consuming cardboard, so I stop. “Is everything okay?” His concern is only expressed vocally; his gaze is steadily on my cleavage, roaming my flesh. Perhaps I should have opted for a more modest dress. “Yes? Yes! Everything is fine.” I answer twice, perhaps to convince myself. “But I do need to use the ladies’ room.” “Oh-” I stand and take my purse without awaiting any ‘go ahead’ from him. I know it is rude of me, but my actions must be less rude than my prophesied physical attempt to rub myself against the chair to the point of climax should I stay. Does the scent host aphrodisiac qualities, or is it the meal? Hopefully, it is in my head and possibly resolvable by a splash of cold water. But could it really be in my head if I can feel the rising heat on my flesh sensitise my skin? Even the chafing of my lace bra against my n*****s as I walk feels delightful. I approach the closest waitress, who stands near some stairs leading to an exclusive dining area. A more substantial wave of the scent hits me, and I near moan. The server bows and I appreciate the few seconds I have to wipe the stunned expression that I am certain covers my face. “How may I serve you this evening?” “Where are the ladies’ room?” The question comes off as a whisper as I squeeze my thighs tightly to soothe the delicious throb pulsating in my core. Is this normal? Did…did Peter add something to my dish? “I am sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?” She says before leaning closer into my personal space. “What is the source of that scent?” My question changes instantly; my desperation for the scent has become greater than my need to compose myself. “Scent?” The waitress repeats. “Yes, the earthy sort of menthol, perhaps eucalyptus scent that seems to roam the venue. Does the establishment sell it as a candle or incense, or did they purchase it elsewhere?” “Oh…we…don’t have that; I mean, I could forward your question to management but wouldn’t scents from candles or incense infuse and distort the complexities of the cuisines?” She is right. A scent that strong would- A sudden panic grips my belly. How could I have forgotten? Are the concoctions not enough? No, rather…. Is he here? Why is he here? He should be in Ketria. A look of concern rests on the server, so I force a smile and mutter a quick thanks before turning away. I need to leave. “How long has it been, Alba?” A familiar deep voice begins, sending delicious shudders up my spine at the mention of my name. “Has it really been long enough that you would dare show your back to your Lycan?” The moment seemed to still, or perhaps it was just my heart; then again, he had not spoken the words, merely used a mind link, so their intimacy felt visceral.