Her widowed Lycan

Her little shop

*Leah*

Standing behind the polished oak counter in my bookshop, I read once more the letter I had clipped from the Alpha Times a month ago. The Lycan Princess of the Rose’s words regarding her love for her mate deeply touched my romantically inclined heart, a heart I fear will cause me, when introduced into pack Society at a mating ball next week, to be foolish enough to fall for a man who views me as someone to be only bedded but not wedded.

At nineteen, I am more than aware of the realities of the world and understand fully that the circumstances of my birth will not serve me well when it comes to securing my place among the high packs. Still, my family is determined to see me married to a ranked man. The man has to be titled. Not the second son or the third, but the first. An Alpha is preferable, a high ranked beta adequate, a lower beta acceptable, a Gamma... an outcome to be avoided if at all possible.

From the moment I entered the world, they decided my destiny and moved me unerringly toward it, but the life they mapped out for me seemed to lack one crucial element: love.

I yearn for love more than I want to breathe. Oh, my family loves me, I have no doubt about that, but I long for the sort of devotion about which sonnets are written and poets wax, a grand love like the one my mum had known. As a young girl, curious about the absence of a man around, I asked about my father. With tears in her eyes, my mum explained how she had fallen for a handsome wolf officer. They had not been married when they gave into passion on the eve of his departure to a foreign land, but he had promised to wed her upon his return. However, fate intervened, and he died heroically, yet tragically, on a bloodied battlefield in the great war.

"But, still, he gave me the most wonderful gift of all… you." Even now, the recollection of my mum's words causes my eyes to dampen. From that moment on, I understood I was special. Unlike my siblings who had all been left at my mum's door, I had been wanted.

And so, I have a tender regard for stories brimming with romance, and the Princess of the Rose’s letter certainly falls into that category, serving as a talisman, offering hope that I, too, might discover a passion not to be denied.

At this very moment, with long, slender fingers, my future husband might be opening the gilded invitation that would set him on the path toward meeting me. Unlike my brothers', his hands would be soft and without calluses or scars, his movements would reflect elegance. He would have mastered the waltz to perfection, and when he took me within his arms to sweep me over the parquet flooring, although he would hold me at a proper distance and with decorum, his gaze would capture mine and communicate his intense regard toward me, revealing how firmly I had already won him over. His eyes would reflect warmth and hint at his desire...

Jingle. Jingle.

As the bell above my shop door heralds the arrival of a customer, I give a guilty start. Based on the heat scalding my cheeks, I am blushing profusely at being caught dreaming the afternoon away. It doesn't help matters that the man crossing the threshold has smoothly removed his black beaver hat to reveal a handsome countenance, a face that no doubt sets many She-wolves to swooning. Quickly, I fold the letter and slip it into the pocket of my skirt, where I have handy access to it when I need a reminder that love can be found among the high packs and that the path my family has set me on is one worth traveling.

The gent surveys the various areas of my shop… the shelves lining the back wall, the parallel bookcases with the elaborate scrollwork standing perpendicular to it, the small tables with novels stacked on top of them, books gathered in corners. Books, books, books, everywhere he looks. I can never have enough of them, which is obvious to anyone entering my shop, whether for the first time or the hundredth.

In my youth, a boy had once told me I had a fetish when it came to books. Because of how much I read, I knew the word and that he was implying something untoward, and so I had bloodied his nose. What I have for books is a healthy appreciation for all they offer, an admiration for those who pen them, and gratitude to those who publish them. I'm not ashamed of it; rather, I revel in it.

I can't decide if my customer, who seems absorbed by all around him, is enthralled by my collection or appalled that so much space is taken up with literary works. Knowing I have never seen him within these walls before… his mere presence indicates he is not one easily forgotten… I straighten my narrow shoulders to welcome the gorgeous stranger into my midst. "May I be of service, sir?"

He swerves his head toward me, and I become ensnared in the most striking blue eyes I have ever beheld. His sandy hair has a hint of ginger to it, every strand in place, making the blue stand out all the more. My wits seem to have deserted me, and I know staring into those sapphire depths for the rest of my life would be an insufficient amount of time to fully appreciate the various facets of them, of him. He seems at once imposing yet approachable… and I dearly want to approach him but remain where I am, unwilling to risk any action that might cost me a sale, or at the very least, placing a book into his hand.

"The sign on your door indicated you were closed." His enunciation, hinting at education, good breeding, and possibly an affluent background, is posher than that spoken by most of the people living in the area. But it's his deep, smooth voice that sends a warm shiver through me.

Interesting that in spite of the sign, he had given the door a try. A man who obviously doesn't quite trust what's before him… or perhaps one who merely needs proof that what he's told is true.

Glancing at the tall standing clock resting against the wall to my left, near my office, I see it is indeed ten minutes past the hour of six when I usually lock my doors. I had been so engrossed in the letter I had failed to even notice the chimes signaling the time. "My posted hours are more a suggestion, not a law. Nor am I one for turning away someone in need of a book. If you would like to browse... or I'm happy to help you find something to your taste."

He edges farther inside but only by a couple of steps. "I don't wish to impose if you were on the verge of latching up for the night."

"It's no imposition, I assure you. Partnering people with books is one of my greatest joys. I can even recommend a few of my favorites if you like."

"As long as you are so graciously willing to accommodate me, I'm in the mood for some dastardly deeds. Have you the latest penny blood?"

I blink, part my lips...

And hear the smallest of scoffs beneath his breath. "You are no doubt too young to recall that phrase. I believe it's more popularly known these days as a penny dreadful."

"Ah, yes, over here." I skirt around the edge of the counter and approach a narrow stand of slanting shelves where I display the weekly publications. "I have the individual serials available here and, on this shelf," I walk a short distance away, "I have bound editions containing all the episodes for a particular tale."

"Very good." Having approached, he leans down to study the covers facing out, revealing the title of the series represented within. He has brought with him the scent of bay rum. Had he not lowered himself, I wouldn't have noticed that the curling strands of his hair at his nape appear damp on the ends, leading me to believe he has bathed shortly before hearing out. But he had not bothered to shave, as dark bristles shadows his jaw. It's a magnificent jaw, strong and squarely cut. I think it's a shame to hide it away beneath a light coating of stubbles, yet can't deny the masculinity of them.

His broad shoulders also give me pause, and I wonder if he has come by them naturally or if his labors, whatever they are, has formed them. Those prone to leisure don't reside in the area and seldom shop here, so he no doubt is engaged in some occupation. He seems an odd mixture of rough and smooth, like the brandy I enjoy on occasion.

"Ah, d**k Turpin." A warm fondness marks his tone. "When I was a lad, I spent many an afternoon reading about this highwayman's exploits." He pulls it from the shelf. "I will take this one."

"It's six shillings. If that's a bit of a stretch for you at the moment, I can give you credit until the end of the month if you live or work in the area."

It's not exactly a smile he gives me, but more a twitch of his lips… and fine lips they are, nicely shaped with a natural tilting up at both corners as though he is constantly amused by the world at large. "I will settle things between us now."

"Excellent."

I wander back over to the counter. He removes a small purse from inside his jacket, withdraws the necessary coins, and passes them over to me. I can't help but notice his large gloved hands and the elegant ease with which they tuck the supple leather back into place. Suddenly, drawing in breath seems a challenge as images of those hands tucking other things… hair behind an ear, a button back through its mooring, a stocking over a knee.. race unbidden through my mind. I don't know what's prompting me to have such lascivious thoughts where he is concerned, although of late I have begun noticing the pleasing attributes of men. My family would no doubt be horrified to learn that I have recently started reading books banned by obscenity laws… when I can find one. I don't want to be completely innocent when I make my foray into pack Society.

His eyes narrow as he studies the shelf behind me that houses my rare finds, some of which I have restored to perfection myself. They bring me such pleasure and joy, it takes everything within me not to parade him on a journey through the extraordinary tomes, allowing him to carefully handle them to see how well preserved they are.

"Is that an early edition of Pride and Prejudice?" He asks.

"A first edition." I can't stop the bright smile from forming. "It was found in a rubbish bin of all places." Outside of a house in the best part of town. With great care, I had removed the soiled, discolored leather binding and worked with it until it was once again supple. When the book was reassembled, it gave the appearance of being barely used.

"Sort through rubbish bins often, do you?" He raises a brow.

I smile. "You would be amazed by the treasures people toss out."

"I suppose I would."

"However, I don't rummage through the rubbish, but some poor or orphaned children do, and they bring me their finds, in hopes of gaining a few coins." Even when the book is beyond use and can't be restored, I pay them to ensure they have a bit to see them through to the next day.

He looks curiously at me. "You don't think you are encouraging them to steal from elsewhere?"

"Aren't you a cynic? No, I'm encouraging them not to accept the harsh life they have been dealt but to know it can be improved upon with effort, hard work, determination, and a bit of ingenuity." I say.

"I wish you the best with that, then." He tips his head slightly.

But I can't let him go without telling him more. "I once had a lad bring me a story written on bits of foolscap he had collected here and there. He had sewn the pages together with needle and yarn. I bought it for two pence. My hope was to encourage him so perhaps he will grow up to be a storyteller. You might have noticed it on display in the window."

I have taken great effort in arranging small shelves of knickknacks in the front bay windows as a means to entice people inside. Books, a statuette of a woman reading and another of a boy, book in hand, sitting with his back leaning against a tree. One of the windows exhibited an extremely tiny desk with paper, quill pen, and inkwell… all to signify a writer at his labors.

"I did notice it. I was intrigued and wondered what it was about." He says.

I offer him a warm smile. "Now you know."

"I do indeed."

He studies me with the same intense scrutiny he had given my shop when he had first walked in. I don't know why I have told him as much as I have. Yes, I do. I so love talking books. They have been my passion ever since Gina first sat me upon her lap and turned back a cover to reveal the magic hidden within. I'm rather certain, based on the warmth spreading through my cheeks, that I'm blushing under his examination. "Apologies, sir. I didn't mean to carry on so. I'm keeping you."

“It's me who has been keeping you. Thank you for so graciously remaining open for me." He says warmly.

"It was my pleasure." How could it not be when he provided such a compelling view? I have only ever seen paintings of mountains, and yet I can't help but think he rivals them in majesty. "I hope you enjoy the book as much as you did when you were a boy."

He smiles warmly. "I have no doubt I will."

I follow him to the door where he hesitates a heartbeat, as though he wishes to say something more, before opening it and exiting my shop. Closing it after him, I watch as he halts to study my window display, the one with the miniature desk, before carrying on. A wistfulness, a sadness shadows him. I wonder if he is without family, alone in the world.

Turning the lock, I am grateful for the sale. It would have been my first day without dropping a single farthing into my purse, and I refuse to be disheartened by the shortage of customers. I know not everyone grew up in a family that cherished books as much as mine did, nor could a good many people afford them. Although for some years now, the publishing world has been working to make literature more affordable to the masses, which is the reason I have been able to sell the one-volume collection of serials so inexpensively.

My shop has been open for a little over a year now, and business is slowly increasing, thanks in no small part to my brother Kai's rejuvenation of this area of the city. A few years ago, he tore down the dilapidated ruins he had purchased and replaced them with sturdily built brick buildings. Shops line either side of the street. On the corner across from mine, and taking up quite a bit of the area, is Kai's crowning achievement, his grand hotel that bears the Tempest name. While he hadn't wanted to see me working, and had preferred I spend my time preparing for my entry into pack Society, I had managed to convince him to allow me to use one of his smaller buildings as a bookshop.

All my siblings have met with varying degrees of success, and I had wanted to do my part to make a difference, not only in my life and for my family but in the lives of others.

Walking back to the counter, I smile as my cat leaps onto it, stretches languidly, and glares at me through blue eyes. I run my fingers through his thick fur, as white as pristine snow. He had been scrawny and practically furless, with what little bit remaining in his possession matted, when I found him in the mews, bound up like a sausage. If I ever discover who had abandoned him there like that, I will give the tosser cause for regret. It had taken a while to earn the cat's trust. "Jealous, Dickens? His eyes were a far richer shade than yours, but you are still my favorite fellow."

He merely purrs in response and begins licking his paw.

Picking up my money purse, I pop into my small office, cross over to a painting of a woman poised on a ladder while reaching for a book, and take it down to reveal the safe which is securely tucked away behind it. Tugging free the chain hidden beneath my collar, I pull forth the key and insert it into the lock, always feeling a bit mysterious that I have a place in which to secret things away. After swinging open the door, I tuck the purse inside and then relock the safe. The painting goes back onto its spot on the wall, and I stuff the key behind my bodice.

That chore taken care of, I snatch up my small, flower-adorned hat, move over to the oval mirror hanging on the wall, and position the brim just so, giving me a rather sophisticated air. From my siblings, I have learned how I present myself should reflect all I hope to attain. "Half the trick is leading people to believe you have met with success," Kai had told me the day I opened the shop.

Grabbing a tiny book and slipping it into my pocket, most of my dresses contain large pockets where I can easily carry things, I wander across my beloved shop to the door and step out onto the walk.

People are scurrying about, some on their way home from their jobs, others from their shopping expeditions. The fragrance of freshly baked bread wafts on the air, courtesy of the bakery two doors down. They are no doubt finishing up the order they will deliver to the hotel for the guests who dine there that evening. The elegant dining room is gaining a reputation for serving delicious meals, not that Kai would have settled for anything less than perfection. After locking up, I stroll up the street.

"Hello, Miss Tempest," a young woman with a boy and a girl clinging to her skirts calls out as she hurries the little ones along.

"Good evening, Mrs. Byng. Will I be seeing you during story time tomorrow?" Every Friday afternoon, I gather children in my shop and read to them.

"My moppets wouldn't miss it."

I suspect her son and daughter favor the sweets I provide as much as the stories. While this area doesn't resemble the rookeries in the least, I am very much aware that many of these folks have little money left over once they have paid for necessities and it makes me feel charitable to offer them something extra.

My afternoon readings provide a bit of respite to many of the mothers, especially those with numerous small tykes. I often notice some of them dozing while I work to keep their little ones entertained. Knowing few households contain books, I like the notion of not only introducing children to the power of reading, but possibly giving them a desire to attend school.

While the recently passed Education law provides public funding for children whose parents can't afford to pay their education fees, it hasn't made school attendance compulsory, which I find unacceptable. Not all parents care to see their children's lives improved. I have grown up in an area where some had felt it was more important for their broods to work and provide coins for the family coffers than to spend a few hours each day in a classroom.