Werewolf

Iris
 
Arthur looks like he’s about to explode in the subtlest way possible. You would think that after five years apart I wouldn’t be able to see his telltale signs of frustration, but I can still locate the infinitesimal twitch of his jaw like I can locate the freckle on the back of my left hand.
 
“You left without a word,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “aborted my child, and had kids with him? They look the same age as our kid would be! How soon did you—”
 
“Enough,” I say, holding up my hand to stop him. I don’t want Emily and Evan to hear him speak like that. Surprisingly, he goes quiet, probably because he doesn’t want to make a scene in front of children either.
 
But truthfully, Arthur has no fucking idea about what happened over the past five years. These aren’t my kids, and that’s not my husband.
 
When Brian took me back to Bo’Arrocon five years ago, one of the first 

Iris
 
The kiss is warm, familiar, and entirely consuming.
 
And for a brief, fleeting moment, I nearly fall into the abyss of it all—the way his lips mold so perfectly to mine, the press of his hands against my waist in the spots where they once fit like puzzle pieces, the rough thrust of his tongue onto my mouth.
 
He knows my body better than anyone else. Better than me, even. He can play me like a fiddle, plucking the strings in all the right places to get the perfect melody out of me.
 
Arthur’s hands skim across my sides, finding all the spots that used to set me on fire. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s doing it damn well.
 
And for this split second, I let it happen. The memories of what we once shared threaten to drown me. We are fated mates, after all, bound by something primal and unyielding. Once upon a time, we were lovers who dreamed of forever, who whispered of a future 

Iris
 
Five years have gone by since that fated day. Five years, and hardly a day has passed that I haven’t thought about it, about the pain that I felt in my chest I drove away from that house and the way my tears blurred the streetlights all around me.
 
But life goes on.
 
It’s been two years since I last set foot in Ordan, the city I used to love, but now I’m back. I only came back for my exhibition at the Ordan Modern Art Gallery—otherwise, I probably wouldn’t bother. This city smells like heartbreak to me now, and if this exhibition didn’t mean so much to me, I would have declined the offer. I’ve only been here out of utter necessity over the past five years. But I couldn’t turn down this opportunity.
 
The Marsiel Gallery is a large and brilliantly designed space, and since getting my degree five years ago I’ve dreamed of one day showing here. And now here I am, watching as the staff hang another of my over-sized canvases right where I’ve indicated on the pristine white wall.
 
I’m happy. My paint-stained overalls are covered in dust and dirt and there’s a hole in my favorite yellow sweater now from carrying artwork, but I can’t help but smile.
 
That is, until someone mentions him.
 
“The Alpha President and his fiancée still aren’t married,” I hear one of the gallery assistants say to another in passing, and my smile immediately fades.
 
Arthur.
 
Just thinking about him sets my heart racing, although I feign indifference. I don’t need to hear about his life, his fiancee, or his kingdom.
 
“I could use a snack,” I say suddenly. “Anybody else want something from the machine?”
 
“A Coke sounds good,” one of the assistants says, and I tak everyone’s orders and refuse offers of money, saying I’m happy to treat. Walking away, I hope they’ll pick another topic of conversation before I get back.
 
Even now, five years later, I still hate him. And what makes me hate him even more is that I still fucking love him.
 
He’s my fated mate. Of course my heart still flutters whenever I think about him, even if I want to wring his neck for the way he treated me.
 
When I first ran away with Brian, I tried not to look at Arthur’s face on the news, but I looked anyway. Brian even tried to stop me a few times, telling me that it wasn’t good for my mental health. But over time, I realized that I couldn’t help it. I told myself that I was just curious about the political climate in Ordan, but Brian and I both know that was a lie.
 
I just wanted to see if Arthur would take back the things he said. If, in some show of true love, he would turn to the camera and say, “Iris, please come back. Please. I’m so sorry. I love you.”
 
He never did, of course. He never even mentioned me in any of those interviews.
 
With a sigh, I make my way to the vending machines. I pick out an orange juice and a cookie for myself, along with everyone else’s orders, then pile everything into my arms and begin heading back to the main area.
 
That’s when it happens.
 
Fate always has a funny way of manipulating the situation, doesn’t it?
 
As if on cue, my foot catches on a wet floor sign, and I go pitching forward. Before I can stop myself, all of the snacks I’m carrying go flying, the orange juice in particular rolling across the floor and running into a perfectly polished black loafer.
 
I don’t need to look up to see whose foot that shoe belongs to, but against my better judgment, I do anyway.
 
He’s standing in the center of a group of people who have now gone silent, and slowly bends down to pick up the juice.
 
I almost consider running away, right out the front doors and all the way over the border to Bo’Arrocon without looking back. But I don’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because my body won’t let me.
 
Because there, now staring at me with those dark green eyes and that black hair falling into them, is Arthur.
 
I can’t tell if he’s surprised or resentful. Maybe both. And I feel the same.
 
Before I can get away, Arthur notices me. “Iris,” he says in a light tone of voice. He picks up the juice and holds it out to me.
 
“Is this what you left me for?” he asks, those green eyes flicking over me. His voice is somehow even deeper than I remember, and he has stubble across his sharp jaw that wasn’t there before Devilishly handsome, as they say. Emphasis on devil. “Orange juice and a sweater with holes in it?”
 
There’s a bitterness in his voice that cuts deeper than I care to admit.
 
I frown and yank the juice away, although the way our fingers brush isn’t lost on me. I tug my cardigan tighter around myself, as if that’ll somehow keep his gaze from burning straight through me.
 
Of course, I know I don’t exactly look like a model right now. My chestnut brown hair is in a messy braid over one shoulder, I’m not wearing a lick of makeup, and I have dark circles under my eyes from the early train ride into Ordan. It’s not the vengeful meeting I had planned in my head.
 
But somehow, I manage to keep my composure—maybe because my mind has finally won out over my heart and I just want to fucking leave.
 
“I left you for more reasons than orange juice and sweaters, Alpha President,” I grind out, emphasizing those last two words, before promptly turning on my heel and striding away.
 
I’m not even sure where I’m going. I’m fully aware that the only thing in the direction I’m walking right now is the storage room behind the gallery, and that I’ve just left the snacks all over the floor. But I don’t care; I just want to get away.
 
Arthur’s gaze follows me the entire time, and I swear I can feel it even after I’ve turned the corner.
 
Once I’m out of sight, I lean against the wall and take a deep breath, shutting my eyes and tilting my head back. I clutch the orange juice to my chest, suddenly feeling like I’m about to pass out.
 
I didn’t want to see him ever again. I shouldn’t have come back here. And yet, no matter how much I hated that interaction, I almost wish it wouldn’t be our last.
 
But that’s just my heart talking again.
 
My heart, which I buried in stone five years ago.
 
Suddenly, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Brian, telling me that he’s passing by and can pick me up. I happily agree and tell him to meet me at the gallery entrance, and I’m glad to see that Arthur and his gaggle of admirers is gone as I scurry toward the front door.
 
But it’s not Brian’s car that I see pull up when I step down to the sidewalk, inhaling the cool night air.
 
It’s a sleek black sportscar. A really, really expensive one.
 
And when the window rolls down, who else would it be except for fucking Arthur?
 
“Get in, Iris,” he says with all the calmness of someone who’s discussing the weather.
 
I frown and fold my arms across my chest. “Piss off.”
 
He sighs like he’s talking to a grumpy toddler. “Come on, Iris. You’ve been living like this for five years now—poor, struggling, and alone. It’s time to come home now.”
 
Despite myself, I can’t help but laugh. So he still thinks that I’m nothing more than a gold-digging whore. And beyond that, he seems to think that I’m living paycheck to paycheck, struggling and all on my own with no one to care about me.
 
Well, he’s dead wrong. And he’s about to find out, because Brian’s car pulls up to the curb behind him. The back door opens, and a little boy with brown hair and big blue stumbles out.
 
I grin, turning to him and crouching, holding out my arms. He flings himself against me.
 
“Mommy, we missed you so much, so we came with Daddy!”
 
“And I’m so glad you came, kiddo,” I say, ruffling his hair. Arthur’s sharp inhale, of course, isn’t unnoticed.
 
“Mommy?” Arthur blurts out, climbing out of his car. “Daddy?” And then, here’s the kicker: “We?”
 
I don’t have to answer him, because a moment later, Brian gets out of the car. He helps a little girl out of the back seat, holding her against his chest as he strides up to us.
 
“Iris, darling, sorry to keep you waiting.”
 

Iris
 
Arthur looks like he’s about to explode in the subtlest way possible. You would think that after five years apart I wouldn’t be able to see his telltale signs of frustration, but I can still locate the infinitesimal twitch of his jaw like I can locate the freckle on the back of my left hand.
 
“You left without a word,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “aborted my child, and had kids with him? They look the same age as our kid would be! How soon did you—”
 
“Enough,” I say, holding up my hand to stop him. I don’t want Emily and Evan to hear him speak like that. Surprisingly, he goes quiet, probably because he doesn’t want to make a scene in front of children either.
 
But truthfully, Arthur has no fucking idea about what happened over the past five years. These aren’t my kids, and that’s not my husband.
 
When Brian took me back to Bo’Arrocon five years ago, one of the first things he did was introduce me to his husband, Stephen. Yes, that’s right; Brian is gay. O

#CHAPTER 7: Two Minutes and Not a Second More