Her Vampire Husband. Michele Hauf
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perfume. Pity. She had wished for a distraction from the vampire’s scent, which she dreaded taking into her senses.
“YOU FIND OUT which one she is? Shouldn’t be too difficult to spot a female werewolf in this crowd,” Alexandre said.
“I think they’ve got her secreted away until the ceremony starts.”
Creed Saint-Pierre tugged at his shirtsleeves and traced one diamond cuff link with a finger. He looked over the crowd from his position on the dais. His best friend and best man, Alexandre Renard, stood at his side.
A female wolf should stand out amongst the female vampires, who all, he’d noticed, had decided black was the color for the event. Interesting how the two nations had divided, keeping to their respective halves of the ballroom as if the aisle of red carpeting were the proverbial line drawn in the sand.
While he had led the Nava tribe since the late eighteenth century, and had endured pomp and ceremony of all sorts, Creed did not care for fussy events. Strategy and the hunt were his mien. And when not serving his tribe members, he was a private man, and chose his pleasures carefully.
The very fact he stood upon this dais now represented a three-sixty-degree shift in his thinking. Whether or not he was actually being true to his nature remained to be seen.
That half the crowd milling here in the Landmark Center were werewolves put up his guard. They smelled wild and earthy, and were easily roused with the most innocent of glances. Creed was impressed a fight had not broken out yet. But then, only the trusted few had been invited to the ceremony.
The Landmark Center had been marked a neutral zone for the evening, but he didn’t trust the dogs not to start something. It was so like them. Though he should be more relaxed knowing half the security force were vampires.
Because so many wolves were present, the room was overwhelmingly male. With lots of testosterone floating about, anything could happen. Which was why it was necessary for posted sentries outside and along the inner hallways hugging the ballroom.
Creed never let down his defenses.
“All the dogs in the room,” Alexandre said over his shoulder, as he scanned the crowd, “gives me that aching hunger feeling, you know?”
His second in command never turned his back on a werewolf, for painful reasons. It had been less than a year since Creed had rescued Alexandre from the blood sport.
“I feel like Henri of Navarre on the night of his wedding to the de Médicis bitch,” Creed commented uneasily. He’d been in Paris in the sixteenth century during that event. Nasty memories.
“The Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacre? So what does that make us?” Alexandre asked. “Catholics or the Huguenots?”
“Catholics, most definitely.” Creed had never sided with the losing team.
“You’re actually doing it.” Alexandre’s tone held a smirk. “Never thought you’d go through with it, old man.”
Creed shoved a hand in his trouser pocket, ensuring the ring ordered specially by the Council was at hand.
“I did not believe the wolves would actually put up something so valuable as a female. But they have, and so I am no man to back from a commitment.”
He prayed she was not hairy. Male wolves had hair in abundance on their head, arms, legs and chests. In all his centuries, Creed had never seen a female werewolf, but he could guess she would be hirsute, as well.
Gods, what had he gotten himself into?
For nine centuries he’d walked through this thing called life without once getting involved with any particular female for more than a few months. Only one time had he begun to consider a woman more than a mere plaything and, well—he did not think about her if he could prevent it.
He did not like to be beholden, or to share. Emotion was easy enough, but love? It was not to be dallied with.
He was safe from the falling-in-love part. What vampire could love a werewolf, princess or not? He couldn’t do it. He would simply go through the motions, make the marriage appear real.
A celebratory banquet was planned in a few weeks. The Council would parade them before the same crowd as tonight to demonstrate they were getting along; all would witness a happy couple. Whether or not the woman agreed to the charade, Creed would see she had no choice.
Quite a bold idea the Council had by proposing the vampires resolve their differences with the werewolves by joining a couple together to prove they could accept one another.
Thankfully, love was not a requirement.
After discussion with his tribe, and various other vampire tribe leaders across the United States, it was agreed this match was the thing to do. Creed would be their representative. He was the only choice, for the position required a great sacrifice. He was one of few elders who possessed witch magic. A rarity amongst his kind, he was valued, as well as respected.
The things he had done to obtain such magic would turn the stomachs of most, he felt sure.
More than anything, though, Creed had made a personal vow to himself. This marriage would serve as a means to atone for his past indiscretions.
Sounded magnanimous and honorable, but could he keep such a vow?
A violet-winged faery stepped up to the dais, clutching a bouquet of red roses. She smiled warmly at both Creed and Alexandre. “I’m Sabrina, the matron of honor.”
Creed nodded congenially. Alexandre muttered close at Creed’s ear, “Nice.”
A fine-looking woman, but Creed and Alexandre both kept their interest vague. Faery ichor was an addictive drink, as meth was to humans. Besides, Alexandre already had a gorgeous girlfriend.
“The bridal march is starting,” Alexandre noted.
Creed set back his shoulders and assumed a modicum of hopeful expectation.
Make it look good.
He’d say the vows, kiss the new wife’s cheek and then get the hell out of here. A bottle of whisky waited at home, the good stuff, imported from Scotland. He was going to need it.
“Oh, hell. Really?”
Alexandre’s remark prompted Creed to scan the red aisle to the end of the massive four-story room. The doors closed slowly, having emitted one person.
“Look at that body,” Alexandre whispered appreciatively. “Always thought a female wolf would be more butch. But what in the world? What’s with the hair?”
Creed observed the tall, lithe woman dangling a tight bouquet of black roses at her side. She sauntered down the aisle, long, slender legs catching the eyes of all the werewolves in the room. The wolves all bended one knee and bowed, deferring to her high rank in the pack.
Some vamps even nodded approval. Creed understood their awe.
The dress, what little there was of it, clung to narrow hips, a sensual waist—look at those breasts. There wasn’t much fabric to cover them. Full and round, they twinkled with glints of something…faery dust?
Full red lips parted as she glanced about, taking in every face, every sigh, every wanting lick of lips. Bright eyes, rimmed in dark shadow, fluttered. A diamond choker at her neck glittered.
But the truly startling bit was her hair.
“Green?”
Lime-green. The color of glossy neon plastic. Of irradiated spring buds. Of a spoiled, saucy werewolf princess who didn’t meet his eye as she stepped up the dais to stand alongside him.
Standing as tall as he—thanks to some killer high heels—the reticent princess stared ahead to the officiant in a red robe. She smelled sweet and dark—like candies rotting in the box.
Creed stopped himself from saying hello and turned to face the officiant. If she were