Wild and Free(102)
“At the end of the evening, before anyone goes home, it’s also tradition for the women to fight over who’ll get to host it the next year.” He grinned at her. “Sometimes it gets vicious.”
She smiled back, not knowing that what he said was literal.
She-wolves could transform and they did it often, mostly to run with their mates. There were those few with that bent (in other words, their fated lifemate and their taste in play partners ran to their own gender) who were warriors and good ones.
However, most other times, she-wolves stayed in human form.
Unless they were fighting drunkenly, thus much less in control of the transformation, over who would host Christmas Eve.
Blood was shed more often than not.
Callum decided not to share that with Sonia.
Instead, he said, “During the day, the women cook, chat and play cards at the kitchen table.”
She rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Of course they do.”
He lifted his head and touched his mouth to hers until he saw her eyes roll back then he sat back and continued, “The males have a rugby tournament or some sort of sport outdoors,” he grinned and informed her, “the more brutal, the better.”
“Not surprising,” she noted without rancor, “intense, as with everything else, even on Christmas Eve.”
His thumb slid over her lower lip because he wanted it to, not to stop her from talking but she did so and he started again. “We all get together for an evening feast, usually getting drunk again then we have group games that pretty much descend into pandemonium. The women fight it out as to who will host the next year and then everyone goes home.”
“Except for the all day cooking and vicious battle that ends the night, it sounds kind of fun,” she quipped, her lips tipped up at the ends.
“It is,” he replied truthfully. “Family is all-important. That’s why finding your mate it fundamental to our existence.” His voice dipped lower and his arm grew tighter. “It heralds the time when we can start our own.”
Her expression changed swiftly. Starting with shock then shifting to gentleness mixed with yearning, straight to alarmed and ending in what he was surprised to see was openly false curiosity.
“What do you do for Christmas?” she asked, changing the subject almost desperately and he wanted to understand what had been going on in that head of hers but he thought it prudent to let it go.
The mood, he sensed, was still light. He wanted that for himself but, getting the impression he’d given her a good day, mostly he wanted it for Sonia.
“You share the morning with your mate and your children, if you have them. You open your presents, you have breakfast.” He grinned wolfishly. “You make love while the children are playing.” She bit her lip and he went on, “Then the direct family gets together in the afternoons and we stay together into the evening, feasting, drinking, playing games. Nothing formal, everything relaxed. We have fireworks and a glass of warm, mulled wine at midnight then, if you aren’t already home, you go home.”
Her expression shifted back to gentle and he knew it was sincere as her body had molded to his.
“That sounds very fun,” she said softly before she made a comical disgusted face, “except mulled wine.”
“We’ll get you champagne,” he murmured, thinking of next Christmas and Sonia standing in his arms but amongst his brethren, wrapped tight in the furs he’d give her, drinking champagne with her face tipped to the stars and the multi-colored bursts of fireworks lighting her skin and hair.
Definitely something to look forward to.
“I’d prefer champagne,” she murmured back, gazing at him curiously but matching his tone as if attentive to his mood.
His eyes slid to the clock and he noted the time.
His arm brought her ever closer as his hand slid into her hair, tenderly fisting and twisting, he brought her lips to his.
There he muttered, “Merry Christmas, baby doll.”
And he gave her a kiss that communicated the promise that her lonely Christmases past were a memory and that her every Christmas of the future would start just… like… this.
Her eyes were dazed when his mouth broke from hers, her breathing unsteady and she glanced adorably unfocused toward the clock, taking in a deep breath.
When her eyes refocused, she sighed and looked back at him.
He waited, uncharacteristically patiently, as her green eyes searched his face then looked deep into his, again like she was trying to read him and she doubted what she saw.
Finally, she whispered, “Merry Christmas, Callum.”
He was disappointed she didn’t call him “wolf” or any other sweet nothing she could dream up.