Instinct

ETERNAL

DARKNESS &
LIGHT

BLUE MOON

RESONANCE

CAGED

UNNATURAL

“
I loved
Instinct! It's a fantastic novella [...] I completely recommend
Instinct, and the rest of the books in the Holloway Pack series
[...] J.A. Belfineld tells amazing werewolf stories.
” ~
BurningxImpossiblyxBright

“
Another
amazing book from J.A. Belfineld!!
” ~ Amazon Customer

“
[...]
packed with intrigue and emotion, and woven together like silk
threads, creating a story so smooth and captivating you'll want to
curl up on the sofa and read it again and again.
” ~ Jocelyn
Adams, author of the
Lila Grey
trilogy, and
Darkside
Sun

“
The writing
was elegant and the plot was well thought out and interesting [...]
a short but great start to the series and I am eager to read the
rest.
” ~ Tiffany, Goodreads member

“
One of the
best novellas I have read in a long time.
” ~ Sue, Goodreads
member

“
Once again,
Ms. Belfineld delivers. [...] My senses were engaged from the first
page.
” ~ Terri Rochenski, author of
Eye of the Soul
and
Love’s Sorrow

INSTINCT

Published by J.A.
Belfield

www.jabelfield.com

Copyright © 2015 Julie
Anne Belfield

Smashwords edition.

All rights reserved. No
part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying,
recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the
prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other
non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events,
locations, or any other element is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Aimee
Laine.

First Printing: January
2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

For Newlyn, Nevyn, and Bethyn.

Just because.

The marketplace
had to be the best venue to pick up females. At the age of twenty,
I would have been happy to visit every day, but James would not
permit me. As Alpha, his commands were followed without question,
so my visits were limited to once a week. I had to admit, it worked
out better that way.

From fruit to
art, to lace, to the blacksmith’s stall, I walked. Paintings of
marketplaces often depicted them as cheery, colourful, and bustling
with activity. The latter conception may have been correct;
although, they leaned more toward grey and dreary than bright, and
the air often filled with yells of anger and bitterness, as opposed
to joyful greetings.

At least there
were the scents: hams and boars’ heads, fruits, wines, the steam of
cooking soups, and, my most favourite of all, the freshness of ripe
women. Lorna Rushford, Helena Longbarrow, Matilda Thornberry named
only a few, each of those alone bringing with her a memory.

The females
noticed me as much as I did them, even though my past catches never
approached, never asked why I had not called to visit, or if I
would tend them again. Of course, my refusal to conform to the
current trends in attire ensured I stood out from the other males
who bothered to arrive. Whereas the women’s glances would be
appraising, perhaps even hopeful, the men’s glares offered nothing
but scorn for my dark trousers tucked into knee-high leather boots,
and for the shirts I never bothered to secure with their woven
laces. Men had been hung for far less than inconsiderate fashion
sense, yet I did not care. I was not like them and never pretended
to be.

A whisper
drifted across, as I meandered through the crowd: “’Tis Mr
Holloway, Eleanor.”

With a tilt of
my head, I spotted the speaker leaning into her sister, who
fluttered her lashes in a clear attempt to catch my attention.

Eleanor had
turned out to be a worthy virgin. The scent of her blood had driven
me wild as I had plunged into her.

I smiled to
myself as I turned away.

Farther along,
pausing to sample the crisp apples, I caught Mrs Lawson’s scent.
The older ladies may not have been as pure, but they could not be
denied their eagerness to please. For that reason alone, they made
for an entertaining afternoon.

My nose lifted
to track her, and I found the woman beyond a table stacked high
with fresh loaves, hidden behind her fan, which she waved with
vigour. I recalled that her petticoat had held many layers, and the
removal of them turned out to be almost as much fun as the act
itself. I wondered how she had explained the damage to her pompous
husband.

At a new aroma
begging for notice, my step faltered as my nostrils flared.

Strong, yet
understated, alluring and seductive, the unsullied flavour carried
the exceptional deliciousness of womanly musk. Possessed by a need
to find the source, I tilted my head and allowed my nose to
lead.

It should have
been difficult, impossible even, to locate such subtlety amongst
the overpowering wafts of food and body odours, yet the strong pull
beckoned to me, drawing me on.

Whispers
continued, as I passed one stall after another, but they no longer
held my interest. My mind seemed only able to focus on the
unfamiliar scent. Although it intensified with each step, I half
wished for a stronger breeze to invade the clear morning, to bring
me a more wholesome dose and appease my sudden and unbidden
greed.

My eyes
shifted, as I moved, searching. I skimmed over those who held no
appeal, the ones whose flavour had already been tasted, until, at
the end of the row ahead, I spotted two young women.

From the angle
of their positions, I doubted they could see me. The purchasing of
herbs distracted the darker haired of the two. Animated, she
possessed a flamboyance which showed in her movements, and in her
pleasant tones, as she bartered with the stall owner.

I imagined she
would get her own way with the price.

To her side
stood a fairer female, with a quiet calm that showed in the relaxed
set of her shoulders. Taking a step closer, I studied her.

Appearing
younger, almost lacking in confidence, she was also somewhat taller
and certainly far more beautiful. I did not recognise her, yet
could not mistake her scent. I had been tracking it for the past
five minutes.

Leaning across
the jewellery on the stall beside me, I caught the proprietor’s
attention. “Who is the girl?” I asked, pointing toward the one who
held me so rapt.

“Regular of
mine.” He nodded and smiled. “The Stonehouse sisters often purchase
my quartz and amethyst.”

As he spoke
their name in a conspicuous overtone, the females turned.

Blue eyes, as
dark as sapphires, appraised me from beneath wisps of blonde, and a
smile widened the girl’s lips, as my own mouth curved at the
corners.

Beside her, the
darker girl leaned into the fair tresses of her sister. “Sean
Holloway is a ladies’ man and not to be trusted,” she hissed, her
words carrying to me with ease, before she walked off. When her
sister remained, gaze locked with mine, the seemingly older girl
called out, “Come along, Jem. Mother is waiting.”

My eyebrow
twitched upward.
Jem?

With her
attention tugged back toward her departing sibling, she dipped her
head and followed behind.

Still, the
essence her body had left in its wake lured me, and, unable to do
otherwise, I trailed after her.

As I did so,
her head tilted, almost turned a few times as she walked, leaving
me wondering if she could have been aware of my pursuit. Once or
twice, she even hesitated over offered wares, until her sister
urged her along again.

From one stall
to another, I shadowed them through the marketplace, pausing only
when they were greeted by an older woman, whose blonde hair and
oval face matched that of the one called Jem.
Her
mother, perhaps?

Ducking off to
the left took her from my sights, as I concealed myself within the
folds of hanging shawls and bonnet stands. When I peeked back out
between the fibrous fabrics, her mother and sister returned to my
visibility, but not the one I desired.

A shift to the
left preceded another to the right. Neither way showed her, and I
moved to the next stall, checking around the butcher, as he
sharpened his blade. Still nothing.

She could not
have gone far, though. I could still smell her.

“You were
following me.”

I spun at the
voice to my rear and found the lass who held my interest so
standing before me. It was unusual for another to catch me
unawares, and I studied her before inclining my head in
admittance.

“Why?” Her dark
eyes held defiance.

“You intrigue
me.”

“There are
tales told of you, Mr Holloway.”

My lips
twitched. “Good ones, I hope.”

“All bad, if
the truth be told.”

I gave a quiet
laugh. “Then, I’m afraid you cannot have been given the stories in
their entirety.”

A spark of life
visited her eyes for a half second, as though she considered
allowing a smile, but none arrived. Instead, she bid me, “Good day
to you,” before she disappeared into the throng of patrons.

Whilst my mind
urged me to give chase, my feet remained stationary, secured there
only by the knowledge that the encounter would not be our last.

Because I
would
see her again. I knew it with certainty. Until then, I
would hold tight to her aroma and the vividness of her eyes as a
reminder of the one named Jem.

***

The blonde
girl, with her steady stare, refused to leave my mind. I sniffed a
couple of times at the clothing I wore that day, hoping for
reprieve, but none arrived, and it left me confused.

I had never
craved anything before. If I wanted something, I took it.

On any other
day, I would have given chase, persisted until my goal relented—not
that much convincing was ever necessary.

Not with Jem.
She had walked away. And I had allowed it.

I just had no
idea why.

In eagerness, I
arrived the following week at an earlier hour than usual. My senses
sought her presence but produced no evidence that she had come.
After almost three hours, I believed my efforts to have been wasted
and went in search of another source of relief.

I found it in
the form of Elizabeth Wells.

Her too-tight
corset forced the bounce of her bosom into plain view, providing a
visual delight with each step she took, and her smiled approach
saved me the effort of the chase. “Mr Holloway.”

“Good day to
you, Miss Wells.”

Her index
finger twisted around her bronze ringlet, as she peered up at me.
“It is a lovely morning.”

I nodded and
smiled. “Yes, it is.”

“Have you heard
of my father’s latest purchase?”

I had hoped for
more amusing entertainment but, not wanting to appear rude, shook
my head. “No, I have not.”

“He has been
offered the ...”

I found few
topics quite as tedious as talk of business dealings and my
attention quickly drifted. My head offered the occasional nod,
whilst my ears pricked in the hope of more flavoursome fun around
the constant bumps and clatters of stalls being set up, and my eyes
absorbed the too bright gowns of those insisting on overdressing
for market day.

Thanks to the
perfumed self-drowning of the young lady before me, my olfactory
senses went on a temporary strike—which meant I almost missed the
one I sought, as she entered the marketplace.

Ambling past
us, Jem caught my eye for a moment, whilst Elizabeth continued on
about details of no import. Her lips twitched at the corners, as
she held my stare, but when her attention shifted to my companion,
her expression altered, darkened, something akin to disappointment
moving in. With a flick of her loose hair, she continued on her
way, her shoulders bathed in sunshine as her hips swayed her past
the market seamstress, the cobbler ...

My heart raced
when I realised she would soon be out of sight. I turned my
attention back to Miss Wells.

“. . . of
course Father wouldn’t—”

“Excuse me,” I
cut in. “I have to go.”

Racing off to
her outraged, “Well, I never!” I followed the scent teasing on the
breeze all the way to the door of the bank.