Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“I was hungry.”
He stares at me blankly for a moment. Then his cheek twitches. “You were hungry. So you jumped out of a window that is high enough to kill you if you were to fall, rolled around in a pond, and hid in a hallway?”
“I didn’t want to be any trouble.”
“Didn’t want to be trouble…” he repeats my words incredulously. “I’m afraid you’ve failed in that regard. That was, without a doubt, the most disastrous introduction to the pack I could have imagined.”
“Must lack imagination,” I mutter under my breath.
“Excuse me?”
“It wasn’t that bad. I didn’t kill anybody. I just followed my instincts. Isn’t that what I’m meant to do?”
“You’ve earned yourself a good, long spanking,” he says sternly.
I’ve submitted to a lot with Cain Lupin. I’ve allowed him to entirely redefine my life in the last forty-eight hours, and I know I am dependent on him in some ways as his mate. He and his kind are like me, and I am something I never knew I was.
But I don’t want a serious spanking from him. The idea is absolutely terrifying, and I think if he insists, I’m going to have to resist.
“Don’t you give me that look,” he says. “You know you’ve misbehaved. You could have killed yourself. I could have come and found you dead on the ground, neck broken, our life together over before it had a chance to begin. You will learn to obey me, Kira. And I will do what is necessary to ensure that learning happens.”
He doesn’t know me that well. He doesn’t know what will happen if he ever dares to do anything like that. I let him smack my ass that one time, but if he thinks he can beat me for disobedience, he’ll learn a lot about me all at once.
He cocks his head, reading the thoughts in my expression again.
Before he can tell me that he’s going to punish me, I ask him a question.
“What is a domesticated dilute?”
Cain’s face transforms quite fiercely for a moment. “Where did you hear that term?” He asks the question with a dangerous level of calmness that is quite scary.
“Uhm. I’m not sure. I just did, I think.”
“Do not lie to me, Kira. Tell me where you heard that.”
“It was just something people were saying. I heard it when I was in the hall. It’s not that serious, is it? What does it mean?”
He hesitates for a very long time before answering the question. I see a half a dozen answers flash across his eyes and be dismissed as unsuitable. I know it’s a really bad answer when he comes over to me and cups my face in his hands with tender care.
“It is a very toxic phrase that refers to purity of blood and coat color. Most of our pack prefers to eat freshly killed meat and has the natural coloring of a wild wolf. You have a paler pelt, and your tastes run more to the sweet. There is nothing wrong with that. I adore it about you.”
No sooner do I discover I am a wolf than I find out that I am the wrong kind of wolf. That sounds precisely like my kind of luck. It takes me several minutes to process the news, during which time Cain doesn’t whip my ass, but instead leads me out of the shower, wraps me in a big, soft, fluffy bathrobe, and somehow manages to get me chocolate cake.
I sit on the edge of the bed and eat the slice, taking in both the sweet, sweet calories, and the ramifications of what he just told me.
“What are you thinking?” He asks the question after a really long time, probably because I haven’t said anything.
“So they’re… bad people. The pack has bad people in it. People who didn’t get the memo about judging others based on their genes? It just feels very…”
“I know,” he says. “Don’t worry. I will ensure that phrase is never used again. I will erase it from the lexicon. I will wipe it off the face of the planet.”
His fury is evident, yet controlled.
“Were you disappointed when you realized that was what I am? You must have expected a big, ferocious, beautiful mate to match you,” I say. “Instead you got… this.”
“There is nothing wrong with you. You are absolutely perfect,” he says.
I note that he didn’t actually answer the question as to whether or not he was disappointed. I try not to be hurt by the omission, but I don’t ask again. I don’t want to force the question and hear an answer that will feel like a stab to the gut.
“I don’t want anybody to get into trouble,” I say. “I don’t want to give them any more reasons to hate me, now that they all dislike me because of the… thing.”