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)
“Maybe your mate is a dilute too, Abel,” Izzy calls back. “Maybe the pack is finally going to get some fresh blood. It was boring everybody being purebred anyway.”
We both narrow our eyes in her wake, but neither one of us gives her the satisfaction of the attention she is clearly trying to get.
“She is a pain in the ass,” Abel growls.
“She’s the least of our worries. Linus wants to know where Kira comes from. Everybody wants to know. It feels like the pack thinks they own my balls.”
Abel laughs. “They’re jealous of her. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. Dilutes are part of the wolf world, and her domestic streak is cute. They’ll learn to love her, just like you do.”
“Or they’ll revolt, and one of the other males will try to take my place as alpha, citing her bloodline as being unfit.”
Abel laughs that suggestion off. “It would take a true monster to unseat you, Cain.”
“That’s the problem. We’re all monsters.”
CHAPTER 7
Kira
I am eased out of bed by Cain in the morning. I come to consciousness in his arms while being actively removed from the sheets. Stretching a little, I turn and snuggle into his chest, burying my face against him and inhaling his scent deeply. There is something so comforting about the way things feel first thing in the morning. My brain isn’t online enough to worry about things the way I usually do.
I let out a little whine as I feel him lowering me to the ground. He’s trying to get me to stand up. I resist by keeping my knees up to my chest as much as I can, like a cat that doesn’t want to be put into a crate. I refuse to start this day. I am going to stay in this happy, sleepy little place for as long as I can.
“Come on, Kira. There’s a pack breakfast this morning,” he says. “A new day, new opportunities.”
Those words make me want to avoid starting the day even more. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold onto him to avoid having to put my feet on the ground.
He wins the battle of wills with some awkwardness, by basically putting me down on the ground on my butt rather than on my feet. I am now out of bed and out of Cain’s warmth and protection.
“What am I supposed to wear?”
He answers by picking out a stylish jumpsuit in a deep cream hue. He lays it on the bed with a pair of matching kitten heels. It’s the sort of clothing that rich women wear to brunch. There’s a silk scarf to presumably match, and a blouse as well. It all looks very nice, and very formal and somewhat stiff. So this is what I’m expected to be. A first lady of wolves.
He gives me a chance to get ready, and not wanting to be churlish, I do as he wants. I get dressed reluctantly and put on more makeup than I usually would. I’ll take anything I can hide behind, including several layers of foundation and a whole lot of contouring.
“You look incredible,” Cain says when he sees me step out of the ensuite. “The picture-perfect mate.”
I know I look good. I look smooth and pore-less. I look like I was airbrushed. If you look very, very close, you can tell that I look absolutely fucking terrified.
He takes me by the hand and leads me out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I wish I could avoid this encounter somehow, but I am here to meet his pack. They’re here, indirectly, to see me.
Memories of the previous evening’s fuckery keep rushing back to me. I embarrassed myself, and I embarrassed Cain. I can’t do that again. I have to act normal enough to be acceptable. I can do that. I’ve worked hard to be able to do that.
The first comforting smell I encounter is that of fried bacon and powdered sugar. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I feared.
He leads me into a banquet hall where I find a long table laden with breakfast foods of every kind. Bacon. Croissants. Pastries. Cereals—though they seem absolutely pointless given the rest of the food. There are mangoes too, and grapes, and I think cheese. Hell, yeah. There’s cheese. But there’s also pancakes. And French toast.
There are smaller satellite tables around the edges where people are already eating and drinking juice, though drinking juice seems like a waste of stomach capacity with this spread in front of me.
I forget about the shame of what happened last night, and the horrible things people were saying about me, and I get French toast with a whole lot of maple syrup and bacon. I am happy, happy in a way I rarely am. I don’t care what people say about it being bad to eat feelings. Right now, eating these feelings is fucking great.