Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Everybody is very polite to me. I needn’t have worried about the pack behaving in a snobbish manner. I am the alpha’s mate and they treat me accordingly. It’s not because of me, I’m sure. Though this dress probably makes them think I am far fancier than I am. No, their admiration for me comes from their respect and admiration for him. They respect Armand. They look to him for their social cues, and my having his favor means I have all their favor.
Unfortunately, the same is not true between them all. I sit back and let the meal proceed and pay attention to the little mutterings and comments taking place in the room that are not addressed to me. I don’t want to get to know these people by talking to them. I want to get to know them by how they talk to each other.
Most of the conversation is mundane and friendly. I notice that most of the pack appear to be partnered off and sitting in boy girl boy girl pairs. Conversation still happens largely along gender lines, women talking to women, men talking to men, though there is a reasonable amount of crossover now and then.
I’m looking for something wrong, because that is how my brain has been trained to interact with the world. Pleasantries and interesting conversation don’t register for me. I am scanning this room like the animal I am.
“Would you like some more salad? It’s delicious,” the woman to my right says. We were introduced. Her name is Lydia and she has three children. She’s very nice. I ignore her.
I don’t want to make small talk about salad. I want to understand how this pack really functions. It’s like the orphanage. There will be people vying for power. Armand might be the alpha, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he is in charge. I’m sure if I were to say that out loud, everyone would be shocked, but it is true.
At the orphanage, the director thought he was in charge, but the matrons were really running things. They let him think he was making decisions, but he never did anything they didn’t approve of first. I wonder if there is an equivalent of those matrons here.
“Stop it, you’re such a stupid thing.”
I hear a man growling at a cringing woman. His tone is somewhat hushed, designed to stay under the general hum of conversation. It seems to go without notice by those sitting closer, though to me those barbed words stand out as if they’d been screamed across the room.
“I’m sorry, it was just a little spill,” his mate apologizes. She is a faint-looking blonde woman whose brow is furrowed and creased with worry. Her mate is several times her size and quite a lot older than she is, with a thick beard bordering on unkempt. He shows her no conversational grace.
“And me with a soup stain when I approach the alpha later,” he growls. He might think he is doing it under his breath, but I can hear absolutely every word. “You like to sabotage me, don’t you.”
“It was an accident, Gerald. I promise.”
“Always accidents with you, you careless bitch.”
I see red.
Armand
Dinner is going very well. I am therefore rather surprised when my mate stands up, picks up a bread roll, and whips it at Lord Duplante with the accuracy of a sniper. It bounces off his head with an airy motion, tumbles off the table and rolls away into a corner, where it plays no further role in the scandal.
My mate is on her feet, hands clenched at her sides. She is staring at the man with a ferocity that makes me suspect she is very, very close to taking her wolf form entirely involuntarily.
“Don’t you talk to her like that again, you old brute. I’ll have your balls in my broth if you so much as think about it.”
The threat is delivered with teeth-flashing vigor, and I do not think a single person here wonders if she really means it. I’m not sure what prompted such a medieval outburst, but Beatrix is shaking with rage, the tremor in her hands proof that she is restraining herself. Some might think she is scared, but I know better. I can feel the energy pulsing from her, something far closer to fury than fear.
Duplante is fifty years old, and a banker in Marseille. He is self-important and regards himself as one of the pack elders though he has no place in my council and never will. I do not care for his lack of moral fortitude, and I do not trust him.
I, however, have managed to restrain myself from throwing anything at him. Seeing her do it, I wonder how.
He stares at her, malevolent. He has been humiliated, and he has no recourse to respond. I can see from the glint in his gaze that he’d like to hurt her. Beside him, his mate is cowering as if she knows what is coming next.