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)
Strange that Volkov didn’t point that out along with all of my other faults, but the man obviously has his blind spots.
“I am sorry,” I tell her. “I’ll never ask you another question again.”
She nods with a mouthful of red velvet cake, her fork poised over a dark chocolate gateau. When she can speak, she says very little.
“Thank you.”
“And I’ll send Volkov home. I don’t think he is doing either one of us any good.”
She smiles. Her eyes sparkle, and the smile gets a little wider. “Can we…”
“No, we’re not going to kill him, no matter how satisfying that might be. You and I are going to take a break from slaughtering people for being inconvenient or annoying. We’re going to live proper lives. We’re going to get married.”
“You still haven’t proposed,” she says.
“I haven’t? It didn’t count in front of the gendarmes?”
“No,” she giggles.
It is good to see her feeling better, to know that I can make her feel better after having spent so long making her low-key miserable.
“I suppose I’ll have to get onto that,” I say.
“Yes,” she grins at me. “I suppose you better.”
The next day, I handle business as I promised.
“We’re not going to do therapy anymore, Mr. Volkov. I will pay out the rest of your contract.”
“I see, and what precipitated this?”
“She’s started to have dreams about the past. Nightmares, really, and I don’t want to contribute to them. Her past isn’t mine to delve into.”
“I didn’t come here to delve into her past. I came here to help the two of you…”
“We don’t need help. I’m going to propose and we are going to get married.”
“So you’re going to cover up all the unresolved trauma with a wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like a flawless plan.”
Sarcastic asshole.
“Listen, we can’t all spend all our time unearthing the horrors of our past for the amusement of some tattooed sadist who never has anything useful to say anyway.”
“Ouch,” he says flatly.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude, I just don’t think this is helping us. If anything, it’s making it much worse.”
“Ah. So talking is making things worse, but commissioning reports that dig into your mate’s history that she discovers in your office, killing gendarmes, summarily executing your own pack members without warning, they’re all very helpful?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said we don’t need therapy.”
“Understood.”
I hate how smug he is. No matter what I say, he has the upper hand because he has the position of power. He has become our priest, the authority we go to for absolution, presenting our thoughts and feelings for his inspection. It’s humiliating and I will not miss doing it.
“I don’t want you talking to Beatrix again either.”
“Even if she tries to talk to me?”
“What do you mean? She would never.”
“She asked to speak this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
“I told her I was going to send you away. She seemed happy about that.”
“It’s almost as if she is a very confused young woman who does not know what she wants and needs,” he deadpans.
Jealousy shoots through me.
So Beatrix is going to talk to him about her past, and I will know nothing. I should be pleased she is addressing her problems. I tell myself that I am happy. I’m not at all offended that he is her confidante and I am not. That’s fine. That’s totally fine and very healthy.
This is good.
This is what should be happening.
We have a whole crate of stuffed wolves that we give out at the festival in the village once a year. It’s a midsummer full moon celebration, and it’s fun for the pack and for the people. I don’t know that this year’s will go ahead after the incident in the town square.
The air is full of fluff and I am full of rage as I try to work these feelings out without having to talk to anybody.
Daniel interrupts me, smirking at the chaos I’m causing on the rooftop. I didn’t intend for anybody to see this, but of course there’s no privacy in a pack.
“What are you doing, Maître?”
“Nothing.”
“It looks like you’re using a ceremonial sword to cut the heads off stuffed toys.”
“Does it?”
He picks up one of them and holds it out, headless.
“What did Mr. Fluffy do?”
“Nothing.”
He puts it down and looks at me with a kind of amused expression, which is pretty bold given the last thing I did with this sword.
“You know, having a mate can be stressful, as well as being the greatest joy.”
“Can it? Fascinating.”
“Don’t be snappy.” He nudges me. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Should never have got a therapist. Now she has someone else to talk to instead of me. And she doesn’t talk to me to begin with.”
“She’ll talk to you when she knows what to say.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Give her time.”