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)
He’s wearing suit pants and a tight white shirt. I make a mental note to offer him the services of the chateau’s in-house tailor. Having a member of staff going about looking like he is about to burst out of his clothing is a poor showing.
I sit back behind my desk, well aware that I am in the process of being blindsided. Fortunately for me, I am quite used to being surprised by bad things, thanks to Trixie’s murder spree. I keep calm, because I truly do feel calm. Whatever this is, I feel equal to it. It could be delusion, could be confidence, could be the fact that I no longer care. Hard to say.
“I am not a therapist,” Mr. Volkov says.
I feel the internal clicking of things settling into place. Of course he isn’t. Of course the only man I could find capable of therapizing a pack is actually not a therapist at all. Werewolf therapist isn’t really a thing. But pretending to be a werewolf therapist? Well, that’s the perfect cover for someone who needs to add an inch to his neck size.
I have fucked up. I know that immediately, but I refuse to make a big deal of it. He is waiting for me to respond in shock, or surprise, or to curse him. I do not give him the satisfaction of any of those responses.
“Makes sense. You are terrible at it.”
I don’t ask him who he really is. I just wait while that burn sinks in, knowing that these events are all linked. Beatrix never trusted him. I was so concerned with helping her, changing her, that I never stopped to wonder if he needed to be trusted.
“I am Maxim Volkov, alpha of the Lesnik Siberian pack,” he declares. “My lineage is ancient.”
I stare at him blandly. “Do you want me to gasp, Mr. Volkov? Shall I faint? Or do you realize that quite literally everybody in this room has an ancient lineage and two thirds of us are alphas.”
“It’s like walking into a cake shop and calling yourself a fudge slice. Nobody cares,” Daniel adds helpfully.
Volkov makes an annoyed face at me and carries on with his grand reveal, which I am sure is already beginning to feel very anticlimactic. Sometimes, one of the greatest weapons of war is making your opponent feel like, as the British say, a complete wanker.
“Beatrix is one of ours,” he presses on bravely. “You’ll never contain her. But we respect the mate bond, so we’ve given you the chance to breed her. You can be assured she will be happier in more remote climes, with more opportunity to express her true nature. And your whelps will be well taken care of.”
He says all of that as if all I need are the bullet points of the situation. He’s a Siberian alpha. He intends to take my mate. I get the satisfaction of having knocked her up, and that’s the end of it, apparently.
“You mean dumped in an orphanage when you inevitably all get yourselves killed? I think not. I know you think we are weak, obsessed with pleasure, and given to frivolity. But I can assure you, Mr. Volkov, that we will tear you to pieces if you so much as try to touch my mate.”
“With what, Maître? Your pack is full of sad ladies, old men, painters, artists, librarians, cooks, financiers, almost nobody with any fighting experience. The most dangerous wolf in your pack is your mate, and you cannot control her. I have called in my pack—wolves all with Beatrix’s nature. Can you begin to imagine?”
“I can. I think it would be a bloody and inefficient invasion, and I suspect half of your force would be distracted by killing the wrong people. I think they have already started to do that in the village.”
“My pack is better trained than your wild mate,” he says. “We have actual discipline, not a little slap and tickle when it takes our fancy.”
“My dad could beat your dad,” I respond, as the conversation devolves into a sort of childish set of threats. He cannot intimidate me, because I am single minded when it comes to Beatrix. I will do anything, be anything to keep her.
Volkov narrows his eyes further, until it seems I am being peered at by two pieces of cut glass.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Armand, but I will if I have to.”
“That’s funny, because I do want to hurt you, and I definitely will.”
I have to give him credit of some kind for announcing this before we went to town and started rounding up his pack. It was actually somewhat sporting of him, and it is why we are not fighting right now.
“Did you expect us to roll over?”
“You can’t keep her in the basement forever. You know that. You can’t give her what she needs—a steady stream of prey, and praise for doing what comes naturally to her. We are all animals, Armand. But you are trying to stop what she is. You won’t do it. She was born in blood, and she will die in blood. Any peace you manage to wrest from her will be temporary and end in tragedy. This is the destiny written in her DNA.”