Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
“Of course,” I say, holding my arms out to accept the baby.
Both Dad and King Thatcher watch me with keen interest as I cuddle the baby to me. Warmth fills my chest. Curious, I pull the blanket away from the baby’s face. A blindfold covers his eyes.
“Is he blind?” I ask, confusion in my tone.
“No,” King Thatcher says slowly. “He’s yet to see the world. Not even his own parents.”
Frowning, I glance up at King Thatcher, who has a hopeful expression on his face. Someone clears their throat, earning my attention. A tall man with broad shoulders and a scowl enters the room. His hair is graying, and his stomach protrudes. The bottle in his hands makes my stomach flop.
He sounded attractive. And my age. But he’s neither, and that’s disappointing.
Is he King Thatcher’s older brother?
Nicolas hands me the bottle. “Sir.”
I force a smile because if he’s to be my mate, I should act friendly. Maybe the attraction will grow on me. Pulling my attention from him, I focus on the baby, who squirms, mouth open and beginning to wail for the bottle.
“It’s okay, little one,” I croon, bringing the bottle to the baby’s lips. It latches on, and a genuine smile tugs at my lips.
“You can pull off his blindfold,” King Thatcher says. “Let me know what you think.”
There’s a strange tension in the air that I don’t understand. I try to ignore the odd sound of his voice as I tug away the silk blindfold. Big brown eyes latch on to mine. My heart thuds hard in my chest.
“So cute,” I say with a light laugh.
Dad and King Thatcher watch my reaction with careful scrutiny. I try not to squirm under their stares. Is this a test? I shoot Nicolas a helpless look. His bored expression turns my stomach a little, so I take to staring back down at the little guy in my arms.
“Do you feel…a connection?” King Thatcher asks.
A connection? I flit my gaze back over to Nicolas. A shudder ripples through me, and I drag my stare back down to the baby.
“Sure,” I lie.
King Thatcher sighs, and Dad groans.
“Lore says if performed exactly like this, it would work,” King Thatcher says, frustration evident in his tone.
“Then it will work,” Dad assures him. “It will.”
“Let him stay here with us. They can develop the relationship over time. It may not be a fated mating, but they could bond and—”
“Stay here?” I blurt out, interrupting him. “I don’t want to stay here.”
Dad and King Thatcher share a look, having a silent conversation.
“If you stay here, the bond will form. We’ll ensure that it does. If he’s raised around you, by the time he’s of mating age—”
His words blur out as blood rushes to my ears.
Raised around me?
Mating age?
Horror washes over me as I realize the baby boy in my arms is to be my mate.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I nearly drop the child, bile rising in my throat, but at the last second, I pull him to my chest when I notice Nicolas move quickly. Silver glints as he pulls a knife from his belt. His hard glare isn’t on me but on the baby. He throws the knife toward us but as it passes King Thatcher, it transforms into water, dousing me and the baby both.
King Thatcher is on the move before the last droplet of water hits my face. He leaps over the sofa, shifting mid-jump into a massive gray wolf, and pounces on Nicolas. I hold the baby to my chest, protecting it from the violence in front of me that I’m helpless to stop since I haven’t had my first shift yet. King Thatcher clamps his teeth down on Nicolas’s throat and rips at it. Blood splatters across the room and then the body hits the floor with a thump.
I have to get out of here.
This is wrong. What they’re asking of me is sick.
Shakily, I rise to my feet and stalk over to the bed. It’s difficult to let go when everything in me begs to comfort the little one, but I deposit the soaked, now screaming baby on the bed beside the exhausted woman who slept through it all and rush out the door.
I’m going to throw up.
Fuck.
I have to leave. Not just the room. This place. My life. Father.
There’s no way in hell I am doing this perverted shit.
Cy! Cy! Cy!
I’m jerked from my memories with a painful jolt. Hurt and regret burn violently in my gut. That night, after I’d learned they wanted to match me to a fucking baby, I went off on my dad. Told him he was a sick bastard. That Mom would be horrified of his stupid power play.
He cried.
My dad, the Alpha and King of the Alberta Territory, cried and begged for my forgiveness.
I told him I hated him. That he’d never have my forgiveness as long as he lived. The next morning, I was informed my father took his own life. I couldn’t bear to see his dead body knowing my outburst was the reason for his death. Besides, I felt it in the aching emptiness of our weak bond. I was alone. Instead of looking for tangible proof when I had it echoing in my chest, I left with nothing but the clothes on my back and never returned home.