Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
“It’s been great getting together,” I say, summoning up my best impression of our mother’s passive-aggression. “But I have to go.”
I push my chair back and stand, and a crackle of energy pulls my attention to the restaurant’s doors.
I feel him before I see him. It’s unnerving. But I look toward the door knowing that Nathan Frost will be there. And when our eyes meet as he enters, it’s clear that he feels my presence, too.
Five years ago, I would ask my sisters if that magnetism were real or if I’m just imagining it. But I can’t do that now. I can’t trust that they won’t tell their mates on me.
The maître d’ is leading Nathan in our direction. At least, the maître d’ is trying to lead; Nathan is actually a step ahead. It’s too late to avoid him. Our paths will cross.
I don’t want to see my sisters’ reactions, so it doesn’t matter that I can’t tear my gaze away from Nathan’s. He doesn’t try, and I know I’m not imagining this anymore. I can’t walk away from the table because if I walk toward him, I don’t know what I’ll do. I might try to make conversation. Or throw myself at him. I’m not sure which would be more awkward.
My face grows warmer the nearer he gets. I swear I can feel my pulse in my eyeballs. But I can’t look away. He gives me a nod and a tilted smile that one could uncharitably interpret as cocky, which is exactly what I decide to do. If I build him up to be an arrogant, vain usurper king in my mind, maybe I won’t keep thinking about him.
For as much as I dismiss the incident at the ball as “just one dance” to everyone else, it occupies a stunning beachfront property in my head.
He doesn’t say a word to me. He doesn’t so much as hesitate as he passes, and I can’t help but watch him until he disappears into a private room at the back.
“What’s he doing here?” Tara asks, an edge of suspicion in her voice.
She can’t possibly think that it’s some kind of set up, or that he knew I would be here. That would be absurd. Who would have told him? And why would he show up?
She thinks you told him, dummy.
Well, fuck that.
“Maybe he’s meeting someone he doesn’t want to be seen with,” I say breezily, and head to the coat check.
I spend the ride home alternating between worry about what my sisters think of me and fear that I really hurt their feelings. Sure, Tara and Clare changed, but they’re still my sisters. I need them in my corner because it’s not like people are lining up to defend me.
We pull up to the gate and I hit the intercom. “Thank you. You can drop me off here.”
I can definitely use some fresh air right now. I don’t wait for the driver to hop out and open my door. Thralls are human and it seems cruel to make him leave the warmth of the car when he doesn’t have my biological resistance to the cold.
Even though I haven’t transformed yet, I’m still a werewolf. I still have some of the perks.
I open the lesser-used pedestrian gate beside the giant, wrought iron monstrosity that covers the wide driveway, ducking under a canopy of ivy to enter the grounds. A crisp, unspoiled carpet of snow stretches across the lawn, and I balance against the brick fence to remove my shoes. Five years pretending to be human stifled my connection to nature, to the freedom of the fresh, cold air and the changing seasons. Humans view weather in general as a nuisance to be endured. Werewolves revel in it, despite how uptight we are about everything else.
With a whoop of joy, I rush across the lawn, crushing the ice-crusted snow beneath my feet. Every giddy, goofy leap I make, every twirl erases the tension of the day. There’s just no room for anger or dread or fear when my lungs are full of crisp, freezing oxygen and my feet are wet and chilled. I almost throw myself to the ground to make a snow angel, but then I spot the unfamiliar sports car parked in front of the house.
My stomach drops. It’s not that unfamiliar. It’s newer than the model he drove five years ago, but it’s the same. It’s a Porsche 911.
Ashton’s favorite car.
CHAPTER 7
Mother is waiting for me the moment I step through the door. “Ashton is here,” she hisses, reaching to fuss with my hair. I dodge her and she clucks in frustration. “What were you thinking, running around the lawn like a stray dog?”
“I was thinking how nice it is to be home.” I blink innocently at her.
Her eyes narrow. “Is this all a game to you?” Before I can answer, she goes on. “After the stunt you pulled, leaving the pack and now whatever that display was at the ball, it’s a miracle that anyone will still associate with us.”