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)
I just wanted someone who wouldn’t be annoying and who could make a lot of money. You got one of your wishes, at least. But being rich and being powerful were different. And I’m about to have nearly unlimited power. It’s a prospect that should terrify me, but the closer I get to receiving it, the more I don’t just want it. I feel like I deserve it.
With Tara and Clare helping to hold the train of my gown, I sink into a low curtsey to Nathan. He inclines his head to me in deference, and I rise, allowing the hierophant to take my hand and lead me up the dais to my throne. At the moment, it’s set slightly further from Nathan’s than it usually will be. There has to be room for the acolytes and the hierophant to encircle me during the ceremony.
For now, the acolytes peel off to retrieve the ceremonial objects necessary, while it’s the hierophant’s job to issue the proclamation, opening the coronation proceedings.
He looks particularly regal today, the deep yellow of his robe flattering against his dark complexion. He faces the huge assembly and intones, “Wolves of the Toronto pack, I present to you, Bailey Marie Dixon-Frost, come this day to be made queen, leader, and servant to the pack. Will all here pay homage and dedicate their loyalty to her?”
It’s a ceremonial question. Nobody is going to say ‘no,’ I remember.
As expected, everyone answers, “She is granted our faith and our trust.”
Except, it sounds like some people are using the wrong words. I turn toward the discordant group, who sound like they were saying something just slightly different. There are nine men standing at the side of the throne room, near the towering stained-glass windows that bear scenes of Lycaon ruling over Lycosura. All of them are dressed in an odd way that takes me a moment to place; they’re wearing business attire, not appropriate for a coronation.
I glance over at Nathan, but he’s focused on the crowd directly in front of us. And security doesn’t seem concerned with the presence of the strangers.
What is going on?
I don’t have more time to wonder. The hierophant turns toward me and motions for an acolyte to come forward; the woman carries a censer that releases clouds of incense as she swings it. She walks around my throne seven long, mind-numbing, sinus-attacking times. By the time she’s done, a haze drifts over the entire throne room.
The hierophant stands before me again. “Will you solemnly swear and promise to lead and protect the werewolves of the Toronto and Greater London pack?”
What?!
A murmur ripples through the pack.
“I—” I look to Nathan, uncertain, and he nods almost imperceptibly. So, I say, “I solemnly promise.”
I hear a man’s voice speak, loud enough to cut through the general confusion, “This is an outrage.”
I wonder if Nathan is going to stand up and demand silence or try to bring some order to the proceedings, but he doesn’t acknowledge them at all, even when the hierophant casts a pointed look at him.
There’s nothing to do but continue, so the man says, “Will you exercise the virtues of integrity, loyalty, faithfulness, and mercy in all of your dealings with the Toronto and Greater London packs?”
Please, stop saying that. What is happening? Are they seriously making me the queen of both packs? I’ve never met anyone from Greater London. And Nathan isn’t king there, he—
He did just take a trip, without me, to London.
“I so promise,” I choke out.
“Will you exercise the virtues of integrity, loyalty, and faithfulness to King Nathaniel Frost, leader of the Toronto and Great London packs?”
No, because I’m going to murder him. “I do so promise.”
But my answer is nearly drowned out by the building anger and shock in the room. I know how this looks. Nathan must know how this looks to everyone assembled.
They think this is a takeover.
I turn pleading eyes toward Nathan as an acolyte approaches with my crown. Twenty minutes ago, the sight of it might have filled me with joy but now it might as well be a coiled viper instead of a tiara of silver and rubies. The Hierophant takes it and holds it above my head.
“With the blessing of Lycaon, first of our line, first of our kings, you rise Queen Bailey of Toronto and Greater London.”
The crown settles on my head, surprisingly heavy, and an acolyte comes to either side of the throne to take my hands to help me rise. Nathan stands, also, and I go to his side. The throne room is practically in chaos, but he just looks triumphant.
I just helped him steal the pack.
My father wasn’t a traitor. Ashton wasn’t a traitor. Nathan really is trying to take Toronto for Greater London.
My mind is spinning, so I barely register the shout of, “Now!” from the angry crowd. I turn toward the source of the sound only to be met by a spray of something hot and wet across my face and chest.