direction this conversation takes us as Sage’s image wavers in the background, “you have no competition here.”
Piers’s grin widens. “I trust you’ll keep me posted if that changes?”
His question makes me sad as Sage’s scent passes through my memory. But barring a miracle, I have no doubt Piers will be my choice.
“Agreed.” I kiss him one more time, lingering. His lean body engulfs me, his strength wiry and tight, unlike Sage’s—no. I will no longer compare the two. I release my love’s image to the wolf and accept this fate, love or not.
Piers leaves at last, disappearing into darkness he creates, backing into the tunnel of black until it devours him, leaving only the new sunrise behind. I blink into it, catch sight of the white wolf watching me from the edge of the woods.
She feels sorrowful, even from this distance. I move toward her, wondering what she is looking for. But she turns and lopes into the trees long before I can reach her and is gone by the time I step into the chill dark of the forest.
Why do I have the feeling she disapproves and why does that disapproval make me sad all over again?
***
Chapter Twelve
I run, this time in human form, too irritated to enjoy the game or to embrace my wolf. I may not be as fast in this shape, but there is a certain satisfaction to the pounding of my feet, and the air rushing from my mortal lungs.
It’s easier to tire myself out, to wear down the edges of my frustration and pique without the boost of supernatural energy I gain from my werewolf body. And I’ve had more than enough werewolves in my life in the last week for me to ever desire to take my other shape ever again.
He had to put the call out for mates, didn’t he? I underestimated my grandfather’s intentions. I believed he would only do so locally, that our own pack would be the extent of his reach. When I discovered the truth, it was far too late to stop him from his plan—to call out to every single eligible weremale in the world to come and woo his granddaughter for her hand and the position of prince consort.
The old fool. I bite down hard, clenching my jaw against the need to scream curse words into the quite forest air. I’m far too much returned to Charlotte Girard, too well trained to allow my true feelings out, especially now. I have no choice but to hold myself to the highest level of my embedded discipline while packs from places I’ve never even heard of continue to trickle in, their panting, hungry offerings one sickeningly self-centered ass after another.
Disgusting, the lot of them, with their common arrogance and need to prove they are better than me. I’ve humiliated publicly more than one of them in my grandfather’s throne room, but they do not learn and they just keep coming.
When I confronted Oleksander about his decision, he seemed hurt by my anger.
“Sharlotta,” he said. “We must find for you the very best mate possible.”
While there are a few specimens that might perhaps be trainable into decent runners-up, I find myself thinking of Piers and wishing I could simply announce he is to be my mate. I’ve waffled over the past seven days, between running away after all, and simply ending this entire masquerade by upsetting the werenation, choosing the sorcerer over all of them.
How simple my life has been until now. I had no idea, so innocent and naïve. Syd would laugh at me, I’m sure of it, tease me for my worldly face hiding a nervous and now upset girl behind the mask of my duty.
I hear them behind me, following me on my run. A few of the weremales have taken to joining me every day. But this terrain is mine, and I know it far better than they do. They maintain their own human shapes, bumbling through the foreign forest, noisy where their wereshapes are silent.
Irritation turns to bitterness as I toss aside my shirt and strip my pants from my body, shifting in an eye-blink. It costs me pain, but I embrace the feeling. I’ve
Piers’s grin widens. “I trust you’ll keep me posted if that changes?”
His question makes me sad as Sage’s scent passes through my memory. But barring a miracle, I have no doubt Piers will be my choice.
“Agreed.” I kiss him one more time, lingering. His lean body engulfs me, his strength wiry and tight, unlike Sage’s—no. I will no longer compare the two. I release my love’s image to the wolf and accept this fate, love or not.
Piers leaves at last, disappearing into darkness he creates, backing into the tunnel of black until it devours him, leaving only the new sunrise behind. I blink into it, catch sight of the white wolf watching me from the edge of the woods.
She feels sorrowful, even from this distance. I move toward her, wondering what she is looking for. But she turns and lopes into the trees long before I can reach her and is gone by the time I step into the chill dark of the forest.
Why do I have the feeling she disapproves and why does that disapproval make me sad all over again?
***
Chapter Twelve
I run, this time in human form, too irritated to enjoy the game or to embrace my wolf. I may not be as fast in this shape, but there is a certain satisfaction to the pounding of my feet, and the air rushing from my mortal lungs.
It’s easier to tire myself out, to wear down the edges of my frustration and pique without the boost of supernatural energy I gain from my werewolf body. And I’ve had more than enough werewolves in my life in the last week for me to ever desire to take my other shape ever again.
He had to put the call out for mates, didn’t he? I underestimated my grandfather’s intentions. I believed he would only do so locally, that our own pack would be the extent of his reach. When I discovered the truth, it was far too late to stop him from his plan—to call out to every single eligible weremale in the world to come and woo his granddaughter for her hand and the position of prince consort.
The old fool. I bite down hard, clenching my jaw against the need to scream curse words into the quite forest air. I’m far too much returned to Charlotte Girard, too well trained to allow my true feelings out, especially now. I have no choice but to hold myself to the highest level of my embedded discipline while packs from places I’ve never even heard of continue to trickle in, their panting, hungry offerings one sickeningly self-centered ass after another.
Disgusting, the lot of them, with their common arrogance and need to prove they are better than me. I’ve humiliated publicly more than one of them in my grandfather’s throne room, but they do not learn and they just keep coming.
When I confronted Oleksander about his decision, he seemed hurt by my anger.
“Sharlotta,” he said. “We must find for you the very best mate possible.”
While there are a few specimens that might perhaps be trainable into decent runners-up, I find myself thinking of Piers and wishing I could simply announce he is to be my mate. I’ve waffled over the past seven days, between running away after all, and simply ending this entire masquerade by upsetting the werenation, choosing the sorcerer over all of them.
How simple my life has been until now. I had no idea, so innocent and naïve. Syd would laugh at me, I’m sure of it, tease me for my worldly face hiding a nervous and now upset girl behind the mask of my duty.
I hear them behind me, following me on my run. A few of the weremales have taken to joining me every day. But this terrain is mine, and I know it far better than they do. They maintain their own human shapes, bumbling through the foreign forest, noisy where their wereshapes are silent.
Irritation turns to bitterness as I toss aside my shirt and strip my pants from my body, shifting in an eye-blink. It costs me pain, but I embrace the feeling. I’ve
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