Meeting The In-laws
1537 Words
"You have such beautiful legs," Nicholas' voice pierced through the silence, carrying a lilting quality that made him sound drunk.
What on, Sophie could not tell.
"Long and smooth," he continued, bestial blues bleeding gold at the edge of his irises and edging closer to his pupils. "Good for running. Chasing. Hunting."
'Hunting' set off alarm bells in her head. That word was like a trigger—one minute there is calm, and the next, you're on the news for taunting your shifter classmate with the word and getting a bloody response, or roleplaying in the bedroom with your partner and ending up in the hospital with bite marks that scar worse than the bonding mark they put on your neck.
It never ended well for the non-shifter party, and being in a plane with only three other people to stop him if he did try to hunt—all of whom she knew were human—made her feel very much like the doe Nicholas was seeing her as.
"I'll change in the restroom," she decided, gathering up the bits of her costume and fleeing for the one place that wouldn’t stop him if he was determined but came with a lock.
***
Sophie stood in awe at the top of the stairs as she watched snow trickle down from the clouds, the soft glow of the setting sun casting a dream-like feel on the scene.
The snow melted as it touched her cheeks, little dots of icy caress that felt like cold, tiny kisses pressed against her skin.
"Fairy kisses," she muttered to herself with a small giggle, earning an odd look from Nicholas, who stood, unimpressed by the beauty of his pack, beside her.
On the tarmac waited a little over a dozen people holding mics or cameras, some bundled up in thick winter clothing while others wore as little as pants and shirts.
The flash of cameras exploded as their group of five made their way down the stairs.
It was hard not to look at them when they hit the tarmac, but Nicholas’ guiding hand on her shoulder kept her focused as they moved towards the waiting cars.
Their group split, Sophie and Nicholas getting into one car. By the time the crowd realized who they were, the doors were closed, and they were cruising away from the scene.
***
The waning moon was high in the sky when the car pulled into the large garage.
The driver found an empty spot among the rows of cars, and Nicholas stepped out before the engine shut off.
Sophie followed, stepping out into the glow of the white lights hanging from the high ceiling.
A man stepped through the small door in the corner, his hair white with age and a pair of glasses perched on his nose, letting her know he was human.
He was dressed in a suit and approached them with an unsteady gait, favoring his right leg.
"Welcome home, Master Nicholas. Miss," he greeted them both, but his eyes lingered on Sophie.
"Hello," she greeted with a wave that stuttered to a slow stop as she wondered if she should have offered her hand instead.
"They know I'm here, then?" Nicholas asked, the tired sigh that followed piquing Sophie's interest.
"And a place has been set for you and your companion at the table," the older man confessed with remorse.
"Right, then," Nicholas turned to Sophie. "Don't speak unless spoken to, and expect no kindness from anyone you meet."
"Well, if I wasn’t scared before, I sure as hell am now. Who exactly are we meeting?"
Another tired sigh. "My family."
Flavors exploded in Sophie's mouth as she bit into her meat—a perfectly seared venison loin smothered in a rich, caramelized mahogany glaze with hints of thyme and black pepper clinging to the crust.
It was tender, ruby-hued in the center, artfully arranged on a bed of buttery parsnip purée with a side of heirloom carrots roasted until their natural sugars deepened into a honeyed glaze.
It was one of the most delicious things Sophie’s taste buds had the pleasure of encountering, and she made a small appreciative noise as she swallowed.
"The venison is delightful, Mrs. Blumenthal. My compliments to the chef." Sophie's cheerful voice rang in the luxurious dining room of the Blumenthal family home, the sound made louder by the graveyard silence in the room.
Mrs. Gladys Blumenthal was a beautiful, stern-faced woman with hard gray eyes and dark brown hair.
She stared at Sophie for a few silent seconds, mid-slice into her meat, judging her with animosity in her eyes and a slight curl of her lips that had been present since the pair had walked into the room.
"Your compliments have been received," she responded in her voice, strong yet flowing like an opera singer’s, then placed her cut piece into her mouth.
A normal woman would have sensed the dismissal and the insult lurking beneath the curt response. Sophie was not normal.
"Oh! I assumed it was prepared by a professional. You made this?"
Gladys stared at Sophie as she chewed, in no hurry to swallow or respond.
When the lack of response stretched into impoliteness, the man at the head of the table—the patriarch of the Blumenthals and the Alpha of Hill End—spoke up.
"Gladys was a chef before our bonding, hailing from Josephine's Culinary School in Nennik."
Dathan Blumenthal was not as mean in the face as his wife. Hard to be, with warm blue eyes and the upturned corners of his lips that made him look perpetually smiling—a feature that Sophie could see Nicholas inherited but was not as obvious with his constant hardness.
But Dathan was just as unwelcoming of Sophie, and he made it clear when he had welcomed Nicholas with a handshake when they met but refused to extend a greeting to Sophie.
His stepping in for his wife gave Sophie a little hope that maybe they could be friends.
"How about you, Miss Anguissola? Are there any achievements you can brag about besides manipulating my son into a relationship with you?"
Or maybe not.
Sophie's smile shrank. She turned to Nicholas, who had been suspiciously quiet and meek since they sat down for dinner, and was met with him downing his fourth glass of wine.
"Perhaps a pregnancy," Gladys suggested. "That is the only reason that could explain the idiocy of marrying an unknown human," Gladys spat the word like it was poison, "from some cheery little village only known for pretty postcards."
"I am an artist," Sophie cut off, fine with an insult to herself but not to her species or Pack.
She would never feel shame for being human, and while Glengrove wasn’t a powerhouse, it was beautiful and a sanctuary for humans and shifters who had love for humans in an ugly world of hate and discrimination.
"How wonderful," chimed in the last of the Blumenthals and the first of the two sons, Nicholas’ older brother Louis. "Mother is a lover of the arts. Perhaps she has run into one of your works in some exhibition?"
His voice was cheery, but his face—so much like his mother’s—was twisted with informed cruelty. After all, she wouldn’t be an unknown female in the papers if she were known.
"Not yet, but I am working toward—"
"That explains it!" Louis exclaimed with a cheerful laugh, glancing at Nicholas, whose eyes remained firmly on his untouched plate. "A struggling artist, looking for a sucker to get her crap out."
"Excuse me?" Sophie challenged.
"Not yet, dear. We just started having fun," Gladys teased, joining in her son’s mischief.
Sophie turned to Nicholas, hoping he would come to her defense or at the very least say something instead of sitting there, slowly drinking himself dizzy.
He met her look with exhausted blue eyes, hazy from his indulgence.
She lifted a brow, and he let out a heavy sigh and nodded.
"It was a long trip," he announced as he rose to his feet, the scrape of his chair against the floor echoing in the room.
"We are tired," he said, pulling her to her feet—but him being tipsy, it was more of a yank that nearly sent Sophie sprawling out on the floor.
"Goodnight."
"Don’t be rude, Nicholas," Dathan reprimanded his son with a glare. "Your mother went through the trouble of preparing dinner. The least you could do is—"
Nicholas’ hand tightened painfully around Sophie’s arm as he began walking out of the room, his eyes staring stubbornly ahead.
"NICHOLAS!" Dathan thundered, and Sophie flinched as he slammed his mighty fists down on the table, causing the dishes to rattle.
But the door was already closing behind the couple, drowning out any further yells from the man at the head of the table.
Nicholas finally let go of Sophie’s arm when they were in the safety of the hallway. She rubbed at it, wincing when she felt the bruised flesh through the soft fabric of her uniform.
"What was that in there?"
The blond man sighed, tiredly. "My family."
- Writer
