“Tomorrow at exactly six in the evening, in the second floor’s lounge room, some of our betas will conduct the screening. And by seven, you’ll meet the ladies one by one.”
Don Russell Acosta’s words peal in my ears like bells. How can a father do something like this to his son? Is being their pack’s next main alpha more important than his son’s own happiness? His threat earlier, the blood spilling, what does it mean? The hairs on my arms and on the nape of my neck erect as cold dry sweat smears my skin.
“Let me remind you one last time,” Don Acosta adds, “Do your obligation. Don’t disappoint me again.”
Though his utterance has a tinge of cruelty, that’s the most composed I’ve heard of him thus far. Following his recent statement is a long deafening silence. I’d like to glance at them,
