Kidnapped by the Alpha king

CHAPTER FOUR

The full moon is a holy time for werewolves. Much in the way humans might dress nicely and congregate at a house of worship, a werewolf pack gathers for their ceremonies together.

For the Toronto pack, the place we gather is about an hour and a half northwest of Toronto. Long before Canada was New France, back in the days when our ancestors fled northern Europe in longboats, a pack inhabited a small village in the area, On what is now two hundred acres of unspoiled land we can safely roam as the creatures we become every full moon.

The transformation ceremony takes place in the ancient circle of standing stones built over five centuries before Columbus could erroneously claim the first European steps onto the North American continent.

The three stones bear tributes to the gods of our pack: Fenrir, the wolf who will devour Odin at Ragnarök, Lycaon, the cruel king punished by Zeus, and Lupa, the she-wolf mother of Romulus and Remus. Once, the circle stood in a forest clearing.

Now, it’s protected in a tall, crescent-shaped building with a copper roof that retracts to allow the moonlight in and the smoke from the ceremonial fires to escape, and a retractable wall that opens to the night air.

I look down on the space, with its lit torches and pebbled paths, from the open upper level. The last time I was here, I stood trembling before Lycaon’s monolith and rejected his curse, the price we pay for the power of Fenrir and the blessing of Lupa.

Wrapped in my ceremonial robe, I called out the words that shamed my family and upset the community.

Now, I’m here to watch the ceremony for the second time in my life. Tonight, no young person is transforming for the first time.

I wonder if that’s on purpose. Maybe people are afraid that just seeing me here will inspire their children to make bad choices.

No one is thinking that. The only person thinking about you this much is you.

But that isn’t entirely true. Mother and Father stay close, no matter where I go. Right now, they’re engaged in conversation with another couple, but I know that if I go to the bathroom so much, Mother will follow me.

And when we arrived, Tara and Clare said hello but quickly distanced themselves.

I wish Ryan and Hannah were here. With a sick kid at home, they’re bowing out of the transformation of this full moon. Despite human beliefs and mythology, we can and do control whether or not we change forms.

It’s why I can be here and not be compelled to transform against my will, though after putting it off for five years, my skin is a bit uncomfortable, stifling, even, in the light of the full moon.

I turn away from the railing and take a deep breath, only to startle at the sudden appearance of a thrall bearing a tray of champagne flutes. With a grateful nod, I take a glass, and the human moves on.

In an unsavory part of our ancient past, thralls were criminals or prisoners of war enslaved by their captors. But they learned magic from our holy people, then became our holy people.

Somewhere in the late Middle Ages, thralls learned a way to prevent us from changing at the full moon and offered us the secret in exchange for the untapped magic we emanate—and the protection of our teeth, claws, and fortunes.

Now, they work their magic and keep our secrets for the promise of riches beyond any they could have hoped for in the human world. Born from families who kept the secrets of the pack since a time long forgotten, these descendants work tirelessly and live in luxury in homes built over the foundations of early longhouses.

The concept had such a chokehold over anyone involved in the pack. Serve the pack and you’ll be secure. Serve your mate and you’ll be secure. They want us to believe we can’t survive without each other.

I still haven’t decided if that’s true.

Ashton is here, somewhere. I’ve managed to duck him so far, and I’m hoping that will continue until the ceremony starts, but I am wearing the ring he gave me.

Mother practically hyperventilated. We have an appointment with an appraiser on Monday. Is surviving on my own worse than living like this?

The hairs on my arms stand up.

The king is here.

There’s no use pretending that I don’t feel his presence. I know he feels mine; even as the crowd parts and he greets people with handshakes and warm smiles, I sense the pull between us, his desire to seek me out, specifically.

When he gives into it, he doesn’t bother to disguise the way he examines every part of me from the floor up, his gaze lingering over my hips and thighs.

My brain lights up with images of his fingers sinking into my flesh and my knees threaten to buckle. My black wrap dress isn’t overly modest, but it’s not revealing, and I still feel like I’m exposed in front of him.

His eyes rove over the tops of my breasts, up to meet my unwavering eye contact.

It’s not strength that keeps me from looking away.

It’s fear. Not of him, but of my attraction to him. He inclines his head, nostrils flaring subtly before he smirks and turns away.

Oh no. He can smell how attracted I am to him. My pheromones must be like pollen right now.

And he looked so pleased with himself. That made it so much worse.

I’m torn between disappointment and relief that once again, he hasn’t spoken to me. How could he?

We’re in full view of the pack. Or maybe you’re stressed out and desperate about this mating pact situation and you’re seeing something you want to see, not something that exists.

I head to the bathroom, certain my face and neck are flushed. At least, my makeup hides the face part, but I sacrifice some of it to dab my forehead and cheeks with a cool paper towel. It’s more effective and less bonkers than throwing myself into a snowbank outside.