The way of things
1268 Words
*Freya*
For one blessed second, I think I am hallucinating. There is simply no way this hazel-eyed devil can be standing in my bedroom. And I did bump my head rather soundly this afternoon. I have heard that such accidents do strange things to one’s mind. Then the Alpha of Avalon bestows upon me a devilish smile and sits himself in my easy chair.
That is when I know he must be real. No hallucination of mine would behave so abominably. My breath catches in my throat, and I suddenly feel very sick to my stomach. Dear Goddess, my relatives have spent the last month teaching me the ins and outs of London high pack society, but no one has told me what to do if I discover a gentleman... no, a rogue... in my bedroom. I know I should say something, scream even, but not a sound passes through my lips.
And then I suddenly realize that I am still stretched across my bed in a very compromising position. Glancing up, I quickly realize that the Alpha has also noticed. His hot gaze seems to burn into my skin, and I feel myself pinken with embarrassment. I hastily pull myself upright, clutching a pillow to my chest, eager to shield myself from Zac’s eyes.
“Pity,” he remarks sardonically.
My eyes fly to his. I still don’t speak, not quite trusting my own voice.
He answers the question he sees in my eyes. “Not many she-wolves have breasts as lovely as yours. It is a pity to cover them up.”
That only makes me clutch the pillow even tighter. Zac chuckles at my modesty. “Besides,” he continues, “you’re not hiding anything from me that you haven’t just shown to all of London.”
Except they weren’t sitting in my bedroom, I think angrily.
“Really, Meg, or should I say Freya? You can’t convince me you’re mute. I saw a fair piece of your temper earlier this afternoon. Surely you must have something to say?”
I say the first thing that comes into my mind. “I think I’m going to vomit.”
That comment takes Zac completely off guard, and he half rises out of his chair. I fear I might actually laugh at the look of utter panic I see on his face. “Good Goddess,” he exclaims, scanning the room for some kind of receptacle. Not finding one, he looks back to me on the bed. “Do you mean it?”
“No. Although your presence does unsettle my stomach.” I mumble.
*Zac*
I am once again taken aback. Clearly, this American chit has succeeded in completely flustering me... no mean feat. I ought to throttle her for her impudence, but she looks so damned innocent and appealing sitting on the bed with the pillow clutched to her chest that I can only laugh. "She-wolves have told me that I make them feel a number of things," I drawl. "But nausea was never one of them."
Freya ignores my comment. "What on earth are you doing here?" she finally asks.
"Isn't it obvious?" I know my eyes twinkle as I lean forward. "I came to find you."
"Me?" Freya squeaks, clearly hoping there had been some mistake. "You don't even know me."
"You're right," I muse. "But I did meet a kitchen wench this afternoon who looked remarkably like you. Red hair, violet eyes. Do you by chance have an identical twin?" I smile dangerously. "She was nothing like you in temperament, however. A lusty wench, she was. Could barely keep her hands off me... and kissed me in the most unspeakable places."
"I did not!" Freya roars. "How dare you even suggest it!"
I merely raise a single eyebrow at her outburst. "So you admit that you were in my coach this afternoon?"
"You know I was. There is no use denying it." She huffs.
"Indeed," I agree, leaning comfortably back into the chair.
She glares at me, "Make yourself right at home."
I pay no attention to her sarcasm. "Thank you. You're very kind. And now," I softly command, "I would like a full explanation of how you came to be wearing servant's clothes and traipsing around London unescorted."
"What?!" Freya shrieks, outraged.
"I'm waiting for your explanation," my voice is deadly patient.
"Well, you're not going to get one, you high-handed louse," she says bitterly.
I grin, "You're very lovely when you're angry, Freya."
"Must you always say such outrageous things?" She asks.
I place my hands behind my head and lean back, as if I am pondering her angry question. "Actually, I have always prided myself on being slightly outrageous."
"I will just bet you have," she mutters.
"What was that?" I ask.
Freya seems to decide to try another tactic. "I think you're acting more than slightly outrageous. I may be from the United States, but even I know this is not at all the thing," she sighs as she assesses her predicament. "Are you determined to ruin me? I'm trying so hard to make my uncle and aunt proud of me."
I feel a twinge of guilt at my behavior when I see Freya's wistful expression. Her violet eyes glow softly with unshed tears, and her hair seems to shimmer like fire beneath the flickering glow of the candle. Tenderness washes over me, and I fight the need to hold her in my arms. I want to soothe her, protect her, not ruin her. Hell, I am not even sure why I had come up here in the first place.
But I know I have to fight this strange tenderness toward the American she-wolf. I have yet to meet a young miss of mating age who can see beyond my title or my wealth. If I let myself feel anything for Freya, I know I can only get hurt. And somehow I instinctively know that she has the power to wound me more deeply than any other.
And so I steel up my heart and sharpen my tongue. "I'm sure your aunt and uncle are most proud," I say, my voice laden with sarcasm. "You had half the members of the high packs... the male half, that is... positively drooling over you. I'm sure you can expect half a dozen offers before the month is finished. You should be able to catch yourself quite a nice title."
Freya flinches visibly at my verbal assault. "How can you say such cruel things? You don't even know me."
"You're a She-wolf," I say simply.
"What has that got to do with anything?" She asks.
I notice that, in her ire, Freya has thrown the pillow aside. Her skin flushing pink with anger, and her chest rising and falling with each deep breath she takes. I think she looks delectable, but I fight to keep my desires in check. "She-wolves," I explain patiently, "spend the first eighteen to twenty-one years of their lives sharpening their social skills. And when they think they are ready, they go out into the world, attend a few parties, bat their eyelashes, smile prettily, and catch a mate. The higher the title and the more money, the better. And half the time, the poor fellow doesn't even know what hit him."
Freya is obviously appalled, for her horror shows clearly on her face. "I cannot believe you just said that."
"Insulted?" I ask.
"Completely." She growls.
I shrug lightly. "You shouldn't be. It's the way of things. There's nothing you or I can do about it."
- Writer
