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“Yes. Yes, he is. Your father was cold before he took his last breath.” A scoff pushes from me at his statement. The truth is a vicious bitch, even though I know it so well.
Maybe if I’d done more to keep my father safe, we wouldn’t be here right now. Destiny wouldn’t be staring me in the eyes, waiting for me to grab it with both hands. It doesn’t matter how long I hold out; so long as I breathe, my duty will always be hanging over me. A dark cloud of impending doom.
I am my father’s son. Just as he was his father’s and his father was heir to this seat around this table with our family crest carved into it.
“This is the only way you can make it right.”
“And we will make it right,” Percival assures from the open doorway. “I swear it.”
“Put it on, Henry. Put the ring on and be done with it.”
Snatching the ring from him, I thread it onto the small finger of my left hand so that the beast’s head covers the crowned wolf tattoo we all share. A mark of who we are. A symbol of our pack. The Wolfsden Society.
“Happy?” I hold my hand up.
The weight of my future has never felt so astounding. While I have much to do, the distraction beside me is far more appealing right now. Needed, even. And it’s calling to me from the depths of her big brown eyes.
My lungs burn with the choke of my chest around them, the same unrelenting force causing my hands to fist with the need to squeeze every inch of her. I want her breaths to rasp for mercy and her hands to claw for dear life as I rip her apart.
“Don’t you have a whore to fuck?” I snap at Arthur. He’s still watching me as though there’s more he wants from me. Like a hungry man taunted by another’s feast. But I’m not sharing this one. Not today, at least.
With a top-to-toe glance at Eve, he laughs and walks away. The friction of the air around us instils itself in the silence he leaves behind. It’s a buzz that heats the blood pumping through my veins while Eve stares at me in apprehension. Uncertainty begins to drag her breaths the longer I sit, admiring the rise and fall of her ample chest. Every little hitch threatens to spill her plump tits from the bustier of her dress, the seam of the lace holding the deep V together straining.
“Drinks.” With a snap of my fingers, I call to the girl standing in the corner of the room.
“Your Grace.” She acknowledges my request quickly as she brings the decanter of cognac over with two glasses. When they’re filled, she slinks back to her shadowed corner with barely a shuffle of her bare feet on the Persian rug.
Eve and I are alone again. She’s on edge as I reach around her to my drink, ghosting the curve of her hips with my arm. Leaning over my thighs, I brace my elbows on my knees so that my face is level with her stomach as I take a leisurely mouthful of my drink. The proximity makes her squirm, causing the warm, sweet scent of almond oil and rose to fill my lungs when I pull in a deep breath.
“Have you ever fucked royalty, Eve?”
Neat eyebrows scrunch as she glances over her shoulder at the girl in the corner. Pity softens her dainty features when she turns back to me, levelling me with an indignant glare. “I’m not one of them, Your Grace,” she states bluntly as I trail my gaze up her chest.
“One of who?”
“Your girls.”
“You mean the whores.”
Swallowing audibly, she pulls back her shoulders defiantly. “No, I mean one of the-the…”
“Whores.” I finish for her what she’s incapable of saying through her politeness. “It’s what they are. They’re here to fuck and serve.”
I relish in her obvious discomfort with another long sip of cognac. The rich, sweet fruit aroma mingles with her scent—a perfect match that makes my mouth water when her fidgeting brings her closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body seep through my skin.
“You know where you are, don’t you?” The tip of my index finger cuts the air in front of her stomach, from one side to the other, while the others curl tighter around the tumbler in my hand.
A hiss preludes her sharp retort. “I’m not a whore.”
“Good. I don’t fuck whores.” Disbelief narrows her light brown eyes with a scoff. Her features are expressive and bright, making her as easy to read as an open book right in front of me. “And I’m not fucking you.”
“Oh.” She lets out a relieved breath that relaxes her demeanour a tad.
“Sit.”
“Why?”
“If you have any sense of self-preservation, you won’t question me again.” When I push to my feet, dropping my empty glass beside my seat, she traipses back into the table. “Now, sit.”
