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And I put my head in my hands.
Iris fucked another man. Another man’s baby is in her stomach. I shouldn’t care. She can go and be happy with him. They can lead wonderful lives together, one happy fucking family.
But the vision kills me.
I never consciously thought about it at the time, but now that I’ve lost her, I realize that I can’t picture her with another man. I physically cannot.
Because when I think about Iris, belly swollen, smiling with a baby, all I think about is us.
Her holding my baby.
Making dinner in our house.
Sitting at night with me.
The image of her with someone else feels so violently wrong, my stomach sinks and I feel bile build in my throat. Everything inside me is screaming that Iris is mine.
Except, she isn’t.
I decide later that afternoon that I can look at the tablet, and the eligible females, as long as I’m really fucking drunk. I promise myself that I’ll pick one of them. Make the pack happy.
Find a mate that I can live with, so I can get Iris out of my mind.
So, later that night in my cabin, I make good on that promise.
Shifters don’t get drunk easily. Our metabolism burns a lot of that stuff away, so it’s really just a numbers game. Volume, time, and alcohol level all factor in to the calculation.
I figure that one-hundred-fifty-proof whisky, two handles, and an hour will do the trick.
I’m right.
After chugging both bottles, I’m absolutely stupid drunk. My head feels like it’s swimming, and I simultaneously want to lay down to sleep—and throw up.
Nice.
With a shaking hand, I pick up the tablet. I open the file that Adrian put together and examine it.
There are four women’s names inside.
I click on one. Emma. Elk shifter.
That’s an immediate no. I’m not into cervids, so Emma and Joan, a moose, are out. Not only is it weird to date someone that you consider prey, it also gets very strange during mating season.
The bull elk and moose tend to not take kindly to other shifters dating their women, political alliances or not.
Fifty percent of the women ruled out, and my buzz slowly fading, I click on the third profile.
Destinee. Bear. She’s pretty; as a bear she’s got a cinnamon coat that’s highly desirable, and as a woman, she looks strong. Sturdy. Big breasts, wide hips, waist-length brown hair.
No.
All I can picture is Iris’ small hips, her slight breasts that are a perfect mouthful…
Fuck.
Come on Alderwood. You can do this. Pick a fucking mate.
There’s only one profile left. I click on it, and a beautiful blonde woman fills the screen.
