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But they’re not, and me singing a song to West won’t change that.
I press the ‘off’ switch on the music player, letting the wired headphones fall from my grip, trailing down past the edge of my skirt. “Maybe later.”
“Of course. I’ll be out front if you need me. And if you get hungry—”
I stiffen.
West notices. “Help yourself. Please.”
Smart wolf. He’s learning. I already proved that I’d go hungry before taking food from him, and he’s not testing me.
Good. It’s about time West remembers that I’m not the delicate omega she-wolf the rest of the pack thinks I am.
“We’ll see.”
* * *
West holdstrue to his word. While the cabin he fixed up for us is ‘ours’, the bedroom is considered my territory. He leaves me to it, only knocking at the door to let me know he’s left another meal just outside of it.
Another meal that goes untouched.
I’ll give him credit. He tried to wait for me to go out and eat on my own. When I didn’t, his wolf got the better of him. It was almost as if he was incapable ofnottrying to feed me.
The more he tried, the more I refused to eat at all. He might have considered the music player some kind of a peace offering. The way I saw it, it was more of a bribe. He wanted to buy my forgiveness. Since that wasn’t going to happen—and I also wasn’t willing to give him the music player back—the only way I can assert my dominance over such a powerful wolf was by controlling the only thing I could: my diet.
I’m already too slender to be considered a sturdy she-wolf. Another reason why my packmates have always treated me as too delicate. Too breakable. I don’t have many pounds that I can afford to lose, and by the third day of refusing to eat anything West brings me, my dresses are beginning to feel a lot looser than they did when I finally changed into the first one.
All supes have a unique diet. Vampires are bloodsuckers, obviously, who survive on blood. Us shifters? We just need to eat a lot. Switching shapes required a lot of calories, and considering I’m as much my wolf when I’m in my skin, shifters are constantly eating for two.
West knows it. That evening, when I refuseanothermeal, he finally loses control.
I should’ve expected that. Just like how he flipped when he saw me without the ring, the constant stress of knowing I was slowly starving myself on purpose finally makes him snap.
He set out dinner for me about an hour ago. I sensed him leave again, going on another patrol, but when he returned and saw that the plate he left outside my door wasn’t touched, he bangs on my door.
I’m hungry, but I’m not weak. If you ever wondered if a she-wolf could survive on spite, I’m living proof, and wouldn’t that shock my packmates when they discovered prissy Helene had some semblance of a spine?
“Helene? Open up. We need to talk.”
“No.” It’s a complete sentence.
“Let me in.”
Oh? He needs it spelled out for him? “Are you here to take me home?”
“What? No. I want you to eat!”
“I’m okay. Now go away. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
I expect frustration. I expect West and his “I know better than you” attitude to just ignore what I want—because he’s good at that—and fling the door open. I expect him to snarl, then storm out for another run.
But he doesn’t do any of that.
Instead, in a voice full of pain, he simply asks, “How much longer are you going to punish me?”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
It’s definitely what I’m doing.
