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She hadn’t even gotten past the first chapter when she started to see Beckett, Aston, and Keaton as the freaking bossy wolf shifters, and god help her when she got to the sexy scenes…
Subconsciously reading faster than her brain could commute, she got to the first sex scene and chucked the e-reader aside.
Nope. No. No way.
Absolutely not.
Flinging the covers aside, she picked up a writing pad and a pencil and marched back into the living room.
She had to figure out what her aunt’s game plan was, and once they did that, they could easily bypass the thirty days and go their separate ways.
"Don’t you think it’s time we started asking questions about this weird setup? I mean, it must mean something, and the quicker we figure it out, the better for all of us. What do you know about my aunt, Marjorie Bradshaw? Did you know her at all? How did you come to be in Monty’s—I mean Mr. Montgomery’s—office? Someone must have sent you there. You have to admit this is the weirdest thing in the history of will reading, right? And I want to know why she left me the three of you.”
Why were they looking at her as if she had grown a tail out of her ass?
Never mind.
She wasn’t going to be deterred by their tactics to mess with her head.
She sat down and crossed her legs, balanced the pad on her knee, and then drew four columns with each of their names.
"Talk."
Silence ensued for a moment before complete mayhem broke out.
"What are you doing?" she cried. "Where are you going?" She stood up and watched in confusion as they suddenly sprang into action. She followed them into her bedroom to watch them rifle through her closets. Soon they were stuffing clothes into a bag, including her toiletries from the bathroom.
" Have you three gone mad? What are you doing? Look, I know you know seventy-four ways to kill someone, but this is just plain bullying."
"Hundred and twelve."
"What?" she asked, bewildered.
"We know one-hundred and twelve ways to kill a man with our bare hands."
"Oh, god, who are you people?" She cried incredulously and received no reply.
Aston tossed a pair of track pants and a hoodie on the bed. She cried out in shock when Beckett picked her up, and with Keaton’s help, tried to force her body into the track pants and hoodie. Her protests and accusations of the instability of their mental health were pointedly ignored.
She could barely get her breathing under control, already sweating in the clothes they had forced her into—over her nightie, by the way—before she was tossed over Beckett’s shoulder and carried out.
"Okay, just tell me what you’re doing."
"We’re taking you home where there’s good enough whiskey to help us get through this."
She didn’t have a chance of overpowering them. Her kicks, screams, and name-calling were again left unchecked as they stuffed her into their car and drove off.
All she could do was sit in seething silence as she plotted their demise. She was too mad to take into account the sleek grandeur of their house in an area so secluded that there didn’t seem to be any other life around them.
She was yet again tossed over a shoulder, Aston’s this time, carried up a staircase and tossed into a bed big enough to sleep at least six people.
The covers were tucked in around her while Keaton poured them almost brimful glasses of some golden liquid—their good whiskey, she supposed—and they each loosened their ties, and took a seat on huge comfy chairs scattered around the room.
"Go to sleep," Keaton ordered her.
"I can’t," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "Firstly, I’m boiling in these clothes. It’s freaking summer—"
Aston got up and turned the air conditioning down.
