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lacy pink thong
Asa was a blind fool. Silvan felt like a traitor even thinking about his father in such terms, but if he saw how the man had changed, then what were others saying and thinking?
He hadn’t always been that way. The Rincewind Pack had seen their best days under his smooth thumb of diplomacy, a rare skill among the mercurial pack and often underappreciated. Even Silvan sometimes thought Asa was soft. But a fool? Nah. Never.
Not until he’d put his diplomacy above his own people.
Silvan propped himself against a tree at the edge of the forest while the others talked shit about the Marchlands and Delacroixs. It was as much a precaution as a preference. Claude’s death had changed something in him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it meant something.
“We must allow the high priestess to conduct her investigation,” Asa said in the same placating tone he used on babies. He gesticulated a hushing motion to calm the riled pack. “It is the way of the High Council, and one we must trust.”
One of the older wolves stormed out of the gathered pack and toward the moss-covered log Asa held court from. “And why should we let that bitch Cassia decideforus how we handle an attack onourpack?”
My thoughts exactly,Silvan mused with an eye roll. He spat into the underbrush and closed his eyes, waiting for the farce of a funeral to end. Half the pack just wanted an excuse to draw vamp blood and didn’t give a fuck about what had happened to Claude. The other half was nervous and scared. The accusation against the vamps had been an effective declaration of war, regardless of the truth.
“The council protects all of us. Wolves, witches, faeries, and yes, vamps,” Asa said in a frustratingly reasonable tone. “But when they find out the truth, that the piece of shit bloodsuckers killed one of ours, they’ll no longer have those protections.”
“Open fucking season!” one of the young ones called out and got everyone howling and beating their chests.
Piece of shit bloodsuckers.Well, it was an improvement fromlet’s play nice, shall we?Wouldn’t mean a damn thing if Asa couldn’t grow a sack, though.
Silvan licked his lips and turned his head toward the night sky. The itch was almost insatiable, but shifting came at the end, where they would all come together for a hunt. More like a circle jerk of testosterone and useless bullshit.
He didn’t used to feel so jaded about the pack, but he saw things differently as a man than he did as a boy.
“We should conduct an investigation of our own.”
“Who says we can’t sniff around in our own forests?”
“Who knows, might catch a fucking vamp where he doesn’t belong.”
On and on, they huffed and puffed, more useless banter, blah, blah, blah. Silvan slid his back along the rough bark to quell the itch to shift.
That’s not the only fucking itch, though, is it?
Silvan had seen plenty of witches at High Council over the years, and they were all the same—high on their goddamn power, prim, proper, with shit that apparently smelled like fresh roses. Butthisone… Andromeda. Romy. It was almost like she didn’t belong there at all. She was unsure of herself, and from the crude whispers passed along the pack later that night, he deduced she’d been slow to develop her magic. Romy Delacroix was a bit of a disappointment , and if Silvan could relate to anything, it was probably that.
Not that he would, or could, ever tell her that. But who had to know it was the wide-eyed little red-haired witch invading his thoughts when his hand stroked his cock?
He reached into his pocket and withdrew what he could only assume was a handkerchief. It was pink and… well, pink. He didn’t give a fuck about that, but what he did care about was the utterly ripe and delectable scent left upon its silken threads by its former owner.
He wondered what Romy was doing at that moment.
Right on cue, his cock twitched.
After the hunt,he promised himself, but his enthusiasm for grieving in groups was considerably less than when he’d shown up that night. Soon, they’d stop beating their chests and fortifying their egos and shift as a single unit. They’d take down every poor creature who dared cross their ferocious path and feast until they passed out, delirious with bloodlust and waiting for oblivion.
“Fuck this,” he hissed, slipping into the forest. He pressed the silk to his nose and inhaled deeply, memorizing the scent for his hunt.
No one called after him, but he waited until he was several yards away before shifting and bounding off.
It took longerthan it should have to find her. He knew where the Delacroix mansion was, of course. Everyone did. It was vast, exceedingly decadent, and exactly the kind of digs he’d expect holier-than-thou witches to choose for themselves.
But Romy wasn’t there.
His tracking was considerably stronger when in wolf form, but even in New Orleans, it wasn’t safe for a wolf to run around on public streets. The last thing he needed was Animal Control on his ass. They already had a hard-on for the Rincewind Pack as it was. The pack was skilled at finding clothes on the fly, and Silvan had no trouble at all this time, leaping into a backyard where a line of clothes were drying. He slipped on a man’s T-shirt and shorts that were not remotely his style. They were also tight as hell, but they’d be fine for the hour or so he needed until he was back in the woods.
Butfuckcould he smell her now that he was in her territory. It made his stupid little silk hanky feel like a drop of water to a man dying of thirst in the desert.
