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So, I waited. I said no when I wanted to say yes to Devon, my high school boyfriend, and Zeke my best-friend-with-benefits in college. Zeke made me feel oodles of good things with most of our clothes still on, and he swore we’d be careful with birth control. He said no one would be able to say for sure that I hadn’t popped my cherry riding horses or at a gymnastics competition or something when I was a kid.
But I’ve never ridden a horse and I’m about as “gymnastic” as a tub of Nutella, so I kept my clothes on. Mostly.
And I’m so glad I did.
Last night, just as I’d always feared, Victor sent a pack physician to the waiting room before the ceremony.
There, behind a flimsy screen, while the rest of the women attending the event whispered and gossiped about what a slut I must be in order to require an examination in the first place, the doctor verified my virginity.
My hymen is still intact, and Pax’s limp grossness wasn’t up for doing anything to change that.
Therefore, I am absolutely not expecting a baby.
No way, no how.
But that doesn’t stop me from imagining that baby and how fiercely I would want to defend it, love it, nurture it, and protect it with my life. It doesn’t stop me from hating Maxim for being a heartless monster who would deprive my sweet little one of his or her mother, just because Maxim can’t be bothered with putting up with me and wants to be the big bad wolf in control of all he surveys.
He is repulsive. Cold. Cruel.
And so unbearably sexy that my panties were soaked by the time he left the bedroom last night. Nothing in my personal experience prepared me for the wave of hunger that swept through me as he fisted his hand in my hair and stared down at me like I was a treat he wanted to devour in one bite.
I have no idea if he felt the attraction, too—or if he was just manhandling me to assert his dominance the way Alpha-holes do—but for me the tension was thick enough to cut with a plastic spork.
We wouldn’t even need a knife.
Though I could use a knife right now, to cut these massive hunks of melon into chewable pieces.
I scrub my hand across my face, blinking as I refocus on my breakfast. I barely slept last night. I was up tossing and turning, my skin tormented by the unbearable softness of the satin sheets and steamy dreams featuring Maxim’s rough hands.
Maybe I’m just not seeing the knife…
I scan the table again. Toasted English muffin, butter, jam, yogurt with slivered almonds on top, orange juice, coffee, and a plate with insanely huge wedges of cantaloupe on top, but no knife, just a fork and a spoon.
“If I wanted to hurt myself, I could do it with a fork,” I grumble to the empty room. “Or a shard of that hideous vase.”
“It really is awful, isn’t it?” a feminine voice says from the bathroom, making me yip and fall out of my chair in my haste to turn around.
A silvery laugh fills the air as I scramble back to my feet and spin to see a dangerously pretty young woman in a black sweater and jeans, with stick-straight raven colored hair falling to her waist and big eyes nearly as dark as Maxim’s.
Her nose is sharp and straight like Maxim’s, too.
A relative, maybe?
“Sorry,” she says, sounding sincere. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just going to spy a little and leave, but you’re funny.” She nods toward the bathroom. “That vase is a monstrosity. Aunt Claudia should have her eyes examined. I can’t believe anyone pays her to decorate anything. Ever.” She bobs a shoulder. “But then, my brother never comes in here anyway. Or he didn’t, until last night.” She bites her lip, but the smile she’s trying to suppress bursts through after only a moment or two. “I know he thinks you’re a spy and all that, but I’m dying to hear all the Blood River gossip. And the brother gossip. Is it true he was in here with you until one in the morning? Sit, sit, let’s talk!” She crosses the room, moving past me to settle into the chair across from mine at the small breakfast table. “Tell me everything. You can trust me. I promise. I’m a vault.”
“I’m Willow,” I say, sounding as flustered as I feel. I settle back into my chair. “Nice to meet you, Vault.”
She chuckles, soft and husky this time, again reminding me of Maxim. “See. Funny. I like you. About time Maxim had a girlfriend with a little spunk. And a wolf, too, that’s…crazy.” She adds confidentially, “He never dates wolves. Like, ever.”
“Really,” I say, intrigued. I file that nugget of information away for later, and redirect. “But we’re not dating. I’m his prisoner.”
She waves a breezy hand through the air. “For now. But he put you up in the consort’s quarters. That means something. Mark my words, you two are going to be an item before Christmas, which is my least favorite holiday, by the way. I don’t like the cold and Santa Claus is so creepy. You two have to couple up and be cute together so I have something to look forward to.”
I hum beneath my breath. “Well, I’m pretty sure we hate each other and there’s a better chance of hell freezing over. But I’ll take that under consideration, Miss…?”
She rolls her eyes with a laugh and reaches a slim hand across the table. “Sorry. Diana. Maxim’s little sister. Perpetual thorn in his side. Way more capable of protecting myself and not getting into trouble than most people assume. And better at sneaking around, which I’ve just proven by breaking into your room even though only Maxim is supposed to be able to do that.”
I give her fingers a squeeze. “Nice to meet you, Diana,” I say, and mean it. So far, this chatty sprite is a font of interesting information. “Why is Maxim the only one who can get in?”
