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Seriously, even terrified and not at all interested in boys at the moment, I couldn’t help but notice the way his powerful thighs strained the seams of his gray slacks.
“But if she’s the latest assassin,” Dara continues, “I think they could have tried harder, don’t you? She looks about as dangerous as a half-drowned kitten.”
“Maybe that’s their angle. Send someone non-threatening, get us to lower our guard, and then she strikes.”
“Do you think so?” Dara asks, still sounding doubtful. “Do you think she’s dangerous?”
“No, but I think she’s lying about something. Until we find out what, Maxim is smart to keep her under lock and key. Let him know as soon as you’ve shown Willow to the consort’s quarters. He’ll make sure everything is secure and she’s locked in for the night.”
My throat tightens.
So, I’m going to be a prisoner…
I’m honestly not surprised. I fully expected to be thrown in a dungeon as soon as I arrived. Or, more likely, a cell. Rumor has it the North Star pack has an entire block of cells in their basement, where they lock up their enemies as well as pack members who misbehave.
There’s allegedly a torture chamber down there, too…
So why is Maxim housing me in the consort’s wing? That isn’t just a guest room in his apartment. Those rooms will one day belong to his mate, and I doubt she’ll be thrilled to learn that he had a Blood River pack prisoner in there for a month while he waited to find out if she was knocked up.
But as soon as the thought drifts through my mind, I know Maxim won’t care what his mate thinks. Maxim is a man who does as he damn well pleases and acquiring a wife isn’t going to change that.
He probably wants me close so he can keep eyes—and nose—on me. Female wolves give off a scent when they’re pregnant, a cozy smell like warm milk and fresh baked bread. It usually isn’t noticeable until a woman is at least a few months along, but in some cases the scent shift starts right after conception.
Great, I think, as I tiptoe back into the locker room and fetch a robe and slippers. I’m going to be living right under the nose of an Alpha determined to sniff out my secrets and prove I’m an assassin.
Even knowing that I truly don’t mean this pack any harm can’t banish the anxiety the thought provokes.
I don’t have to be an assassin, after all. Maxim just has to decide I am.
To decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth and that he’d prefer I be tossed out on my ass.
Or killed.
That’s what Pax would do. All it would take is the whispered rumor of betrayal and the wolf in question would be tossed off a skyscraper.
Maxim doesn’t seem that ruthless, but what do I know?
His eyes are a brown so deep they’re almost black and I swear when he looked at me, it felt like he was seeing straight through my skin—and that he wasn’t the slightest bit impressed with my internal organs.
Or my soul.
Or whatever it was he saw with that glittering gaze.
I turn the water on as hot as I can bear, undress, and step under the spray. I close my eyes, pulling in slow, deep breaths and willing myself to calm down.
I have time. I have a bargaining chip. I have talents that can be useful to this pack and this Alpha.
I just need to hold it together and show Maxim I’m worthy of his trust.
Or at least the benefit of the doubt.
I finish in the shower, wrap up in a fluffy towel, and pad into the dressing area, where vanity mirrors ring the walls, and pots and jars of various upscale toiletries vie for space on the counters. I find a curl cream that smells divine—like sage and lemon—and brush it through my hair with my fingers. I smooth on eye cream and face lotion but pass over the cosmetics and perfumes.
I’m headed to bed, not to a dinner date, and I don’t want Maxim to get the impression that I’m trying to be pretty for him. He seemed about as interested in me as a bowl of congealed oatmeal and I’d prefer it stay that way.
No matter how pretty he is, I’ve had my fill of that kind of attention from dominating wolves. Pax isn’t the first guy to try to take things further than I wanted him to.
Sexual violence in The Parallel has increased right along with all the other kinds of violence. It’s all connected. As soon as men stop feeling bad about killing each other, they stop feeling bad about taking what they want from the women in their pack, whether the women have given consent or not.
