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“Awful,” she agrees, swiping tears from her cheeks as she sits up. She’s clearly trying to regain control, but starts giggling again as she adds, “Someone should give us a time out.”
Propping my hands on my hips, I shake my head, losing the battle against my grin. “I hate you,” I say, in a regrettably affectionate voice, “I really do.”
“I hate you, too,” she chortles. “More than Brussels sprouts and cooked cabbage and both of those things smell like farts.”
I huff. “Fart jokes? What are you? Twelve?”
She sucks in a breath. “It wasn’t a fart joke, it was a fart insult. Get with the program, Thorn. If you can’t tell the difference between a joke and an insult, this is going to be a very long and tedious marriage.”
“I’m not going to marry you,” I find myself confessing. “I’m going to find a way out.”
“Okay.” Her laughter fades, but her smile remains. “And if you don’t? Not to be a Negative Nancy but your dad is really into us getting married, and I’m not going to do anything to fuck it up. I need to marry you, Maxim, for my own safety.” She sighs and her smile vanishes, too. “That’s not my ideal, either, you know. I’d rather marry someone I love, who loves me back. But…that’s not the hand I was dealt.”
She sits up straighter, drawing her knees into her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “But that doesn’t mean I have to resign myself to being miserable. We don’t always hate each other. Sometimes we get along really well. There’s at least some reason to hold out hope that this might end up…okay.” Her shoulders inch closer to her ears. “Or even better than okay.”
I study her face. With her features still puffy with sleep and no make-up, she doesn’t look much older than Diana. She looks young, beautiful, and harmless.
But she’s not harmless. Even if she means every word of that little speech, she’s still dangerous.
For some reason, I again find myself confessing the truth, “There would be hope. Maybe. If you weren’t part of this prophecy.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in the prophecy.”
“I don’t,” I say, then amend, “I’m mostly sure I don’t. But enough people do that you’re always going to be a target in a way I’m not even sure I’m prepared to handle. You’ll bring that danger to my pack and…to any children that might be born.”
Her brow furrows. “I see your point, but weren’t your children always going to be a target? You’re a very powerful man. And powerful men tend to have powerful enemies. Isn’t that why you won’t let Diana out of the tower without a full guard detail? And why your father was poisoned?”
I shake my head. “That’s different.”
“How?” she presses. “And from what I understand of the prophecy, once I’m married to my fated mate, the window of opportunity for using me to rule the world or whatever will close. Right?”
“There are different ways to interpret the text,” I say, wishing I hadn’t started this argument. At least not until after I’ve met with Maggie to go over the additional materials she’s gathered. “I’m actually meeting with an expert in the field this morning.”
“An expert in the field of prophecies?” Her brows lift. “You have one of those on hand?”
“She’s an expert in ancient texts and shifter history. But she knows her prophecies, too, yes.”
Her eyes light up. “That’s great. I always wanted to study more shifter history, but Victor didn’t let anyone into our pack library except a few top Alphas and his horoscope advisors.”
“I don’t allow pack members into the antiquities library, either,” I admit. “The manuscripts are too delicate, but they’ve all been scanned into the online database. Any wolf who wants to read them, can. Though a good number haven’t been translated from Old English and are hard to decipher.”
She bites her lip. “Wow. I bet they’re pretty, though. I love really old books. The smell, the antique paper, the hours invested in copying every page by hand…they’re works of art. Works of art made to honor knowledge.” She sighs, a swoony sound like she’s talking about a beloved former boyfriend. “And how cool is that? I would say I wish I’d lived back then, but I probably would have died of strep throat when I was a baby without antibiotics. I was a sickly kid. Especially for a shifter.”
I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head.
Why does she have to be so damned…charming?
When she’s not inspiring murderous impulses, of course.
“What?” she asks after a moment, her clever green eyes searching my face. “You didn’t have to come in here, you know. If I annoy you that much, you could have called to tell me not to do things without your permission. Or written an email. I do have an email address, and if you give me access to a computer, I can check it. Or start a new email just for messages from my cranky future husband so you have your own dedicated in-box. I can check if BratBallAndChain at free mail dot com is available. Or—”
“Just shut up, get up, and get dressed,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
She blinks. “Why?”
“You want to come with me to see the old books and talk with Maggie, I’m assuming? Or would you prefer to plot your next act of subterfuge in bed in your pajamas?”
“No, I want to go!” She bounces to the edge of the bed only to stop and glance back at me over her shoulder. “Why are you being nice to me?”
