Filed to story: The Alpha’s Pen Pal Book
“And even if she was, you don’t deserve to scrape dog shit from the bottom of her shoe,” Oliver adds.
“Excuse me?” Prescott rises to his feet, pressing his fingertips to the tabletop.
Oliver scoffs. “You heard me.”
“This is my hotel,” Prescott continues, and I swear he stomps his foot like a spoiled toddler. “I will not take kindly to threats from a third-born lycan.” He shifts his attention to Ben. “Alpha Benjamin. Remind your brother who his betters are.”
Benjamin leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, his fists clenched, ignoring Prescott’s demands, his jaw twitching.
“I think you have overstayed your welcome at our table,” Haven says.
Prescott whips his head towards her. “This is my hotel!” he repeats, as if that makes an ounce of difference or excuses his elitism.
Haven stands and curls her fist into the white tablecloth. “And there are four pissed off lycans, one possessive werewolf whose mate you have hit on far too many times, and one moody pregnant luna who is fed up with your bullshit all sitting at this table. Trust me, none of us have a problem causing a scene at your hotel and letting you know who your betters are.”
Wesley covers her clenched fist with his hand, giving it a slight squeeze. I pinch my lips together to hold in my laughter at the look on Prescott’s face, and Cassandra’s eyes swirl with starlight as she absorbs Haven’s aura pouring from her as a result of her speech.
“I suggest you take your leave of us,” Haven says, looking down her nose at him even though he’s taller than her.
Prescott fumes, his nostrils flaring. He looks to Ben again for help, but Benjamin only glares back, arms still crossed and body taut with anger. Prescott shakes his head and shoves his chair away, knocking it over as he storms off.
“That won’t be the last we hear from him,” Benjamin says once Prescott’s out of earshot.
Haven shrugs. “No, but it got rid of him for the time being.” She blows out a breath and her anger melts away, replaced by a smile. “Now, who wants to dance?”
She doesn’t wait for anyone to answer. She walks to the dance floor, and Wesley chases after her, grasping her hand and spinning her into him before twirling her into a sweeping dance, almost in time with the waltz played by the live orchestra.
Apparently, he not only can’t sing, but he also has no rhythm.
The four of us remaining at the table laugh, our tension from the confrontation with Prescott easing. Cassandra leans back against me, wrapping her other arm around me, and I nudge her with my nose. “Dance with me?”
She nods immediately, practically jumping from my lap. I take her hand, and like Wes, I spin her into me when we reach the floor. But instead of attempting a fancy grand waltz, I wrap my arm tightly around her waist, embracing her and lining all her soft, subtle curves up with my hard muscles. She rests her head on my shoulder, and we sway and swirl around in a circle. I hum along to the music, enjoying the contentment of having my mate in my arms.
She eases away all the anxiety. Every last nerve dissipates into wisps of smoke.
The night continues in much the same fashion—Cassandra in my arms on the dance floor. At some point, I remove my jacket and roll my sleeves up, but I never leave her side. The music switches from grand orchestral pieces to DJ’d playlists of chart toppers and back again, and we switch our dance styles to match. Her smiles and laughter spread joy and tranquility to me and my wolf, and I find myself smiling more than usual as we keep time to the various beats.
As it has all evening, the music switches, the orchestra playing an instrumental version of some pop song I can’t quite place. I draw a slightly sweaty Cassandra into my arms again, slow-dancing with her in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by both newly mated couples and couples who are well-established.
While we dance, Cassandra glances around the room, her eyes lingering on the wall behind me. When she meets my eyes again, it’s with a soft, almost sad smile on her face. “It’s past midnight,” she says, her throat tightening.
I cock my head to the side and glance at the wall behind me as well, where a large clock hangs above a set of double doors. “So it is.”
Water lines her eyelids, and her lips tremble, but she pinches them together. Her eyes flit around the room, the liquid in them rising but not falling down her cheeks. She breathes in and out in slow, labored breaths, studiously avoiding my gaze.
“What is it?” I ask, bending down and leaning in, trying to capture her attention. She pushes away from me, but I hold her in place, cupping her cheeks, forcing her eyes to meet mine. Brutal, piercing agony fills them, as well as hopelessness and sorrow. “Cassandra?”
“It’s my birthday,” she says in the tiniest, most broken voice I’ve ever heard her use as one lone tear streaks down her face. “I’m twenty-one.”
CASSANDRA
Nolan stares at me.
Seconds pass, then minutes, and still, nothing happens.
No spark. No special scent luring me closer to him or a reaction to him from my lycan.
There’s nothing.
I don’t know why I expected there would be. I’ve known my whole life—
no bond of fate draws her soul to another.
They were always just words. Words hanging over me like a daunting, dark cloud, but even so, hope blossomed. How could it not? There was no physical evidence, nothing tangible. Only a vague phrase thrown my mother’s way during my reading as an infant. It wasn’t the same as the reports from my doctors, with blood tests confirming infertility. Not like scans that show my body no longer has all the necessary organs to grow a new life inside me. I accepted my loss of fertility, accepted the tangible, irrefutable evidence, but the seeds of hope for a mate never disappeared.
Not completely.
And now my hope is shattered into infinite, microscopic pieces.
Nolan’s expression shifts from confusion to realization to sadness. Not sadness for me, but sadness with me, as if my pain is his.
Like it would be if we were true mates.
I crash forward into his chest, clutching at the collar of his half-undone shirt, burying my nose against his skin. He wraps his arms around me, embracing me and continuing our swaying, keeping my face hidden so no one else can see my anguish, pretending for the rest of the world that we’re just dancing. The hint of his spicy cardamom scent hits my nose, and I cling to it like a lifeline, pressing my face harder into his torso.
It’s not as strong as they say a mate’s scent should be, but it calms me all the same. It’s familiar and comforting, warm and inviting.
As we continue our charade of dancing, I mindlink Haven, thankful I had the foresight to ask Wesley to make me a pack member yesterday morning.
“Haven,”
I say, my voice strained even in mindlink.
New Book: Veiled Desires of the Alpha King Novel
Dayson was the alpha of the largest pack in North America. Powerful figures from other packs sought to offer gorgeous girls as potential mates for Dayson. He steadfastly rejected these advances, he was not a pawn to be manipulated. But eventually there came a mysterious girl he could hardly say No. Who was she?