Page 93 of Rogue Alpha Prince

“Good,” he says and then approaches my dad, who just stood up. “Your Majesties.”

“Rogue Prince, oh, you’ve got a tattoo?” My dad notices immediately when the fur cape slides from Cain’s arm while he shakes my dad’s hand in greeting.

My mom gasps, looking at the ink version of my wolf form that she knows all too well.

I swear she has zero chill.

“It’s beautiful, your Highness,” she tries to save face.

I’m pretty sure that as the Werewolf Queen, she doesn’t have to call Rogue Prince his Highness, but it’s probably smart that she does.

“Thank you, just like your daughter,” he winks at her, completely unashamed.

“Well, you can take our seats,” my dad says, giving me a weird look.

He was the one to give me up for this union, but he was desperate, I can see his concern now. He was the only one who never really acknowledged mystrength, maybe because everyone is weak in his Alpha King’s eyes. I was always his favorite delicate flower, no matter how many thorns I showed.

You would hope that a guy, loyally tattooing his daughter's image on himself, would calm my dad down; but I guess it might have just confirmed how unhinged and insane Cain is.

We sit down as my parents go onto the stage.

“Now they will pretend for an hour that they have a problem choosing a song, but in reality, they probably rehearsed it for a whole year.”

“You do sound bitter about it,” Cain laughs, and I unwillingly crack a smile.

“Rogue Prince, I’m Alpha Timothy from Sunset Pack.” The guy gives Cain one of the two bourbon glasses he is holding. “It’s spiked,” he adds with a wink, and scoots one of the big chairs to sit closer to us, like it is a feather.

Alphas.

Cain takes a sip of the alcohol—without a care in the world—and nods at him.

I feel a prick of pain in my temple when he mind-links me.

‘Is it him? He doesn’t have a mark yet.’

Who’s the creepy one now, huh?

‘No, thank the Goddess, but try to call him Timmy,’I mind-link back, trying not to laugh out loud at my thoughts.

Timmy was always a pain in my ass, one of the only few alphas that had a problem with calling me the Alpha. I saved his ass in war so many times I stopped counting, and he still treats me like a little incompetent girl. He also beats up anyone who dares to call him Timmy.

“So, Timmy, is it?” Cain asks with his fearsome gaze, resting his sword at the side of my chair, “Did you forget about a drink for my wife?”

I try not to snort when I see veins bulging on Timothy’s neck and face.

“Of course,what would you like, Asher? Lemonade?” He tries to insult me with a childish drink, and I’m not surprised he also ‘forgets’ to show me any courtesy.

Even if he is happy that he doesn’t have to call me Alpha anymore, I’m still a Royal werewolf for fuck’s sake. Oh, I hate this guy!

“That’s ‘your Highness’ to you, and lemonade would be great, thanks. Make it two. My husband likes them just as much,” I take a leap of faith with that comeback.

“That’s true, I do,” Cain says casually smirking, having my back.

If that’s not what spouses are for, I don’t know what is.

Timothy looks at us slightly paler than usual, probably scared he insulted the Rogue Alpha Prince himself.

No matter how high you keep your alpha head, you don’t want to insult a guy with a sword—who is a massive mountain of muscles dressed in leather, belts with knives, and fur infamously skinned from the first werewolves he ever killed.

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