Page 35 of Purchased

Like the fool he is, Duplante decides to argue.

“You did not lift a finger when your mate…”

“Exactly. She ismymate. She is above reproach.”

I know as soon as those words have left my mouth they are a mistake, but I am not about to walk them back. I will support my mate’s rights and her wrongs.

“She is barely an adult. This pack is run by children…”

He is fortunate that I am not an absolute psychotic who would kill him outright for daring to question me. There is a coldness inside me, a rage that wants some kind of penance, because I know very well that he is not just talking about my mate. He is talking about me. I am the youngest alpha the pack has seen, and many of these older males feel as though they were passed over. The fact that I am my father’s son further rankles. The youngest of his siblings, some feel that he was not suitable as a replacement for his father.

This insult will not go unanswered.

“Take your wolf form.”

“I meant no disrespect,Maître,” he says, unwilling to back up his words with his flesh. He lies to my face, gives me nothing but disrespect, but pretends these words alone would be enough to mollify my growing rage.

“Take your wolf form, or I will draw my sword and cut you down where you stand. Tonight was a gathering to celebrate the long-awaited arrival of my mate. She has been long desired by the pack. And you have managed to make it all about you and your sniveling complaints because she would not tolerate your boorishness.”

Now I see fear on his face. It is a face that has not emoted nearly enough of that feeling in his life. This is a man who has been spoiled by privilege and believes his status will allow him to escape punishment. He is wrong.

* * *

Beatrix

After dinner I find myself in the company of the ladies who are excited to meet and chat with me. I have little to say about myself, so I avoid doing so and instead prefer to ask them questions about themselves, which they mostly enjoy. It’s not the worst thing that ever happened to me, but halfway through someone’s sentence about cheese, I hear the sounds of discontent faintly at a distance.

The sound draws me like a moth to the flame. The women had been entertaining me very nicely, but this seems far more interesting. The sounds are muffled at first, again passing beneath the notice of most of the pack.

I look around, seeing if anybody else is hearing this, but they don’t seem to. I expected their hearing to be better. Hard to tell if that is because they are trying to be polite, or because they are genuinely unable to detect chaos about to unfold.

I am starting to sense that I am different from this pack. At first, the fascination of meeting a great number of my kind was exciting. But I am starting to think that I might not be quite the same thing they are. I am closer to them than I am to most people, of course, but they are softer and more domestic than I imagined.

I excuse myself by telling them I am tired, and I go to find my mate. As I walk through the chateau, I hear voices. One slightly raised, one begging for his life.

I approach the room where the begging is taking place to find my Armand standing over the kneeling figure of Duplante. He has a sword in his hand. They are flanked by six or seven other men, all staring with a variety of intensities and expressions.

“If you will not take your wolf form, you will die,” Armand declares. His voice is cold and does not brook any disobedience. “You have been cowardly for too long, Duplante. Too quick to talk, and too slow to pay in blood.”

I draw in a little breath of excitement. My mate is going to kill that man. He’s going to drop him in the middle of the fancy room. I’ve never felt so close to Armand before.

Someone clears their throat. A traitorous bastard who has put himself on my radar by drawing attention to me with a flick of his eyes.

Armand’s head whips around. He sees me, and lowers the blade.

I feel disappointment.

I wish I had stayed hidden. I’d get to see bloodshed. Now I am going to get whatever public display Armand feels should be put on for me.

“Beatrix,” he says.

“Hello,” I say, feeling a little shy. He has always been attractive, but he is even more so now, holding a sword like a vengeful angel. I sense he is defending my honor. “What’s happening?”

“Did you need something, darling?” He asks the question kindly, but with an obvious edge of wanting me to go away. He looks around, as if hoping some stray lady might come take me away. They won’t, of course; they are too busy talking about me now that I am no longer there. It will be impossible to pry them from those conversations for an hour at least.

“No,” I say, ignoring the verbal nudge to leave them to it. I won’t be leaving this scene until it has come to its conclusion.

“Ma cherie, I do not wish you to see this. These are brutal matters that might frighten you,” Armand says, taking a step toward me, trailing the sword behind him, almost as if he doesn’t want me to see and notice it.

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