Page 4 of Big Bad Bully
She usually knows better than to disturb me.
“What is it?” I snap, hurriedly closing the phone.
“Your–uh…Mr. White the Second is here to see you.”
The second.
As in, my dad.
What the fuck does he want?
I stand from the desk, instinctual respect too beaten into me to deny him that courtesy. Not that he deserves it. “Send him in.”
My dad strides through the door.
Just the sight of him brings on a self-loathing rage. This is the asshole I was born to. I carry his odious DNA in my blood.
William, Bill, White II is a tall wolf–six foot two, and despite the greying at his temples, he still looks every inch the alpha of his pack. He reeks authority. Cruelty. Entitlement.
I never quite reached six feet despite the synthetic growth hormone he fed me during my childhood. But I did grow strong. Not because of all the beatings and tests he put me and my wolf through but despite them. My sister helped me survive him, and I chose to thrive. To escape.
Now, I stay behind my desk rather than come out to greet him. It gives me a position of power in the wall-to-wall windowed executive office.
That’s right, asshole–the son you tossed away is a Wall Street billionaire now. Second in command of the largest and most powerful pack in New York. A far cry from your backwoods Maine pack now.
I’ve worked at Moon Co since we helped Brick start it while still at Yale, but my dad has never been to Manhattan to see me here.
Until now. What does he want?
He takes in the office and my power position with a sneer.
“What are you doing here?” I skip the niceties.
“Your mother wanted me to say hello.”
My mother. The meek rabbit he mated to solidify his position as alpha. Her dad was the previous alpha. Another cruel leader, as I recall.
It certainly wasn’t a fated match. Their union was arranged. A strategic union for both my dad and my grandfather. My mother had absolutely no say in the arrangement.
Medieval much?
“What are you doing in New York?”
“I had some business to attend to.”
Something about the vagueness of his comment sets off alarms in my head. What business could he have here? Something that had to be done in person.
I draw in his scent through my nostrils, knowing full well it will trigger a trauma response.
It does. My body goes into a kind of shock, ready to fight or be beaten.
I have years of practice in working around my triggers, though. I examine his scent for traces of others in it. I catch the stench of New York–car exhaust and hotel lobby. Humans out on the street.
Nothing else.
Fine, I’ll bite. “What business?” I demand.
My dad casts a cruel smirk at me. “You gave up the right to inquire about my business when you abandoned your pack.”
