Page 9 of Fangs for the Memories
“Yet,” he adds with a grin which reveals a set of very sharp canines.
“In that case, you’d better buy me a drink,” I say boldly, entirely unsure where this new Grace is coming from.
Hungarian wine, I expect.
Ferenc
The moment I entered the bar, my head began to swim with a scent the likes of which I’ve never experienced.
For the entire afternoon, I’ve been doing my best to avoid the Roka pack, making excuses every time my mother approached me, saying I was inspecting the hotel for purchase.
Once or twice I caught sight of Apa Roka, the old wolf grinning at me before I managed to disappear down another passage.
He wants in on our pack, and marrying me off to his youngest daughter, a she-wolf I’ve been told is very pretty but also very meek and docile, is the way he wants to do it.
Not a chance. The last thing I need is more trouble. Max is bad enough and he’s related to me. A whole other pack coming under my control is not required.
Further, for this whole day, I’ve felt hopelessly uneasy, as if there was something poking at the back of my mind.
But once in the bar, all of that uneasiness slips away, as if I’m shedding my coat.
It’s when I see her, sat on her own. Her long brown hair hangs down her back, almost to her waist, her slim hand wrapped around the stem of a nearly empty wine glass.
She is human, not a werewolf, but something rages inside me at the sight of her.
Something primal, something needy, something which wants to roarmine.
Once I am beside her, it’s as if I’ve been drinking all the wine she has.
Too much wine, which I can just about scent over her own particular perfume.
“I suspect you have probably had more than enough for tonight,” I reply to her suggestion I buy her a drink and look over at the bar keeper, who holds up a single finger before pointing at the cooler in front of her. “And have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry,” she says with the sudden belligerence of someone who has drunk a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. “And anyway, who are you? My mother? I told you I didn’t want company.”
“I may not be your mother, but I would like to make sure you are safe in my city.”
Her nose scrunches up slightly.
“You are definitelynotmy mother.” She gently runs her hand over the lapel of my suit. “Nice,” she says.
“Thank you,” I respond.
“Köszönöm.” She smiles. “Armani bespoke? Am I right?”
“You know clothing.”
“I knew clothing.” She removes her hand, and instantly I want to grab hold of it, to feel her skin against mine, to make sure she never gets away. “Not anymore.”
The sadness in her voice is something else. It rips me up from the guts outwards. I feel the growl before I hear it.
“Who hurt you?”
Her eyes, beautiful bright, bright blue, fly to meet mine.
“No one,” she says firmly. “None of your business.” She grabs at her bag, sliding off the bar stool and nearly onto the floor. “Oops.” She giggles.
The sound hits me like a set of claws to the chest, flipping my heart in a way which shouldn’t be possible. Without even thinking, I steady her.
