Page 52 of Fangs for the Memories
“Ferenc, I can’t believe you left me…”
I glare over my shoulder at her as she comes to a halt when she sees our little tableaux.
Grace gasps, pulling at a pillow to cover herself.
“Werewolves have no issue with nudity,” I murmur to her.
“They might not, but I do!” Grace retorts.
“Mother,” I growl. “Some privacy?”
She bares her teeth at me. “I’ve seen every angle of you, young pup,” she admonishes me. “What I want to see is the young wolf who has caused my son to take leave of all his duties.”
And far from leaving the room, she marches over to the bed and sits on the end, peering around me to get a look at Grace.
Her nostrils flare.
I wait for the explosion. The tears. The recriminations.
“Hello, dear,” she says with a smile.
Grace’s eyes widen.
“So, you finally found her.” Mother addresses me. “Looks like you didn’t need my assistance after all.”
She walks to the door, looking back at both of us with an expression I can’t fathom on her face before she closes it behind her.
“What just happened?” Grace says, her voice a hoarse whisper.
“I don’t know.” I dip my head to press a kiss on her lips. “I think you might have tamed my mother.”
Grace
Can I style this out? Ferenc’s mother has caught us in bed together and somehow that’s resulted in her giving us her blessing?
I’m not entirely sure how I’m supposed to react when we walk through his apartment to the living area and she’s sitting at the end of the mahogany table, sipping a coffee.
I already feel my entire body starting to heat as Ferenc strolls across the room to her. As he approaches, she looks up, and a smile spreads over her face as she spots me.
“Reggeli!” she exclaims and pats the chair next to her.
“Angolul kérem,” Ferenc rumbles.
“Ö Angol? She is English?” His mother claps her hands with delight. “Come, little one, sit next to me, eat breakfast.” She looks me up and down. “You need feeding.”
I’m trying to work out if the last statement has lost something in translation, but her English is so good, it would appear not.
“Thanks,” I say, attempting to appear far more confident than I am as I approach her.
“Mother…” Ferenc says in a warning tone.
“She is yourmate.” The woman turns on him. “She needs to beprotected.” She hands me a plate. “I am Martá.”
“Grace.”
“Ah! Such an English name for such a pretty human,” she says, ushering me to the breakfast buffet.
I hear Ferenc growl under his breath, but if Martá does, she gives no indication, instead talking me through all the options available, emphasizing which ones are Hungarian and exclaiming loudly when I put them on my plate.
