Page 62 of Depraved
I try to fight off the revulsion that hits my stomach as soon as I see the lit box.
I shuffle past them and make myself a cup of tea, brushing off Matthew’s offer to do it for me. The counter is really the only place to sit at in here, and I’m kind of hoping one of the alphas will take the box away. Of course, they don’t. Pluto just sets his sandwich plate on top of it as they keep whisper-talking. As if I don’t have wolf-hearing, same as them.
I sigh and end up bringing my teacup over to the counter, sitting down and gazing blearily at Matthew.
He gives me a sympathetic grin. “Alright?”
I shrug.
“You know, most of the pack is feeling the same way. It’s been hard.”
I nod in agreement, staring at some of the speckles on the marble countertop.
“I think they need something to look forward to, don’t you? Something happy and hopeful?”
“Mmm,” I make a noise of agreement as I take a sip.
“Can you help me plan something for them tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I say, my eyes darting back to the box of fingers. Yeah, we could all definitely use a distraction fromthat.
Pluto takes a huge bite of his sandwich, and a piece of tomato falls out of the sandwich, misses his plate and plops onto the trophy case.
“Whoops.” In guy fashion, he employs the five-second rule and grabs it, popping it back into his mouth even though his tomato just touched a serial-killer’s toy box.
Gross.
“Planning to eat some ladyfingers with your late-night snack?” I ask, pointing at the box.
Both alphas freeze before turning to stare at me in shock. Even Matthew lifts his head, though he doesn’t stop layering turkey and roast beef for a second round of sandwiches. “A little too gruesome. Gonna have to give you the finger for that one.” He flips me off and winks.
Warcraft curses. “Dammit. I was gonna say that.”
“Didn’t put your finger on it fast enough,” Pluto quips.
“Dammit!” Warcraft cries again.
The room erupts in the sort of gallows laughter born of late nights and dark subjects. It brings a little levity to my chest and eases that fear inside for a moment.
I carry that lightness with me throughout the morning as I go on a run and then shower.
Later that afternoon, Matthew collects me from my attic room—where I’m curling my hair—by saying, “Elena, time for party planning. Remember you promised to help me?”
I swallow a grumble and don’t whine about a nap as I follow him downstairs to a drawing room on the first floor I didn’t even know existed.
I gasp when he opens the double doors because it looks like it belongs on the set ofBridgerton, all kinds of posh furniture edged in gold painted curlicues. Even the side lamps dangle with crystals.
I’m awed by the massive fireplace and the oil painting of a gray wolf on top of a hill. The artist captures the movement of his fur in the wind perfectly as the wolf stands on top of a rock and gazes down at a steepled village lit by old-fashioned gas lamps. A human might see this painting and say the creature is ominous. But as a shifter, I know what’s really happening. This is one of our old alphas, and he’s keeping watch over the town.
Matthew escorts me to my seat, a fancy, swoop-backed couch that’s less comfortable than a boulder, as my mother and the wedding planner walk in.
My stomach immediately curdles.
What the fuck?
I wish I could shoot lasers from my eyes because then I’d burn the word ‘traitor’ into Matthew’s forehead. This is what he meant when I was half asleep last night and he talked about planning something happy and hopeful? I thought he meant like a fucking pool party.
Dammit.
