Page 60 of Lycan Prey
“We are going down for dinner,” he tells her.
“That’s where I’m headed,” she tells him, glancing at me before her eyes go past me to my father. She takes a second look at him and blinks like she is wondering if she is imagining my father’s makeover. She presses her lips in a line, trying to stifle the laugh.
“I see we are all dressed up for dinner. You look amazing, King Alaric,” she tells him.
“I snuck in a nap; don’t tell Maribel, though. I promised to take her into town but ran off with Max instead, saying I was babysitting for Soren.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” she tells him, and Max chuckles, covering his mouth with his hand.
We make our way to the kitchen. The scent of roasted chicken wafts through the dining room as I pull out a chair for Bree. The dinner table is covered in steaming dishes, and my father moves to the head of the table and waits. Max sits beside Bree as she sets him down.
“Thank you, Soren,” Bree says softly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as I tuck her chair in just as my mother walks in with another dish. “I decided to help,” she announces. She probably just annoyed the staff as she tried to take over everything. The woman never stops; she is always busy.
“Everything looks delicious, Maribel,” Bree compliments, bringing my mother to life with a pleased flush on her cheeks.
“Call me Ma, dear. You’re about to be my daughter, after all,” my mother insists, passing the mashed potatoes to Bree. “And you must join me tomorrow. There’s a quaint little row of shops in the mall we simply must explore. I also want to find some more lace for the table arrangements.”
I watch as Bree nods, a grateful glint in her eye for the distraction.
“I would love that. Thank you.” Her voice is genuine, and it eases a tension in my chest I hadn’t realized was there.
“Of course,” Mom continues, her ever-present excitement taking center stage. “A little mother-daughter time could be just what you need.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. I spear a carrot and focus on the patterns in the grain of the wood table, trying to ignore the way my father raises an eyebrow at me from across the table. They like Bree, maybe too much, and I know it will kill my mother when she learns we aren’t really engaged.
“Sounds fun,” I manage to say, offering a small, encouraging smile to Bree. She returns it, though hers is tinged with an uncertainty that makes me want to reach out and steady her world. I don’t. Instead, I pass the bowl of green beans to my father, who also points to the gravy. Max leans over, handing him the bowl, which my mother catches as he nearly topples on the table. She passes it on to my father, finally taking in his face.
“I thought you were watching Max?” my mother inquires, and my father freezes, about to pour his gravy.
“I was. We were in the playroom,” he says, drowning his dinner in the thick gravy.
“And you watched him by yourself?” she asks.
“Yes, Soren was… on… on a very important phone call, love.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “You know how busy he is.”
“I told you to bring Max; at least someone would have watched him if you had come,” my mother snaps.
“I told you I was watching the boy. Ask him. We were in the playroom.”
“Well, you couldn’t have been watching him too well!” my mother quips, turning her attention to Max. “Max, darling,what was dear Grandpa doing while you played by yourself?” my mother asks.
“Catching flies!” Max says, then imitates my father sleeping with his mouth open and snoring.
“Is that right?” my mother asks.
My father cuts him a glare. “You little traitor, you gave me away.”
“No, Alaric. You gave yourself away by not checking a mirror before coming down here,” she tells him. He looks at her confused, and Bree averts her gaze, trying not to laugh. My father snatches up the gravy boat, using the stainless-steel surface as a mirror, and gasps. He looks at all of us in disbelief that we never told him.
“And for your lies, you are not getting any of my caramel custard tart I made.” She huffs, and my father folds his arms across his chest, pouting like a child. She taps his plate with her fork before cutting off a piece of chicken.
“Eat up, dear,” she tells him, taking a bite of her chicken. We eat in near silence, barely keeping up casual talk, before my brother finally enters.
“Finally, you join us for dinner, son,” my mother says. Damian grabs a plate and serves himself.
“What’s with the war paint, Pa?” he asks, glancing at my father.
“Never mind him. He is sulking about dessert,” my mother tells him.
