Page 61 of Lycan Prey
“What is for dessert?” Damian asks.
“Caramel custard tart, and he gets none.” my mother explains, and Damian snickers, knowing it’s my father’s favorite.
“Ah, the coveted caramel custard tart,” Damian teases, his eyes flashing with mischief. He snorts, then, noticing my father’s sour face, immediately turns solemn and says with great exaggeration, “I am sorry for your loss.”
My father grumbles something under his breath about ‘disloyal offspring’ and continues eating his dinner. Bree tries to stifle her laughter behind her hand but fails miserably. She ends up in a fit of giggles, her shoulders shaking as she tries to catch her breath.
Mealtime conversation meanders around recent events in the town, and Bree seems genuinely interested. She asks my mother about upcoming events, and I’m pleased to see she is trying to fit in. It’s not easy for her; I know that much, however she’s making an effort to make it feel as though we are truly engaged.
As dessert arrives—the caramel custard tart—the situation gets more awkward. My mother has made two of them. One goes around the table for everyone else while my father watches mournfully as his favorite dessert is passed around without stopping at him. He reaches for it, and my mother slaps his hand, earning giggles from everyone as he watches us eat.
Bree helps herself to a second piece before the plates are cleared away; my mother stalks off with the leftover tart, and Damian rises.
“That was delicious.” Damian rubs his nonexistent belly and laughs, wandering off. Max tries to sneak dad a piece of his tart when Bree casts a glance at the door where my mother snuck off to, sliding her plate to my father. I look at him and then her. If my mother catches her sneaking him that, there will be hell to pay.
My father winks at her, and she giggles; she is a bad influence. My father quickly tucks into his tart while Bree helps Max clean up. Just as she is untucking his chair and helping him up, my mother comes in, spotting my father. We all freeze as she purses her lips. My father shoves the remainder of his tart in his mouth. She stomps toward him and places her hands on herhips. “Anyone would think I don’t feed you.” She snatches his now empty bowl.
“How did you sneak that without me noticing!” Bree tenses, and I smirk, knowing she is about to be put to work by my mother.
“Soren snuck it to me and said your punishment was unjust,” my father lies!
“Did he now?” my mother asks, turning her icy gaze to me. I open my mouth to argue when Max, the traitor, adds his two cents.
“Sure did, Grandma. I even told him not to!” my son adds fuel to the fire. My mother tosses her hand towel from on her shoulder down on the table.
“Right! You know better, Soren! Now you can help do the dishes!” she snaps at me. Me, do dishes? But I am the damn king!
“Come now?” I ask.
“You heard me. Get in there and scrub those dishes. Your father lied to me and said he was busy this afternoon, and I punished him, and you go behind my back and reward him!” she snaps at me.
“I have maids for that,” I remind her.
“Are you saying a king is above doing dishes?” she asks just as the head maid walks in. I grit my teeth.
“Everything okay?” the maid asks, and my mother turns to her.
“Yes, my son was volunteering to help with the dishes. How lovely of him,” my mother tells her.
“Oh, no, that isn’t necessary.” the maid blabbers.
“Nonsense, Soren insists, take the night off,” my mother tells her. The maid glances at me like she isn’t sure if my mother is serious. I know she will pitch a fit if I don’t and probably drag me in there by my ear.
“Isn’t that right, Soren?” my mother asks.
I force a smile. “That is correct, Marjorie; take the night off,” I tell her, grabbing the tea towel my mother tossed on the table, only to find Bree has bailed on the scolding I am about to receive. Oh, she will pay for this when I get to the room. Marjorie rushes off, noticing the tension when my mother steps in my path.
“Really, Soren, you should know better. You may be an almost seven-foot man now, but my knees work just fine. Don’t make me put you over one,” she scolds. I growl at her, and my father snickers behind me.
“I’d like to see you try, Mother. You keep giving me attitude, and I might pick you up and place you on a shelf and leave you there.”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “Is that so?” she clicks her tongue.
“You’ll be my little elf on the shelf,” I snicker.
“Challenge accepted, son,” she clicks her fingers; my father’s personal guards step into the room.
“I may be small, son, but I can still chop you down to size to deliver the spanking you deserve,” she retorts. The guards look at her nervously, knowing if she orders them, they’ll have no choice but to try since they are my mother and father’s sires.
