Page 36 of Protection of the Pack

I folded my arms. ‘I don’t need an army. I’ll get a certain acquaintance to turn your hair pink again. Or maybe green this time.’

‘Then for both our sakes, let’s hope Mrs Dawes has a second tub. I’m easier on the eyes when I’m blond.’

‘You rocked pink,’ I disagreed.

‘Yeah?’ Manners slid a sideways glance at me and I flushed a little. I turned on the radio to prevent further conversation, and he smiled but let it go. I sang along to Mariah Carey with gusto.

‘Is there anything you can’t do?’ he asked. ‘You’re a social butterfly with model good looks and an amazing singing voice. Not to mention you were an accountant, so presumably you’re pretty damn smart.’ Then he muttered under his breath, ‘Despite evidence to the contrary.’

I decided it would be more diplomatic to focus on the first part of his statement. ‘You think I’m model pretty?’

He kept his eyes on the road. ‘You know you are.’

Hard to dispute that. I use my good looks like a warrior wields armour. They protect me. Men think I’m out of their league and rarely bother approaching me. Women fall into two camps: the first wants to hang out with me, as if my genetic good looks could somehow be catching, and the second type of woman assumes I’m a bitch and leaves me well alone. My innate need to please means I’ve spent a fair amount of my life winning around the second camp. Just because I’m pretty, doesn’t mean I have to be evil.

I focused on Manners’ first question. ‘I’m a terrible knitter. My mum is really into her knitting but I just suck at it. I tried but my tension changes constantly and I’m forever dropping stitches or adding extra ones. About the best I can do is a scarf, and even that would be full of holes,’ I admitted.

‘It’s not the most fatal flaw I’ve ever heard of,’ he commented lightly.

‘Yeah, well, yours is your love of all things sweet.’

‘That’s a proper flaw,’ he protested. ‘For years I had to work really hard not to eat that second doughnut – or I had to work out extra hard.’

I held a hand to my forehead dramatically. ‘Woe is me.’

He ignored me; probably for the best. We drew up to the mansion. ‘Game-face on,’ he advised softly.

I nodded and wipe away the last trace of humour. ‘Let’s go feast.’

We went straight to the formal dining hall. Mrs Dawes’ helpers had started setting out food and the smells were so good they made my stomach cramp with hunger. It took genuine self-restraint not to rip into the nearest chicken leg.

Let’s eat,Esme urged.I’m hungry, and we’re alpha.

We’re human now. It’s tradition to wait for the others.

She subsided, but I could feel her petulance.They won’t be long,I assured her.

Luckily they weren’t and the hall soon filled up. To my surprise, other pack members who hadn’t been on the hunt turned up, including Cassie and a man she was draped all over. Rather uncharitably, I thought that her broken heart had made a rapid recovery. Maybe Steve wasn’t far wrong in his suggestion to look at the spouse first.

I waited until the doors were shut then stood and raised a glass of wine that I really wished I could down in one. ‘Today was an excellent hunt, the first of many,’ I said in a clear voice. ‘The Home Counties pack will continue to go from strength to strength as we work together.’

‘Hear, hear,’ called out Archie, nodding solemnly.

‘Aye,’ said Liam, thumping his fist on the table.

To my surprise, it was Marissa who joined in first. Before long, almost everyone was banging their fists on the table in a cacophony of noise. I tried to note who remained silent: Tristan, Seren and Brian.

I held up my hand and the banging fell silent. ‘Let’s eat!’ I called.

The room exploded into whoops and we all dug in. Unlike Manners, I’ve always had a good metabolism. I can eat and eat without fear of putting on a pound. Sometimes it’s a pain because bitchy comments are chucked my way about how Imustbe anorexic. But nope, just a crazy metabolism that I can’t beat. I don’t know whether it’s from my biological mum or my dad, nor if the metabolism has an expiry date, but I guess now that I’m a werewolf it doesn’t really matter.

The feast went on and the wine flowed. That amazing metabolism has a downside: it is hard for a werewolf to get truly inebriated. Despite that, the younger members of the pack were giving it their very best shot.

Archie staggered away from the table, ignoring his mates’ protests and saying loudly that he was calling it a night. I frowned. He looked really pissed, but I’d only seen him drink two glasses of wine, which was nothing for a wolf. I knew he’d been a druggie before he was blooded; drugs are the only way a wolf can get a real high, and even they have a much shorter effect than they do on our human counterparts. I didn’t think Archie was using again, but he was staggering. I watched him bounce off the doorway, giggling to himself.

I went over to Ace and Lauren, who were slowly circulating around the pack and questioning them. They were following protocol, business after the hunt, so I had no right to stop them, but they were impinging on the party atmosphere I was trying to create. Time to give them a new target.

I crossed the room with a ready smile, a weapon as sure as our claws.

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