Page 4 of Royal Protector

I let out a deep breath. Attacking a pack’s village is a heinous crime. It is one thing to meet on a chosen battlefield, but in the homes where they sleep at night? Where the children and our revered elders are kept safe? This is a grievous message against all werewolves.

“Have the other vampire families responded?” I ask, sipping at my bottled water.

Martina tilts her head and makes a so-so hand gesture. “You could say that. The Rougarou Alpha’s sons killed the local leader, and a new one was initiated yesterday, a man called Leo. But needless to say, the trust between the two groups has been shaken to its very core. And even in an isolated incident like this, there’s a ripple effect. Today it might just be an issue in Louisiana, but tomorrow? Distrust could grow and affect the entire country, and then the entire world.” She flicks her wary blue eyes toward me. “You will be needed.”

My stomach sinks at these damning words, but she continues. “They are going to hold a political conference of sorts in New Orleans next week. The current peace treaty will be reviewed and renegotiated, for all families and packs, at least the American ones. It will be a tense situation, and neutral parties will be key.”

I close my eyes, leaning my head back to the wall as fatigue overwhelms me. How flattering to be called a “neutral party” when I wasn’t even given the choice.

I am what the vampires and werewolves call an Untouchable, the closest thing to royalty that our two species have. I represent the werewolves, and another Untouchable represents the vampires.

We live pristine, closed-off lives, unable to identify our Fated Mates, unable to fall in love and start families. We are figureheads, nothing more. We are treated as ambassadors, but little is asked of us unless negotiations become so heated that we are asked to step in.

We are the living equivalent of a tiebreaker.

“I don’t want to go,” I mutter, shaking my head, my dark hair still stuck to my sweaty forehead. “They don’t need us.” A lie, but I’m going to try anyway to get out of this obligation.

“You know that’s not true,” Martina says after a judgmental tongue cluck. “You’re important, Isabella. You’re ourprincesa, a symbol of hope and peace for werewolves around the world.”

“It’s not fair,” I whisper mournfully, and in those three words I can hear my heartbreak, my need for a normal life.

“It’s not fair,” Martina agrees with a somber shrug. “But life isn’t going to be fair. Just when you think you’re doing the right thing, someone is going to come and knock your legs out from under you.”

I stare at the floor mat where she did exactly that move. “Then what’s the point of it all? Why am I even needed?”

“Because you have been raised to be a strategist. You need to stop thinking in terms of fair and unfair, of right and wrong. The future depends on you. That is the only thing you need think of.”

I try to laugh, but it just comes out as a half-sob. “Well, the future needs to hold off until I’ve had a shower at least.”

Martina’s thin lips scrunch together, and I know this discussion isn’t over, but right now, I couldn’t care less. I rise from the bench, stretch my aching legs one more time, and make my way toward the private changing room.

I head to the shower and turn the hot water on as high as it can go, even though I am sweating and my skin is flushed from the training session. I want to burn away this feeling of helplessness. I want to burn away the innate loneliness I’ve known my entire life.

I strip out of my sweaty athletic wear in front of the full length mirror, instinctively covering my chest and groin with my hands, even though there is no one around to see. Chastity and purity are of upmost importance when it comes to being an Untouchable. I’m a figurehead, a symbol—and symbols don’t fall in love. Symbols don’t have sex.

I gaze at my reflection and wonder, am I attractive? Am I beautiful?

My appearance is pleasing to me, of course. I have worked hard to keep myself as healthy and fit as possible, and I take joy in little features that make meme: my dark brown eyes framed by lashes inherited by my mother. The long black curls that bounce over my shoulders. The little birthmark just under my left eye.

They all makemehappy, but would someone else see me as pretty, or am I just a conglomerate of what society says beauty should be? It is something I will never know, because I will never be allowed to fall in love.

I step into the shower, hissing at the burning temperature before my body adjusts and I relax into the stinging spray. I run my fingers through my dark curls, separating out the knots that were tangled in my hairband. The methodical action is soothing, and the outside world drifts away, if only for a moment.

I trail my fingers down to my shoulder, sliding to the sensitive concave area just above my collarbone. I dip my index finger into the hollow, stroking the skin as goosebumps ripple up my arms. Then, I let my fingers travel lower, and my breath hitches from the sensation.

I keep my nails long, cared for by my beauty team who bring along a manicurist weekly. She doesn’t know that my favorite part of having long nails is the way they feel when I brush them across my nipple.

I stroke at the brown bud, urging it into a hardened point. Shivers start to rack my aching limbs, slow at first but growing in a rippling intensity. Heat begins to pool low in my belly, and dampness collects in my most intimate parts.

This is the only pleasure I will ever know, because no hands can touch me but my own.

I move my hands lower, until I’m touching my aching clit. I circle it, teasing the soft flesh around it so that every flick of the sensitive bud builds tension.

As he always does, an unknown man appears in my imagination. Tall and broad, with brooding dark eyes and strong arms, I pretend that he moves my hand away, taking over. His forceful, quick movements quickly bring me to the brink, and I fall over with a gasp of pleasure, muscles clenching around the emptiness inside me.

Reality comes back, and the man’s image fades from my mind, replaced with the sensation of water that’s gone cold and the shiny tiles under my bracing hand. Despite the pleasurable tremors still coursing through my body, I’m overcome with loneliness, and I bite my fist to hold back a sob.

ANTOINE

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