Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
A man greets us in a great room. His hair is dark and hangs messily over his brown eyes. The crooked grin on his face makes my stomach tighten. Jesus, he’s hot. Why can’t this guy be my mate? He’s gorgeous, and amusement dances in his eyes. Seems like a fun guy. My heart stutters over itself when he winks at me.
And…my dick is hard.
Great.
I smile back, locking my hands and resting them over my chub.
“Manners,” Dad mutters to me, kneeling in front of the man. “King Thatcher.”
King Thatcher?
My skin flames as I awkwardly drop to a knee. Unbelievable. The guy I’m drooling over isn’t just unattainable, but a king. Talk about having expensive taste.
King Thatcher chuckles, the voice deep and growly, vibrating me to my core. “Please,” he says, still amused. “Come sit. Meet my family.”
We follow him through a series of hallways, and it takes everything in me not to study his muscular ass in his slacks. Stop crushing on a married king, dumbass. I let out a heavy sigh just as we enter a room. A woman lies curled up on a bed, her back to us. There’s a sitting area at one corner of the room. A young girl sits there. No older than five or six.
No.
Panic quells up inside me.
Surely this isn’t what I think it is.
She’s a fucking child!
My heart is hammering hard inside my chest. All attraction to the king is snuffed out as disgust floods through me. I’m pretty pissed at my father for this shit too. Is he insane? Surely he’s not trying to match me to some little girl.
I can feel Dad attempting to calm me through our bond, but it’s so weak since Mom died. I’m able to ignore it because this shit is not okay.
“Darling,” King Thatcher says, running his palm over her dark head. “Go play, will you? The men need to discuss some things in private.”
Relief rushes through me as the girl runs off.
“Sit,” he instructs. “We have much to talk about.”
As King Thatcher and Dad begin speaking of territories, I drift my gaze to the woman on the bed. Her back remains to me as she sleeps. Is she the one I’m to mate with? I cringe at the thought. I’d wanted a man. Someone strong and fearless. Not soft and delicate. A fucking man, dammit.
“You’ve kept him pure, yes?” King Thatcher asks Dad, capturing my attention again.
“Of course. His purity is important to the process. Or so the legend says.”
What process?
“Good,” King Thatcher murmurs. “Theb wants this alliance but…”
“But what?” Dad asks.
“I don’t trust him. He’s a power-hungry incubi shifter who only shows his ‘wolf’ when it suits him. To have one of his offspring mate with a Thatcher…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I can’t have that. You can only imagine what he’d do to such an innocent.”
“I don’t want to imagine it.” Dad leans back in his chair and nods. “I’ve heard rumors it was Theb who’s been causing unrest along the Canadian/US border. Nothing that can be proved, though. Hearsay.”
“Hearsay is enough to cause doubt,” King Thatcher says. “I certainly don’t want to bind my family to his if it’s true. If he’s willing to cause unrest among the shifter community, it’s because he has an agenda. I don’t like feeling as though we’re a chess move in his game. It’s why I’m willing to give my all to this immoral and forbidden undertaking. Your family has always been noble and kind. It makes for a much healthier alliance. That’s all I want for my son.”
Son?
My heart rate picks up, a grin tugging at my lips. Anyone who looks like King Thatcher would be a fine mate, especially if it were a man. I’d only heard of the daughter, but it’s possible he has an older son. I pray he’s my age. Maybe he can come along on my first shift. Filthy images flitter through my mind. Me and the mystery son who looks like King Thatcher. Both of us naked and fucking like the wild animals we were born to be.
For the first time since I was old enough to know I’d be matched to whoever my father saw fit, excitement prickles across my flesh and through every nerve ending.
A baby cries out from nearby, and King Thatcher chuckles. “Excuse me.” He rises to his feet, walks over to the bed where the woman sleeps, and scoops up a wriggling bundle. “Nicolas,” he calls out into the hall. “Bring a bottle, will you?”
Masculine confirmation can be heard and then quiet footsteps. A man. From the sounds of it, he could be close to my age. I’m grinning like an idiot.
“Would you like to hold the baby?” King Thatcher asks. “You can feed him once Nicolas brings the bottle.”
Nicolas. It rolls off the tongue. His voice was rich and deep. I bet he’s hot. You can’t have a father like King Thatcher and a voice like that and not be hot.