Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
There’s a gatehouse at the main entrance, staffed by a thrall who looks up from her book with a suspicious expression as I pull up. She reaches to her hip to flick the safety off the gun in her holster before she opens the window.
Outside of hunting, I’ve never seen an actual gun in person before. That makes me wish I had thought my actions through a little more before tearing over here.
“Name and purpose of visit.” Her voice doesn’t go up at the end at all. It’s not a question, but a warning that I shouldn’t be here without a damn good reason.
“Um, Bailey Dixon. For Nath—for His Majesty the King. On personal business.” I wince. When I left the house, I was so confident that I could just show up and speak to Nathan. I didn’t really count on hardcore security, but he is a king.
“Do you have an appointment.” Same flat delivery, like it’s not a question.
“No.” I have a strong feeling I’m not getting in, but before the disappointment can wound me too deeply, something else takes over. That strange vibration that fills the air when Nathan and I are near each other. It’s like I can feel him, which is absurd. He’s in a frickin’ castle surrounded by security. He probably wouldn’t know if I was two rooms over in his palatial mansion.
“His Majesty the king—” The guard’s beleaguered denial is interrupted by a tuneless series of chimes. She looks away from me, toward the phone on the desk, and doesn’t take her eyes off me as she answers. She does close the window, but I can still read a few words on her lips. “Bailey” and “no appointment,” are the two easiest to decipher, and I worry that someone is sending down reinforcements. Instead, she hangs up the phone, opens the window, and says, “go ahead,” as the massive black gates slowly part.
The sudden reversal of the situation is unnerving. So is the fact that as I pull up the drive, to where I parked last time, that weird magnetic feeling just increases. Once again, he’s at the door before I can even reach the steps to it. And just like before, I practically melt into a puddle at the sight of him.
It’s obviously his night off from being the pack leader; he’s wearing black silk pajama bottoms and a black wool robe.
I stop at the bottom of the steps and try to make a joke. “It looks like I’m overdressed again.”
“You’re dressed,” he says, gesturing down at his pajamas. “It’s not terribly difficult to outdo me at the moment. I try to have clothes on when I have company, but I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
He doesn’t seem to be annoyed at my intrusion, but I’m still nervous. I don’t know what to say, so I stand there and look up at him, crushed by the weight of the compelling force between us.
With a tender frown, he comes down to meet me. “Bailey…did something happen?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just shown up. I didn’t mean—” I turn away, planning to get into my car and, I don’t know. Drive away, abandon my life, and replay this mortifying moment over and over every night before I fall asleep, forever.
“Wait.” It’s a command, not a request. I turn back slowly to face him, my pulse like thunder shaking my whole body. He comes down to meet me; even barefoot, he towers over me. “You came here for a reason, and you’re here now. Come inside. Please.”
I nod, speechless in my despair. What am I supposed to tell him? That I came here unannounced to beg him for help? It seemed like a good plan at the time but now I just feel like a fool. I’m not even officially a member of the pack yet. Not until my transformation.
“All right,” is all Nathan says as he puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me into the house. His touch electrifies me, and I’m grateful my jeans and over-sized sweatshirt don’t reveal my skin, because all of it is covered in goose bumps. He doesn’t ask any questions as he leads me up the stairs to the private residence and into the sitting room from before.
I’m on the couch with a drink in my hand—vodka neat, he remembered—before he asks again, “Did something happen?”
“Something…” I blow out a breath. “Something stupid. No reason for me to bother you at home. You’re the pack leader and—”
“I’m your future mate.”
The pressure of our strange attraction swells in me and I nearly burst into tears. “Please, don’t say that. Don’t get my hopes up when it might not happen.”
“It’s going to happen,” he states, so sure of himself it’s maddening.
“You didn’t even ask me if that’s what I want,” I lash out at him. At the only person who’s actually interested in getting me out of my mating pact.