2. Graeme #2
My father was different. His face I could conjure without looking at pictures on walls or on pages in albums. He was the one I missed, both then and now.
I could easily bring to mind his booming laughter, his dark brown gaze, and the warmth of his hugs, which had been both grounding and enveloping.
The world was colder once he was gone. If not for my grandparents, I might have turned inward and become silent and brooding, and Stone, neglected by me, might have become selfish or bitter.
The two of us could have become self-entitled and cruel, as many alphas and betas in our circle were, but my father had been an anomaly—born into a wealthy family but raised by doting parents—and so too were Stone and I; we were brought up the same way.
My grandparents had a son who was kind, wise and loving, and they saw no reason to change any part of their parenting style when they raised my brother and I.
When I turned fifteen, my grandfather asked me the question posed to all alphas at that milestone, the same one he’d asked my father all those years ago. “Will it be a female, or male, or you’re not sure yet, or neither for you, Graeme?”
I remembered being scared of what he would think, but as his hazel eyes met mine, I found the courage to reply, “Male.”
“All right,” he answered like he could not have cared less, got up from the table on the other side of his den, walked back to his desk, hit the intercom and told his assistant to make arrangements for several suitable surrogates to be designated for when I was ready to birth heirs.
“Grandpa.”
He lifted his gaze to me from a spreadsheet that had caught his eye.
“It doesn’t matter to you that I want a male mate?”
Instantly I got a scowl. “Why on earth should I care who you want to mate with? The only thing your grandmother and I concern ourselves with is that whoever you choose must be from a suitable family.”
I smiled at him.
“Don’t test me, boy,” he warned brusquely, pointing at me. “You try and bring a struggling actor or singer or, dear God, some kind of half-assed painter into this family”—the shiver of revulsion made me snicker—“and I will toss them out of here so fast it will make your head spin!”
“Yessir.”
“And I will lock you up until you come to your senses!”
I had no doubt he would have followed through on his threats, but as it turned out, I was harder on others than he ever thought of being. I judged everyone quickly and decisively, and if they couldn’t hold my interest, I moved on.
Eight years later, when I returned home from school, first Oxford and then the Sorbonne, and successfully defended my place as cynehlaford , or cyne , king-alpha of a holt —in my case the Davenport holt —I was thrust suddenly into the business of finding a mate.
Yes, we were people living in the modern world, and yet we were bound to ridiculous, antiquated customs that made my stomach churn.
It was one of the things I vowed to change with my position as a ruling member on the Maion , the council of holts that every cyne in the US sat on.
The council reported to our dryhten , our leader in America, who then reported to our konungr , our king, who lived on a sprawling estate just outside of Rome.
It was a lot to keep track of, but it was helpful for humans, especially when things needed to get done, to have specific people to speak to about laws, regulations, and things like education and policy, diversity and the differences and similarities between shifters and non-shifters.
That part of being on the council, I liked.
Being a part of educational opportunities, cross-cultural appreciation and understanding, that was enjoyable.
Going to parties, because as not only an alpha but a cyne I was supposed to be actively searching for a mate or offering for an omega, that part I hated. And then it got worse.
It was bad enough being forced to attend events where I was trotted out like a prize bull for the omegas to gawk at before I’d been disfigured, but when I nearly lost my left eye defending my cousin Remington in an altercation with another family and was left with a particularly horrific scar, the whole thing went from annoying to downright agonizing while all the pretty, preening, insipid, gold digging omegas who wanted to be kept in wealth and splendor, aspiring to little else, not only had to pretend to find me attractive but also had to try not to stare in open revulsion and sometimes outright fear.
It wasn’t easy. The scar was a canyon. The other alpha had grabbed my muzzle in his powerful jaws, held me down with his claws near my eye, and then ripped forward with his teeth.
It was fortunate that he’d been so focused on trying to tear my head off that he didn’t notice when I got both my front paws up under his throat until it was too late.
He drowned in his own blood, but even with my shift, the damage was done.
Irreversible. The greatest plastic surgeons in the world could remake my visage, but the first shift would return the mutilated skin.
It was one of those tricky peculiarities about being a shifter.
So I was now forced to stand there, with my ravaged face, to meet these vacuous omegas who did nothing for me.
I knew I had a type, I preferred my men strong and virile, but there was a reason two alphas were never seen together, at least not for long.
One of them had to submit, and that was not in the nature of an alpha.
It wasn’t that I wanted to fight a bed partner, but having to exert power to hold another man down got me off like few other things could or did.
The issue was that only other alphas caught my eye and earned a second look.
All other wolves were hardwired to defer to me, and that quick submission left me cold.
Yes, I had taken many betas and gammas to my bed over the years, but the temperament of a beta was so gentle and docile, a peacemaker, like my brother, that I was not, as a rule, drawn to them.
A gamma was similar, though with a somewhat wilder streak, but both always succumbed.
And while I enjoyed humans, they were not a long-term option.
I’d shared my bed with more than a few, especially during my undergraduate years, but as they couldn’t heal damage like a shifter could, I ran the risk of biting and clawing, of mauling, or of outright killing them.
The last time I took a human to bed, I got so caught up in a frenzy of arousal and bloodlust while my partner begged me for harder and faster that I nearly eviscerated the man.
I had tried to be careful after that, but tepid lovemaking for a shifter was not sustainable.
There were only two times a wolf could be fully free: during a shift and in bed.
I wasn’t about to sacrifice either, no matter how beautiful I found the human. Being alone seemed to be my destiny.
“Graeme.”
I groaned, returning myself to the present as Miss Holt, Kat to me, came into the kitchen.
She was dressed not in yoga pants or threadbare jeans, an old T-shirt or a sweatshirt with a butchered neckline, but instead in a suit and heels, looking crisp and terribly polished. I girded for what I knew was coming.
“Did we forget that we have a gathering to attend at the home of Alexander and Elira Huntington? They are this quarter’s hosts of the presentation of the omegas.”
Her patronizing singsong voice wasn’t helping in the least.
“Well?” she demanded.
I regretted giving her so much leeway to bait me, but even though I’d given keeping her at arm’s length my very best shot, her warmth and caring and sarcasm and loyalty had won me over years ago. Now we both knew she would never be fired, even though I threatened her with it on a daily basis.
“Are you listening to me?”
I must have winced.
“Why are you fighting this? You know you have to go.”
I knew I did, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. Any of it. Because beyond my irritation with having to deal with the parties, I felt sorry for the omegas themselves.
An omega was not considered an equal partner in the eyes of human or lupine law and was not permitted to marry, so by that same law, there was no divorce.
An alpha could send an omega away to live alone for the rest of their lives, though, only allowing them to see their children if the alpha saw fit.
In short, an alpha owned their omega. It was a bonding.
Marriage was something humans engaged in, as well as alphas and betas and gammas, in whatever configuration worked.
Omegas were excluded from marriage, as they had no rights beyond what was designated in their contract.
It wasn’t fair, and since the laws were made by alphas, change was slow in coming.
The truth was, alphas were always on the prowl for a shiny new omega to claim.
“Graeme?” Kat increased the thread of urgency in her tone.
“You know,” I began solemnly, “I have this tickle in the back of my––”
“You missed the last two gatherings,” she informed me curtly, crossing her arms, “and you told me back in August to remind you in November that you should probably attend since there would be several young alphas from your holt there attending for the first time, as well as your cousin Remy.”
I had a vague recollection of that.
“As cyne , as the heir and leader, you have right of first refusal and must decline an omega any of the other alphas want to offer for.”
It was a protocol older than Rome, the city our king lived in, antiquated and outdated, and yet everyone complied because it affected omegas, and no one cared enough to ratify the laws.
Of course, some of this could be placed on the omegas themselves, and their families, and everyone getting paid.
When exacting change affected income streams, it was like trying to alter the course of a barge.