Chapter Ten #2
I shake my head. “I understand my father’s concerns, and I appreciate them. As I appreciate the lovely wardrobe he provided. And the books.” I smile. “There was even one I was admiring just the other day.”
“Yes, I—” He clears his throat. “I’m glad you found it all to your liking.”
“I did. My father is both generous and considerate.”
A pause, long enough to have me looking over before he nods abruptly. “Yes, of course. Generous and considerate.”
His tone is strained, with a note of… something?
“Chin up,” Bishop grunts before I can pursue it.
Those words could be encouragement and reassurance. They aren’t. He means we’ve reached the great hall, laughter and loud voices booming through the closed double doors.
Chin up.
I take a deep breath, straighten, and prepare for my first grand performance.
Bishop thrusts open both heavy doors, as if they’re made of paper. They swing wide, and when I walk through on his arm, the room falls silent. Every eye swivels our way, and I keep my gaze unfocused, walking with my chin up and what I hope is a pleasant and relaxed smile on my face.
The room is as large as any I’ve seen in a private home. Like the rest of the house, it’s wood-paneled. Here, though, there are portraits on the walls. Endless rows of male portraits, another reminder that I’m in a house of men.
And, to drive that point home, there’s the table—an oaken monstrosity ringed by over two dozen men. Each wears his best, from full formal wear to ill-fitting borrowed evening jackets.
So many werewolves. So many men. There have always been men in my greater supernatural circle, but witches are like werewolves in that way—we’re raised by our own sex, and within the confines of our homes, anyone of the opposite sex is a servant.
We never even had that, our only male staff being the messenger boy, who rarely came indoors.
Everything about this house screams that it is by men, for men, and that sets me off-kilter.
This isn’t a dinner or a dance, where there might be just as many fellows in attendance, but I stay mostly with the women.
There are no other women here. Just two dozen men, all of them fit and powerful werewolves.
They might be relaxed and calm, but I can feel the danger pulsing in this room, the reminder that I couldn’t escape if I needed to.
“Cordelia!” My father’s booming voice echoes through the silent chamber. As he strides our way, I turn and fix my smile on him, reminding myself that I’m the Alpha’s daughter. I’m safe here.
My father claps Bishop on the back, and the younger man eases away, as if that was his cue to step aside.
My father puts one hand on each of my shoulders and holds me out for a once-over. Then he leans in and whispers, “You look stunning, my dear. So much like your mother.”
That melts the edge off my discomfort. He offers his arm and leads me to the head of the table. His seat is empty, as is the one to his left. On his right sits Bishop, making him literally the Alpha’s right-hand man, with Henry Cain beside him, the enforcer’s demotion painfully obvious.
Beyond that empty left-hand seat sit two men, one gray-haired and elderly, the other middle-aged with dark hair and quick eyes. The Pack advisor and financial controller, I presume.
My father pauses at the head of the table, and all side conversations instantly stop.
“I know some of you met her last night, but I’d like to officially introduce my daughter.
” He beams at me. “Miss Cordelia Levine, of the famous—should I say infamous?—Levine witches. I’ve waited for this day for more than twenty years.
” His smile softens as he gazes at me. “I only wish it could be under better circumstances.”
He turns to the Pack. “As most of you know, my daughter is under threat. There’s a plot by a foreign Pack to steal her away.”
A rumble ripples along the table. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry smirk. His gaze shoots to Bishop, who stares straight ahead, his face impassive, but there’s something in his eyes…
I can’t decipher the look. Then he catches me watching, and with a blink, his gaze goes blank.
“Naturally, we won’t allow that to happen,” my father continues. “I have a plan for safeguarding my only child. First, though…”
My father pulls out my chair—the empty one on his left—and motions for me to sit. Then he gives an offhand wave, and four women enter: Marjorie, Ann, and two others. All bear platters so huge that I’m amazed they can carry them.
I expect the women to set the platters on the sideboards, but instead they walk to the table. When one young man puts a hand on Marjorie’s arse, his neighbor elbows him hard, casting a look my way, and the young man quickly lifts his hands to the table and tries to look innocent.
The women lay the platters down with a solemnity that—judging by that young wolf’s casual fondle—is for my benefit. The maids remove the lids and retreat, leaving platters covered with roasted meat. The smell sets my stomach grumbling, as if I didn’t just enjoy a huge breakfast a few hours ago.
A young wolf reaches for a drumstick, only to be elbowed by his neighbor. The women return with more platters, these piled with vegetables, cheeses, and breads.
The women leave again, and there’s a long moment of silent stillness, almost as if everyone is waiting for someone to say grace. Then my father says, “Eat,” and the other end of the table erupts, forks and hands grabbing food so fast I expect stab wounds.
At our end, Bishop pours wine, my father fills both my plate and his, and everyone else waits patiently until the Alpha has taken what he wants.
As we begin to eat, I glance at the raucous scene down the table.
Wine sloshes. Knives and forks flash. Laughter mingles with belches and good-natured curses.
My father and his inner circle continue as if we’re at a fine dinner party and the rest of the table doesn’t exist, and the dichotomy is so stark that I need to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
There’s no cursing at our end. Certainly no belching. Conversation is civil, which means it proceeds primarily between my father and the two men to his right—the advisor and controller. Henry eats in silence. Bishop speaks when asked a direct question, but otherwise, he only listens.
I soon find myself aching to be at the other end. I’m dining with werewolves, and I’m enduring the sort of deathly dull conversation I’d expect in Mayfair.
I feel as if I’ve been dropped into a play written for me. A facsimile of a society dinner party, appropriate for the Alpha’s genteel daughter.
I long to tell them not to stand on ceremony. Can we discuss tonight’s hunt? Tell me more about that. Or tell me stories, as loud and vulgar as the snatches of those I hear from down the table.
I’m a werewolf’s daughter. Show me what it is to be a werewolf. To eat and bicker and joke and curse and belch with abandon.
Finally, the interminable meal comes to an end. There’s no dessert, which is a hard disappointment. If they insisted on imitating a London dinner party, at least they could have included sweets or ices. Instead, my father pours brandy for the men… and more wine for me. I inwardly sigh at that.
Once the drinks are served, my father stands.
“Tonight is about welcoming my daughter,” he says. “But I also want to take this opportunity to pay tribute to the man who brought her home.” He turns to Bishop and extends his glass, as if in a toast.
“Seven years ago, a young wolf showed up on my London doorstep. He didn’t plead for admission. He didn’t beg to join the Pack. No, he offered me the chance to have him. For such cheek, I sent him running, and he still bears the scar of that encounter.”
Laughter rings out, and glasses clink. Bishop only sits, his face such studied impassivity that I peer at it, searching for clues and finding none.
“But he came back,” my father continues.
“Again and again, he returned with that same breathtakingly arrogant offer. And each time, he brought me something. Sometimes it was valuable information. Other times, he informed me that I no longer needed to worry about a threat. Eventually, I had to admit that Bishop had earned admission to the Pack, but that wasn’t enough.
He wanted to bring others with him. Others! ”
A round of murmurs, paired with backslaps from down the table, presumably to those Bishop brought.
“Again, I resisted,” my father says. “But the price was clear. If I wanted him, I needed to take everyone. And now I’m about to do something no one at this table has ever heard me do.
” He lifts his glass. “Admit I was wrong. I resisted every step of the way, but Bishop was—gods help me—exactly what this Pack needed. He brought the young blood we sorely lacked. He brought us a doctor. He returned my controller…” A nod to the dark-haired man sitting two down from me.
“One never truly understands the value of a keen financial mind—and proper bookkeeping—until it’s gone, and I’m grateful to have Claude with us again. ”
My father turns to Bishop. “I sent you running. Again and again, I drove you off. But you never took offense. You understood that it was more than your arrogance I found objectionable. There was also the problem of your family name.”
My father looks at the others. “The Danvers—” He stops and smiles at Bishop.
“Sorry. Daniels. ” A look at the group. “There’s a reason why they changed their name.
And a reason why the Pack exiled the family when Bishop and Julius’s fathers were boys.
Danvers wolves fall at two ends of the spectrum.
Some, like Bishop’s grandfather, are brutally vicious.
Touched in the head and unmanageable. Others have too much going on in their head. Brilliant but soft.”