Arranged Wolf’s Nanny (Silvermist Wolves #4)

Chapter 1 - Rosalia

The shining black BMW raced through the center of Washington D.C.

, the electric engine slightly too quiet, too unnerving.

In the gap left by the absence of a roaring engine, her father’s staccato jabbing on his phone seemed amplified, aggressive even, and Rosalia fought to keep her face neutral even as each tap, tap, tap threatened to fray her nerves even further.

He’d been like this all the way from Pennsylvania. A furrow in his brow, watery eyes fixed to the screen as his frown deepened and deepened.

He hadn’t looked at her once.

She sighed, resisting the urge to lean her head against the cool, tinted glass, content instead to watch the city racing by.

It was so rare that she got to leave the pack territory.

The last time had been two years ago when her father had presented her to mealy-mouthed human politicians at some presidential inauguration party.

Their eyes had wandered her form as her father talked in political jargon, building bridges and such, a hunger there that seemed to exist in males of human and shifter heritage alike.

She was used to it by now. It had, after all, started when she was all of fourteen or fifteen.

And she had no doubt at all that her father had brought her along for no other reason than to dangle her in front of those sagging old men as a shiny thing to distract them from the policies they were agreeing to.

It would likely be the same today. The only difference was that she was walking into a den of other shifters, stripping her of the reassurance of her ability to defend herself against wandering hands or lingering touches.

Her father had chosen her outfit. It was tasteful and elegant, an emerald-green silk day-dress that complemented her dark hair and pale skin and made her mossy eyes shine bright.

She had dutifully fixed her hair and makeup to match, and slipped some delicate cream heels on her feet.

He had insisted on diamonds in her ears and at her throat.

A delicate silver bracelet engraved with the Green Mountain Pack sigil. A sweep of red lipstick.

The perfect portrait of a classy heiress, the beloved princess of a rich and influential pack.

She felt like some bauble on display for purchase.

“Christ alive,” her father muttered, and her muscles tensed.

“Is everything alright, Father?” she asked, her voice gentle, carefully trained to be melodious and unassuming.

He grunted, stabbing at his phone a few more times before dropping it next to him, rubbing his forehead, and leaning back.

“The fucking debate on human-shifter military alliance has been moved up. I’d hoped to catch Edward and Paul beforehand, get a sense of their appetites, but now I won’t have any time. ”

She swallowed, watching his wiry hand carefully as he massaged his brow. “I’m sorry to hear that, Father. That must be frustrating for you. Is there anything I can—”

“Not that it matters,” he interrupted, an ugly expression twisting his features. “No doubt Felix will vote in favor of the alliance, as he always does. And the rest will follow him like sheep.”

Rosalia looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap.

A small chip in her nail polish caught her eye, and she discreetly covered it with her other hand.

“I’m sure the other Alphas will listen to what you have to say, Father.

Surely, they won’t just blindly agree to a policy they don’t believe in. ”

He huffed. “Stupid girl. That’s not how these things work. You’re best off keeping your mouth shut. I don’t want you making me look like a fool.”

She kept her eyes fixed on her lap. “Of course, Father.”

She felt rather than saw him turn towards her, his icy eyes cold and penetrating. Peeking at him from under her lashes, she recoiled from the blatant distaste etched into the hard line of his face.

“I’m serious, Rosalia. Our pack is on the brink of expanding in influence and power, and these meetings are utterly crucial to our continued rise. I won’t have all my years of hard work undone because you fail to keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?”

She bit back the retort that bubbled up—why did you bring me with you if you’re so worried?

Instead, she bowed her head, murmuring, “I understand, Father.”

After all, she knew why he had brought her.

Some of the most powerful packs in the country were part of the Eastern Alliance. Proximity to Washington, the lure of the Appalachian mountains, and the vast forests all provided the perfect breeding ground for old, powerful packs to grow. The Black Claws, the Stonewheel Bears.

The Iron Walkers.

Her father’s mission had always been for Green Mountain to ascend to the lofty heights of such packs, and he’d been making great strides in building ties, if the talk back home was to be believed.

But he still had one arrow left unused in his quiver.

One political tool so far unused, but arguably more powerful than any of his other weapons.

A daughter to marry off. And with her reaching the ripe old age of twenty-three, his time was apparently running out.

The car rolled to a halt outside the Willard Intercontinental, and Rosalia’s breath caught in her throat as she peered up at the towering hotel.

Immaculately groomed trees curled around the entrance marquee, golden light spilling out from the gilded entrance, and several young men in sharp suits rushed over to open the car doors and gather their luggage.

Rosalia accepted one young man’s hand as she swung her feet out onto the pavement.

Once standing, she smoothed her dress, checked her jewelry, and patted down any errant hairs that had been blown astray in the gentle breeze. Her father stalked to her side, looking her up and down with calculating intensity before buttoning his suit jacket and striding ahead of her into the hotel.

She allowed herself one small, sharp breath in, then followed him inside.

The opulence of the place made her dizzy.

Persian rugs covered the gleaming tiled floor, pillars craned above her, sweeping high into the ceiling, and an enormous front desk swept out from the far wall.

The receptionists behind buzzed around like flies, plastic smiles plastered on their faces as they dealt with the assembled guests.

Rosalia breathed in through her mouth as a wall of alpha scent crashed into her.

The hotel had obviously tried to anticipate and mitigate the impending Alliance meetings by placing riotous explosions of roses, lilies, and freesias everywhere, but the sickly-scent clogged in her nose and clashed sharply with the musky, woodsy scent of the assembled males.

The assembled males, who had just noticed her entrance, turned to her with blatant interest.

Focus on your footsteps. Don’t make eye contact. Float above it all.

“Paul,” her father bellowed, clasping the arm of an older male, his face splitting into an easy grin. “How are you? It’s been far too long!”

“John,” Paul returned, smirking as he shook her father’s hand. “Of course, I can count on you to also arrive early.”

“Nonsense, we’re right on time,” her father responded. “How is Delilah, have you brought her along?”

“To this shitshow? Not a chance,” Paul replied. “But she is well, thank you for asking.” His eyes flickered past her father, landing on Rosalia, narrowing slightly as he took her in. “Who’s this?”

Her father glanced back, eyebrows furrowing as if he’d already forgotten Rosalia was there.

Still, he plastered a doting smile on his face, extending an arm in invitation for Rosalia to step forward.

She did so cautiously, lifting a hand for Paul to take.

He accepted, his eyes not leaving hers as he bent over it to brush a kiss to her knuckles, the whiskers of his patchy gray beard scraping her skin.

“This is my daughter, Rosalia.”

“A pleasure,” Rosalia said, dipping into a slight curtsy, not missing the sparkle of perverse delight in Paul’s eyes at the old-fashioned gesture. She ignored the stares boring holes into her from every angle.

“The pleasure’s all mine, believe me,” he said, cocking his head. “Where have you been hiding away all these years?”

She opened her mouth to reply with something appropriately self-effacing and mild, but her father jumped in, “My daughter is very dedicated to her pastimes. Piano, oil painting, poetry recital, that sort of thing.”

“Poetry, eh?” Paul smirked. “Don’t suppose you know any Catullus? That’s the only poetry I recall from school. Remember the ones, Johnny?”

Her father cleared his throat. “I can’t say I do.”

“Sure you do, you know what I’m talking about! Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo! Do you know your Latin, girl?”

She scented her father’s sharp spike of anger.

Rosalia smiled faintly at Paul. “If we’re discussing the Roman poets, I always admired the lyricism of Ovid.”

Paul hollered, slapping his knee. “Lyricism, she says! There’s plenty lyrical about I will sodomize and face-fu—”

“Quite,” her father interrupted, a familiar steeliness entering his tone, one that made Rosalia’s hands clammy and her throat seize up, “but perhaps we should leave such conversations for more…appropriate company?”

Paul rolled his eyes, throwing a wink at Rosalia. She supposed he meant it to be charming, but with his sagging jowls and thinning tufts of hair, she rather thought he looked like some sort of demented turkey cocking its head.

“Alright, alright, but you can hardly blame me. She’ll be in for a hell of a lot worse with some of the others. You’ll want to keep an eye on her.”

“Thank you for your kind advice,” her father said, placing a hand on her back. To an onlooker, it must have looked protective. Affectionate, even. All she could think about was the threatening dig of his fingers into her spine.

“I’m serious,” Paul said, glancing around the room. “There are all sorts here. Those Black Claws wouldn’t hesitate to steal her away from under your thumb.”