The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

Chapter 1 Paradise, Unfortunately

Paradise, Unfortunately

Cassie

My sister chose a luxury destination resort to marry my ex because, apparently, family humiliation photographed best at golden hour.

That was unfair.

Technically, she chose the resort because the brochure promised limestone terraces, ocean views, private beaches, seven imported kinds of marble, and “an intimate setting for once-in-a-lifetime romance.” The kind of place where the towels were probably folded by monks.

The fact that she was marrying Grant there was just the little garnish of cruelty on the plate.

I stood outside the resort shuttle with one hand on my suitcase, one heel sinking into the pale gravel drive. Thirty-eight years old, and somehow I had still been assigned a bridesmaid dress by a woman who had already taken my boyfriend.

Life had range.

“Cassie,” my mother said beside me, in the tone she used when she wanted me to remember we were in public, “please fix your face.”

I turned to her. “This is my face.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do, and I resent the accuracy.”

Her mouth tightened.

My mother looked beautiful, of course. She had dressed for the weekend in cream linen, pearl earrings, and the bright, anxious hope of a woman determined to photograph well beside a family disaster.

Her hair was set. Her lipstick had not moved once since baggage claim.

If I cried, she would probably blot me with a cocktail napkin and ask whether I could do it away from the photographer.

Across the driveway, my younger sister flung herself at Grant Carrington.

“Tessa,” he said, loud enough for the nearby bridesmaids to hear. Soft enough to sound intimate on video.

He caught her at the waist and lifted her off her feet.

Of course he did.

Grant was excellent at public affection.

He understood camera angles, hand placement, and exactly how long to hold a woman before it started to look possessive instead of romantic.

He spun Tessa once, set her down, and kissed her temple with the solemn tenderness of a man who had practiced tenderness in mirrors.

Tessa melted against him, several people sighed.

“Oh,” my mother whispered. “Look at them.”

“I am looking.”

“They’re beautiful together.”

“They’re standing in good lighting.” I pointed out flatly.

My mother sighed. “Cassie.”

“What? They are. That is professional-grade sunlight.”

“You promised you would try.”

“I am trying.” I glanced down at my hands. “Nothing is on fire.”

“That is not trying.”

“It is for me.”

She closed her eyes for half a second, likely asking God for patience and maybe a daughter with softer edges.

Tessa pulled away from Grant and saw me.

Her face lit with nervous joy. Real joy, which was inconvenient. It would have been easier if she looked smug. Cruel. Even guilty. Instead, she looked like my baby sister in a white sundress, flushed with love and panic, desperate for me to forgive her before anyone had to name what she had done.

“Cassie!” She hurried toward me, arms open.

I braced myself. Tessa hugged like she meant it. That had always been the problem. She could hurt you and still mean the hug. She could cry on your shoulder about the consequences of her own choices and somehow leave damp spots that made you feel guilty.

“I’m so glad you came,” she whispered.

I stared over her shoulder at Grant. He was watching me. Not Tessa. Me. His eyes moved over my face, my dress, the line of my throat. Slow enough that I knew he wanted me to notice. Careful enough that no one else would.

My stomach tightened.

“I said I would,” I told Tessa.

She pulled back and searched my expression. “Are you okay?”

No, I thought. I am standing on a private island about to spend four days celebrating your union with the man who was still sleeping in my bed when he started sleeping in yours.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Tessa smiled too fast. “Good. I know this is strange.”

“Strange is one word.”

Her smile trembled. “Cassie.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

That was apparently the correct answer, because her shoulders dropped with relief. She caught my hand and squeezed. The diamond on her ring finger flashed hard enough to be rude.

“Thank you,” she said.

I looked at the ring. Grant had bought it six months after telling me he needed to delay moving in together because he was trying to be financially responsible.

The center stone was enormous.

So responsibility had healed.

Grant arrived behind her and slid one hand around Tessa’s waist. I remembered that hand. The weight of it. The casual claim. Grant had always touched women in ways designed for an audience. Waist. Lower back. Neck if he wanted to look hungry. Fingers threaded when he wanted to look safe.

“Cass,” he said.

He had lost the right to call me that around the time he lost track of whose underwear was in his overnight bag.

“Grant.”

His smile widened.

At thirty-nine, Grant still looked good in the way selfish men often did.

Rested. Fed. Moisturized by the emotional distress of every woman who had ever mistaken his attention for depth.

His linen shirt was open at the throat. His hairline looked newly confident, which meant science had joined the wedding party.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

Tessa beamed, because she thought it was generous.

I knew better.

Grant’s gaze dipped again. Not far. Just enough.

I kept my face still.

“Thank you,” I said.

My mother exhaled, she thought we were having a mature moment.

That was adorable.

Grant leaned closer as Tessa turned to wave at one of her bridesmaids. His mouth barely moved.

“Blush was a dangerous choice for you,” he murmured. “Makes a man remember…things.”

There it was, the rot under the polish.

My fingers tightened around the garment bag. I could have turned my head. I could have repeated his words loudly enough for the valet, my mother, and three bridesmaids named something with an A to hear. I could have watched Tessa’s face collapse before the welcome cocktails.

Instead, I smiled, because every woman in my family had been trained to spot the person making a scene before the person making the wound.

If I reacted, I would become the problem.

Grant knew that. He had always known exactly where the walls were and how hard he could shove me into them without leaving a bruise anyone respected.

“How sweet,” I said, just as softly. “You still confuse memory with access.”

His smile held, but his eyes cooled.

Good.

Tessa turned back. “What are you two whispering about?”

Grant kissed her cheek. “Just telling your sister she looks lovely.”

My mother made a soft sound of relief.

I looked at Tessa’s glowing face and said nothing.

A woman in a dark green suit approached before the silence could curdle.

She was tall, silver-haired, and elegant in the severe way of people who had never once rushed for a boarding group.

Her name tag read Mara Holloway, Guest Director.

She carried a tablet against her chest and wore a headset so slim it probably cost more than my first car.

“Ms. Morgan,” she said to Tessa with a small nod. “Mr. Carrington. Welcome back to Halcyon Ridge.”

“Everything looks incredible,” Tessa said.

“We’re pleased to have you.”

Mara’s gaze swept over the rest of us. Polite. Fast. A little too aware.

Mara’s mouth curved by one polite millimeter. “Your rooms are ready. The west wing has been reserved for the wedding party. The east grounds are closed for a private event during your stay.”

“Private event?” I asked.

“A family ceremony.”

“Yours or someone else’s?”

“Halcyon Ridge is a family property.”

That was not an answer. It was wearing an answer’s coat.

Tessa leaned closer to me. “There’s this whole garden section we can’t use, but they gave us the beach terrace instead. It’s gorgeous. You won’t even care.”

“I care a little.”

“Cassie.”

“There is a closed garden at an isolated resort. I feel obligated to care.”

Grant laughed. “She does this.”

Mara looked at him. “Does what?”

“Finds a problem.”

I turned my head slowly.

Grant’s hand stayed on Tessa’s waist.

“Actually,” I said, “I find patterns.”

Tessa’s smile strained.

My mother stepped closer. “We’ve all had a long travel day.”

“We have,” I agreed. “Some of us survived a shuttle driver who took cliff roads as a personal dare.”

Mara glanced toward the driver and the man looked away.

A bellhop appeared at my side and reached for my suitcase.

Young, handsome, silent. He wore the same dark green as Mara, with a silver crest at his collar.

A wolf’s head, I thought. Or something close to it.

The design was sleek enough for branding and old enough to make me wonder who had been paying graphic designers in the Middle Ages.

“May I?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Ma’am.

Wonderful.

Nothing repaired a woman’s dignity quite like being called ma’am by someone with cheekbones and no visible pores.

The resort rose beyond him in white stone, smoked glass, and layered terraces that spilled toward a dark blue sea. It looked expensive without looking cheerful. The kind of expensive that didn’t need gold trim because it knew people would recognize the cost of restraint.

Along the western lawn, workers arranged flowers and lanterns for the weekend. Blush roses, white chairs, champagne buckets, linen-draped bars.

Wedding things.

Soft things.

Further east, beyond a row of cypress and a locked iron gate, black hedges rose higher than the rest of the gardens. Dense. Glossy. Untrimmed in a place where everything else had been disciplined into beauty.

A sign hung from the gate.

PRIVATE GROUNDS. NO GUEST ACCESS.

Beneath it, in smaller print:

FOR YOUR SAFETY.

I read it twice.

“For my safety,” I said.

Mara followed my gaze. “The eastern gardens are not part of the wedding rental.”

“I can see that.”

“They are marked clearly.”

“Nothing says romance like legal boundaries.”

Tessa laughed too brightly. “Cassie jokes when she’s uncomfortable.”

“Cassie jokes when signs threaten,” I said.

Grant leaned toward my ear again, while Tessa turned to accept a glass of champagne from a passing attendant.