Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
I tell myself I’m strong. So strong, in fact, that I have survived the events of the past twelve days and soldiered on.
I discovered I had a father … who lied to me, betrayed me, married me off for grandsons, murdered my aunt in front of me, ordered the death of my mother nine years ago, and threatened to murder me, too, not for anything I’d done, but to hurt Bishop.
I survived all that, repaired the cracks, and marched forward. I am not broken. I am not damaged in any significant way. Because I am strong.
I am a fool.
I’m not so deluded as to think I’m actually fine. I didn’t repair the cracks. I plastered over them because that’s what I need to do right now.
Mostly, I do soldier on. More than that, I’ve found my footing. I stand straight when I can, and I have someone to lean on when I cannot.
But when I walk up to that dining hall door, on Bishop’s arm, a little crack starts in my heart and slides into my stomach.
I want to think about how gorgeous my gown is, how handsome and powerful the man on my arm is, how strong and powerful I feel.
But in that moment, time slips, and I’m at Trevelyan, walking into the dining hall for the first time, nervous but excited, still the foolish girl with her heart singing at discovering her father and her werewolf heritage.
That foolish girl was about to discover just how “valuable” she was to her father. And where her value lay.
My steps hitch, along with my breath, and I recover in a blink, but Bishop has already stopped, his hand moving to my shoulder as he leans in. “It’ll be all right.”
“It will. I just—” I take a deep breath.
“Memories,” he murmurs. Then he puts his fingers under my chin and lifts my face to his. “Have I mentioned how proud I am to be walking in there with you on my arm? You are incredible.”
My lips twitch even as my eyes prickle. “You mean I look incredible.”
His head tilts. “That seems limiting. I’m quite certain I meant what I said.”
My eyes well, and I quickly press my gloved fingers to them. Bishop tugs me into a shadowy side hall and puts his hands on my hips as he leans in.
“I know this is difficult,” he says. “I know it is all very difficult. We can slip back to the room and delay our entry. Or beg off and meet Hamish after the meal.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know why I’m breaking down now.”
“Because it reminds you of that first night,” he says. “And everything that followed. Tell me what you need, Delia.”
I look up at him, and at that moment I realize two things.
I can truly be a fool … and I am also absolutely terrified of being made a fool.
I didn’t want this marriage. Neither of us did, and we grieve for what could have been—an exploration of romance that might have led to partnership, by choice.
If I didn’t choose to be here, is it wrong to admit it’s where I want to be?
It feels wrong.
I hate how this happened, but I don’t hate what has happened.
I’ve fallen for Bishop Daniels. I’m head over heels in a way that terrifies me because it slams me into a place where I can be hurt, and I’ve already been hurt so much.
But that’s my problem, isn’t it? That first night after the massacre, curled up on the cold ground, when he thought I was asleep, he whispered what he wanted.
I’m going to give you a Pack you’ll be proud of, Delia. A Pack that will call you my wife and call you my mate … and call you Alpha. The first Alpha female of the Albion Pack.
And yet I continue to fuss and worry and fret about where I stand with him. Maybe that’s how it is in love, that no matter what assurances you have, you know you are giving this person the power to break you.
But that’s the real choice, isn’t it? Choosing to give him that power. To admit this is what I want.
Him. I want him, and if I’m scared, it’s because I scarcely dare imagine having this man who wants me at his side and listens to me and fixes my hair and stops outside a critical meeting, to be sure I’m well, ready to do whatever I need.
What do I need?
“You,” I whisper. “I need you. This. Us. Every time you call me your wife, your mate, I hear that tiniest hesitation, and I’m afraid that’s you, that we’re playing this charade you don’t feel, but it’s me, isn’t it? You hesitate because you know I didn’t choose this.”
He nods, his gaze on mine. “I don’t want to make you feel trapped. I fear that if I call you my wife, my mate, eventually it’ll wear you down, and you’ll give in. I don’t want you to give in. I want you to choose.”
“And you? You didn’t choose this either.”
The corners of his lips twitch, though the smile doesn’t touch his eyes.
“Oh, I chose. I chose the first time you looked at me and saw me, truly saw me, not as your captor or your enemy, but as me. What I didn’t choose was how it went, forced into a marriage before I could convince you that you wanted one. ”
“I want this,” I whisper. “You. Us. I want you to call me your wife, your mate, and to feel no need to hesitate, because it’s what I am. Mate to the Alpha of the Albion Pack.”
Another twitch of his lips. “That’s not quite the impressive title I’d hoped it would be.”
“It will be.” I take his hands. “You’ll get your Pack, bigger and stronger than ever.”
“No,” he says, leaning down. “We will get our Pack.”
His lips come to mine and—
A throat clearing has us glancing over to see Julius and Rufus.
“At least they got close to the dining room,” Julius says.
“We were preparing,” I say. “Where’s Kenric?”
“He decided not to join us.” Julius looks at Bishop and then moves closer, voice lowered. “You can do this. Hamish is concerned about the Cambrian Pack, and you are presenting an alternative. A way to solve multiple issues without him losing face.”
Rufus’s voice drops to a low rumble. “And as creepy as this Pack might be, just remember what that means for the Albions.”
“We can’t possibly be creepier?” I say.
Rufus chuckles. “Yes, which—once this is all over—sets you up as a very viable option for all wolves.”
“That’s my goal,” Bishop murmurs. He looks at me and when he says “Thank you. That was exactly the encouragement I needed,” I know he’s not talking about growing the Albion Pack.
“We can do this,” I say.
“We can.”