Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I sit back in my chair and watch him as his eyes gleam with jealousy at the very idea of me having ever been touched by another man. He is possessive of me in spite of barely knowing me. That facade of elegance, education, richness, it’s turning to sand in front of me, falling away to reveal the animal who chased me down in the night and refused to let me up, who held me down in the dirt until he was certain he had me captured, and who fingered me into merciless orgasm afterward.
He hates the idea of me having ever been touched by anyone else. I think it would be better for him if I had just come into existence at eighteen years of age, fuckable for him and him alone, then come and joined the other pretty owned things in this big fancy house filled with wolves who are slavishly devoted to him.
I am the only one who sees him differently. I wonder if I am the only one who sees him at all. Is that because he’s not really my mate, or because he is? I am used to watching people build up notions of selves and such. The girls at the orphanage had to do it in order to survive. They had to tell themselves who they were because there was nobody else to do it. The teachers, matrons, director all told us that we were helpless waifs lucky to be fed or clothed or housed at all.
Some of the girls decided they were the product of famous men, sent away because their mothers represented disgraceful dalliances. Their mothers were actresses, singers, models, women more beautiful than these powerful men could bear to resist.
Others decided that they were the progeny of politically unfortunate royals. I knew at least five girls who imagined themselves to be the lost princess Anastasia, in spite of the fact they were born generations after her death.
We never told one another that we were making things up about ourselves. We all played into these little lies that made life feel bearable. It strikes me as being very funny that Armand is not immune to the same process of hiding behind a facade. His has more props. He has the house, the title, the followers, but when I look into his eyes I see the animal, not the man.
That animal is unhappy. Prowling. Sniffing. Wants to get to the bottom of my secret because he knows I have one, and I won’t give it up the way he expects me to.
“You are more intelligent than they’ve given you credit for, aren’t you,” he says. “The way you look at me makes me feel as though you’re looking right through me.”
So he feels me inside him. I like that. I like that he knows I have penetrated him, just as he surely intends to penetrate me.
I give a little shrug.
“I want to spank you,” he says, his lips turning up in a little smirk. “There is something about you that just begs to be spanked.”
“It’s not about me. It’s about you not getting what you want. You want to spank me because punishing me is easier than dealing with the fact that I won’t give you what you want. You’re spoiled.”
Armand
“Spoiled?”
I laugh, not because she’s wrong, but because I never considered the notion before. I was raised from birth to become alpha of this pack. I had all the trappings provided, and all the necessary attitudes installed by my parents, who have now retired to the Aegean.
“I suppose I could be described as spoiled in a certain light,” I say. “But the fact that I am your alpha remains.”
“And the fact that I’m not going to do what you want just because you’re alpha also remains.”
She’s eighteen, going on nineteen. Young to be this bold and sure of herself, but sometimes adversity breeds that quality, though in my experience it is more likely to create the opposite. I can only imagine what she’ll be like when she is more settled here. I suppose it’s down to me to train her to be as I want her to be.
“We will see about that, ma cherie,” I say, remembering how she writhed beneath my fingers. She might be rebellious, but she’s never been handled by me before.
She smiles, and for the first time it feels like a genuine smile. Sitting in my shirt, in my bedroom, full of sass and butter, she is beautiful. I will remember this moment forever, just as I will remember chasing her through the moonlit fields and seeing her for the first time at the auction. Each of those moments revealed a different part of her, like a diamond twisting slowly in firelight with its various facets all gleaming.
“Are you still hungry? Is there a need going unmet?”