chapter 3

"Mother, head down, nudges me and I remember to curtsey, wobbling a little. I can’t blame it all on being out of practice. The new king is so handsome he’s knocked the wind out of me.

“Rise,” the new king says, and his accent makes me homesick for London. “Do you remain faithful to the pack?”

I keep my eyes downcast as the three of us answer the ritual question. “Yes, my king and my pack leader.”

“And do you submit to the word of your king and pack leader?”

I can’t help but glance up, and heat floods my face as I find he’s looking at me while the three of us respond. When I tear my gaze quickly away, I still feel his willing me to meet it again. There’s a confidence about him that has nothing to do with his position, an aura that fills the space between us and makes the air heavy as I breathe it into my lungs.

“Yes, my king and my pack leader,” squeaks from my throat. I can barely catch my breath; I wonder how many people have passed out in front of him.

“Do you surrender your will for the good of the pack?”

That’s the question that trapped my parents in their loveless, boring marriage. It’s the question that will lead to becoming Ashton’s mate.

The question that will mean my expulsion from the pack if I don’t make my decision on the transformation, and soon. I can’t invoke the right again. My time is up.

But to avoid the passive-aggressive wrath of my mother, I’m compelled to say, “Yes, my king and my pack leader.”

The king motions my father forward, to the bottom of the dais steps. “As you would bleed for the pack, so would your pack shed the blood of your enemies.” The ancient creed, which always sounded so ruthless to my younger ears, is like a low, sensual promise in the king’s elegant voice. When he extends the royal signet ring for my father to kiss, I fixate on the veins on the back of the large, royal hand.

I remember to curtsey this time, and somehow stagger away, our family’s tribute over. We move toward the doors to the grand ballroom, but whatever lies beyond them doesn’t hold the same fascination as the man I just bowed before, the man to whom I ritually surrendered my will.

Did I imagine the way he seemed to focus solely on me as the three of us stood before him? Did he feel the charge crackling between us or did I invent it from a combination of nervousness and emotional confusion? I’ve never reacted so strongly to anyone at first sight. I can’t even decide if it’s a positive reaction or if he wildly intimidates me.

The majordomo calls the name of the next family entering the throne room, and I decide it’s safe to take one last, quick look back at the king while his attention is on them. But the moment I turn my head, I’m caught.

The king is watching me walk away.

While we eat, Mother, Tara, and Clare fill me in on the new king. My first assumption is the most obvious one: the old king died. But he has a son, and that son is not Nathan Frost, current ruler of the Toronto pack.

“Deposed,” Mother explains, subtly inclining her head and lowering her voice. We won’t be heard. Not over the clink of silverware, the laughing, and all the other gossip floating around. “He mated some ridiculously young thing, not much older than Clare, and installed her as queen. You can imagine how his children felt about that.”

My sister, Clare, sits on my left. She’s the most beautiful of all of us, more regal looking, even, than Mother.

It has been a point of who’s-the-fairest-of-them-all contention in the past.

Clare’s ruby pendant earrings swing as she leans in. “And imagine how his children felt when they were removed from the line of succession.”

I take a sip of my wine. “I still don’t understand how that leads to a random English guy coming in and taking over.”

“Hush!” Mother warns sharply. “He is still your king.”

Across the round table, my sister Tara doesn’t bother to lower her voice. “There was a power vacuum and the Greater London pack stepped in.”

Her mate, Josh, leans over and whispers something to her, and she is instantly subdued. I hate it. He seems like a nice enough guy, but he was brought up in the same society as every other man in this ballroom, and by the law of the pack they have the final say over the members of their families.

Except in one respect. My father’s word wasn’t as powerful as the Right of Accord.

My eyes widen and I glance at Mother. “Are we under occupation?”

“We were under occupation.” Clare’s husband, Julian, is as gorgeous as she is, with nearly identical honey blond hair. He has the same wry tone, as well. “Then everyone got over it.”