Page 49 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

I smile at him. “I can do that myself. You were sweet to offer this morning, but I do not expect you to keep doing my hair for me.”

His brows rise. “Because it’s women’s work? Or because I’m not very good at it? Because I assure you, I do not mind in the least, and the more I do it, the better I will get.”

My smile widens, and I take the chair and let him remove pins to redo my waist-length hair for dinner.

“As for ‘women’s work,’” I say, “I find it odd that the Caledonians employ such a structure and then belittle the wolves who work those positions. Would there not be men who’d happily wield a duster instead of a hoe? If the indoor jobs were held in equal regard, I would think there would be volunteers. Or perhaps I’m missing some nuance.”

He brushes out a coil of my hair. “Then I am as well. It is entirely a matter of how they would be treated, which seems to be ‘not well.’ I’d happily choose a duster over a hoe myself. I will say, I find the entire structure…”

“Distasteful?”

“Yes, but also a recipe for dissatisfaction. They can say they’re basing it off the British system of class and birthright, but are we not seeing the dismantling of that very system?” He shakes his head. “I certainly wouldn’t stay.”

“Even if your family name confers status?”

“Especially then. I wish to earn my status, not have it handed to me.”

I tilt my head back to grin at him. “How very American of you.”

“Having met Americans, I can safely say they have abandoned the worship of nobility to pray at the altar of money instead. They have their princes and dukes and lords—who own vast businesses, with factory workers as their serfs.”

“So why is this Pack so successful? Is that really what wolves want? Structure and discipline?”

He runs the brush through my hair. “Why do tenant farmers work for lords? Or factory workers for wealthy bosses? Because the alternatives are grimmer. They don’t want structure and discipline. They want safety and stability. A roof over their heads. Food on the table. Clothes on their backs. A few shillings in their pockets for a night on the town. It’s why the Albion wolves put up with Silas. And this Pack, for all its uncomfortable regimentation, isn’t led by a tyrant likely to murder them on a whim.”

“But, as you said earlier, the fact they may be less than completely happy is good for us, yes?”

In the mirror, I catch his smile, all teeth. He twirls up a lock of my hair and bends to kiss my temple.

“Very good. Hamish’s Pack is too big. He has dissatisfied elements, even more than I’d expected.”

“And an alliance with him would allow him to transfer some of those elements to the Albion Pack, bolstering our ranks while not losing face.”

“Precisely. I might not like what I see here, but I believe it will help our cause.”

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.”