Page 1 of Torin

1

Hannah

Not called a “wedding”, apparently.

Because you don’t marry a man who’s half animal. You mate with him.

I laugh dryly at my reflection in the mirror. She stares back at me with hollow eyes.

There’s a stupid crown of flowers on my head. Under it I’ve got the most ridiculous blowout of my life, courtesy of my groom’s little sister, Tasha. My usually wavy ginger hair has been dyed brown—because shifters aren’t ginger, she told me, curling her over-glossed lip in horror—and transformed into big, lacquered ringlets.

I’m wearing a long white sheath, and nothing underneath it. The groom’s request. Wanted to make sure he could smell my virgin scent.

I’m supposed to be barefoot, too. But not happening. My favorite ancient boots are hidden under the dress, and unless somebody gets down on their hands and knees to check, they’re staying.

There’s a knock at the bedroom door.

“You ready?” a coarse voice hollers.

“No.”

The handle turns anyway. Tasha strides in, six feet of shifter princess poured into a silver dress the size of a handkerchief. She’s carrying a bottle of champagne, which she dumps on the dresser.

Her gaze travels over me slowly. “Hair’s better at least,” she concedes.

“Phew.” I lay a hand on my chest. “Wouldn’t want my natural coloring to disgrace the family.”

Her eyes narrow, but she lets it go.

Music pulses through the floorboards below. Outside, an engine rumbles up the drive, followed by slamming doors and a burst of laughter. The whole compound is awake tonight.

All for me.

Tasha reaches out to adjust my crown. Her nails scrape my scalp.

“You should smile more,” she says. “You look like you’re headed to your execution.”

“Maybe I am.”

Gold flickers through her eyes.

I stop smiling.

“You know,” she says lightly, “most girls around here would kill to be in your position.”

I think about the bruised girl whose body was pulled out of Blackwater Creek last month. Nineteen years old, with her throat torn open. Official cause of death: animal attack.

“Lucky me.”

She plants her hands on her hips. “Your dad’s asking for you downstairs,” she says. “And Cade’s getting impatient.”

My stomach twists at the sound of their names.

She sighs impatiently. “You need some Dutch courage or something?”

I do.

Just not for the reason she thinks. I think about the dark mountain roads outside. My truck hidden behind the workshop with the copied files taped inside the spare tire compartment.