Page 8 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Simon stepped forward, bowing.

“And Lady Sorcha, you are most welcome,” Lady Winterwell said pointedly, clearly annoyed at not having been greeted before Aidan.

And probably also the fact she had not, in fact, invited Sorcha.

Sorcha curtsied again, as gracefully as she knew how. She had not forgotten the trick of it, after all. Lady Winterwell sniffed, somewhat mollified. Granny would be horrified to know how much they were alike in that moment.

When Simon gulped, his mother’s gaze narrowed on him, flashing like an arrow suddenly nocked to a bow. “Son.”

Simon bowed. “Lady Mother. Father.” No one came forward to embrace him even though he had been missing. And wounded.

Indeed, Lord Winterwell sat back down in his overly ornate chair. “So you finally made it out of that place,” he said. “Took you long enough. Your brother would have been out in hours.”

“His brother never would have gotten caught in the first place,” Lady Winterwell corrected him coldly.

Simon looked so alone. They had no idea what he had been through. How strong and resilient he was under the cravat and the nervous sheen of perspiration. Sorcha moved to join him, but Aidan was suddenly at her side, not quite looming but definitely taking up all of the air. He touched her arm. His fingertips were warm. She refused to notice. “If you join him now in front of all these Pack families, they’ll take it as a declaration that you are mates.”

She halted.

She liked Simon well enough, but she had no intention of marrying him. And being mated was simply out of the question. She might be curious about Lycan society, but she wasn’t that curious.

Aidan turned away as if there were no reason to remain in her presence for a single moment longer than necessary. Indeed, as if he was bored by her. The muscles in his jaw clenched.

Her fists clenched in response before she could remind them not to. Something behind her breastbone ached. Just a bit.

Too much.

“What took you so long to visit your parents and the Alphas of your Pack?” Lord Winterwell demanded of Simon. “You insult your mother.”

Simon’s ears turned red. “I was injured.”

“You look well enough.”

The truth was that he had broken his ankle and shape-shifted back and forth too quickly for it to heal the way Lycan usually healed. But it had saved him from being skewered by a basilisk.

His mother sniffed the air once, cataloguing something Sorcha could not sense. The guests hovered nearby, as curious about the family meeting as they were ancient wolf history. “Your bones set badly.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She sighed. “Disappointing.”

Sorcha didn’t leap at the woman’s head, which was an amazing show of restraint. “And the basilisk?” she snapped, her tone not quite as restrained as the rest of her. This night was definitely not going according to plan. “The one he fought and defeated? Is that also disappointing?”

Lord Winterwell showed a flicker of interest. “The basilisk’s head?”

Sorcha blinked. “Pardon me, Lord Winterwell?”

“No trophy, no glory.”

“I think what you mean to say is ‘well done.’”

He looked down his nose at her. “Wolves do not coddle their children. We do not reward failure.”

Sorcha’s hands curled into fists. She happened to know that wolves did, in fact, coddle their children. As did ordinary wolves. It was only that the Winterwells were awful.

Aidan was not even looking at her—he was too busy perusing a collection of glass bottles filled with moonwater dating back centuries—but she saw him shake his head all the same.

Before Sorcha could say anything else, Simon spoke, cheeks red. “Sorcha has asked me to stay on at Nettlestone as her wolf.”