How bizarre. Yeah, I realize FJ hasn’t exactly been here long enough to go on a shopping spree or anything. But there are more than enough big men in this house who he could borrow clothes from. You’d think, considering he came from a culture that places a lot of value in wearable clothes, he’d be interested in some of the more comfortable attire of this era. But apparently, FJ is dressing exclusively like a businessman now.
No, not like a businessman, I realize, regarding the suits. But like an Alpha. A man who knows he’s going to be in charge of shit no matter where he goes.
The thought sends a sharp chill up my back. But even that’s not enough to distract me from the hunger now gnawing at my gut.
I slip one of the white dress shirts over my head and head down to the kitchen, where I find a whole box of bright orange Hostess cupcakes in Uncle Tikaani’s not-so-secret stash. I rip open the first cupcake package and bite into it, savoring the familiar collection of chemically-perfected ingredients as they hit my food-deprived tongue.
But it just doesn’t taste very satisfying to me in the moment, and it feels like my hunger is still clawing at me after I eat the first one.
Ugh, this is no good. I wonder if I’ll have to go into town. What time is it, anyway? It’s dark outside, but it might not be too late. Alaska winters mean super short days, and I’m not sensing or smelling anyone else on the main floors of the house. Which means they could still be below stairs, waiting out my heat as wolves do.
But when I leave the pantry, a smell catches my nose. So tantalizing, I feel like I’m following a cartoon fragrance swirl to the refrigerator…where I find an entire roast chicken in a Pyrex roasting pan surrounded by a ring of root vegetables.
Obviously a gift meal. Placed there by whom, I have no idea. Janelle, Alisha, and Tu would have beat it out of town with their families as soon as the full moon that released them from my heat thrall was done. The kingdom housekeeping staff is taking a well-deserved break after all those holiday parties, and this really doesn’t feel like Aunt Wilma’s style.
But I’m not one to look a gift chicken in the mouth. I grab the entire pan, plop it on the nearest counter, and go H.A.M. Devouring the chicken and veggies so fast, it feels like only a few seconds have passed when I look down and find there’s nothing but bones left on the plate—
My back suddenly straightens, my wolf going on high alert as I sniff the air beyond the chicken. There’s someone else in the room with me. With our heightened sense of smell, it’s almost impossible for one wolf to sneak up on another without a lot of effort. But I’d been so consumed with eating that someone has managed to do just that. Someone who isn’t Olafr or FJ, or a member of the royal Alaska family.
Unfortunately, I know precisely who it is before I turn and find Uncle Ford standing there with a large cardboard box in his hands.
“Hi, Uncle Ford,” I say. Voice small.
I’m not exactly sure what to do next.
Uncle Ford is a very dedicated beta. So dedicated, he’d opted to stay behind to guard Wolf Lake the few times Aunt Wilma brought her family to Detroit to visit Granddad, back when he was still the Detroit alpha. I knew he’d mated with a local she-wolf and had a son of his own, who now served as Grady’s beta in Oklahoma.#p#分页标题#e#
But aside from those few facts, I didn’t know much at all about my father’s younger brother. Other than he was still willing to do Dad’s bidding when asked.
I take a step back, preparing to run. Back to the room. Back to my mates.
But Uncle Ford shakes his head, more weary than aggressive.
“Relax, girl,” he says, holding up the box. “I brought you some more food.”
So he was the one who left the chicken…
“Th-thank you,” I say, too socially inept and frankly wrung out from being so thoroughly mated to hide my surprise. “That roasted chicken was really good.”
He’s either embarrassed by my gratitude or has as many problems making eye contact as I do, because his eyes stay on the box on his hands as he mumbles, “I’ve got a couple of lasagnas here, too. Still hot. Just took them out the oven.”
So that’s how I ended up sitting across from Uncle Ford at Aunt Wilma’s kitchen table, forking a surprisingly delicious lasagna straight out of the pan.
But then he goes and ruins the comfortable moment with a quiet, “You know Wilt ain’t going to let this stand.”
And just like that, I lose my appetite. “It’s okay,” I answer, setting my fork down. “I’m going to go back with them to their time. I already decided.”