He nodded, acknowledging my willingness to cooperate by folding his hands in his lap. He didn’t seem to care that my compliance stemmed more from weariness than from any sense of respect or obligation. “How serious are you about him?”
Irritation flared in my chest like heartburn, bringing with it a tiny spark of courage. “Why?”
“You know why.” He watched me calmly, expectantly, his age betrayed by the crinkles at the outside corners of his eyes and the gray streaks just above each ear. They were the only flaws among his otherwise strong, firm features.
“You can’t just pick a tomcat at random and reserve a chapel.” My head began to ache at the prospect of rehashing the argument we’d started when I was seventeen. “I have no plans to get married. If I change my mind later, that’s my business and my choice. Only mine.”
“I haven’t even mentioned marriage.”
Damn it, why did he have to sound so reasonable? And he’d made me bring up the M word! I closed my eyes, gathering my thoughts and my nerve. “Not today, but I know it’s what you were thinking.”
“You know no such thing,” he said, still infuriatingly poised. “I wasn’t thinking of you at all. I was thinking of him. If you spend too much time with this Andrew, he might think he has some kind of future with you. But he doesn’t, and it isn’t fair of you to mislead him.”
“Maybe I’m not misleading him.”
My father watched me calmly from his chair, demonstrating what I lacked and he had plenty of. Patience. He clearly expected this argument to go like all the others in years past: I would yell myself hoarse, then, when I had no more voice with which to argue, he’d speak his mind. And just like that, another choice would be gone, another path in my life chosen without my input or consent.
Not this time. I wasn’t going to yell or throw a fit. I’d outgrown that. His prying questions had led me to a decision—one of the first important choices of my entire life—and I was going to announce it evenly. Serenely. Maturely.
I was leaving. But I wasn’t going to sneak away in the middle of the night, as I’d done in the past. I’d learned from my mistakes, or at least learned that he’d expect me to repeat them. This time I would make my stand boldly in the light of day, face-to-face with my father and Alpha.
It was simple, really. All I had to do was tell him I was leaving—then convince him to let me go. Of course, that was the tricky part.
I shoved doubt from my mind, ignoring the voice in my head telling me that, as usual, I’d bitten off far more than I could chew. My father would fight my decision. He wouldn’t bluster, or bellow, or roar. That wasn’t his style. Instead, he would deny my “request” and forbid me to leave. When that didn’t work—and it certainly wouldn’t—he’d chase me all over the country if necessary, because he couldn’t afford to lose me. I knew that intellectually, just as I knew emotionally that I couldn’t stay. The Pride needed my uterus but seemed to have no use for the stubborn, opinionated parcel it came in. But I was a package deal—all or nothing.
Bolstered by anger and the intoxicating rush of rebellion, I stood and stepped into the center of the rug, standing directly in front of my father. “I want out,” I said, careful again to meet his eyes. Avoiding them would look like weakness, and I couldn’t afford to appear weak.
“Out?” One eyebrow rose, as if he wasn’t sure what I meant.
“Out of the Pride. Like Ryan. I want to live on my own in one of the free territories. I want to be a wildcat.”
He shook his head slowly, his hands templed beneath his chin, clearly trying to decide how best to crush my dreams. “That life is not an option for you.”
“The hell it’s not.” Nervous even though I’d known what he’d say, I took a deep breath, trying to impress him with my composed, mature stance. “I’m leaving, Daddy.”
Crack.
I jumped, startled by the sudden sound. So much for not appearing weak.
“Don’t be foolish, Faythe.” His voice was low and menacing, warning me not to tread any farther onto dangerous ground. But I was pleased by his transition in tone, because it meant he was finally taking me seriously.
“I’m not being foolish.” My skin tingled a little at my own nerve. “I’m just leaving. I don’t need your money. I have an education and a good head on my shoulders. And you taught me to protect myself. I’ll be fine on my own.” Of course, I could use a ride to the bus station.
His eyes never left mine, but for a moment I thought he might stand. In fact, he seemed to be resisting standing for the same reason Marc resisted yelling. It was an issue of control. If he stood, he’d lose it, and might do something he’d regret. Or at least something I’d regret. “I can’t let you go, Faythe,” he said finally. “Even if I was willing to consider something temporary, like graduate school, I couldn’t do it now. Not until we know what happened to Sara and Abby.”
“I’m not asking for permission.” My smile blossomed, carefully light and casual. And very calculated. “I’ll be in Mississippi, if you want to keep in touch. Or maybe Nevada. There’s still some free territory out there, right?”My head seemed to float, as if it were merely tethered to my body by my neck. I was high on rebellion, an act I should have outgrown along with Kool-Aid–dyed hair and fake tattoos, yet somehow its appeal had only grown. But again that voice nagged me, insisting that no matter how much fun it was to play the escape artist, eventually even Houdini had to come up for air.
Frowning darkly, my father clasped his hands together, resting his chin on them, his knuckles white with tension. After a moment of consideration, he spoke, his response so soft I had to hold my breath to hear him. “I won’t discuss this any further. If you try to leave the property, I’ll have you caged.”
The cage. Memories of steel bars, rough concrete, and constant darkness flooded my mind, chasing away my rebellious euphoria. I hadn’t been in the cage since the last time I’d run away, the summer I’d turned eighteen. I hadn’t been running from Daddy then. I’d been running from my life, but Daddy took it personally. Once they’d found me and hauled me home in the back of Vic’s SUV, my father had locked me up for fourteen days, most of which I’d spent on four paws out of protest.
I stared at my father, wanting to believe he was bluffing. But I knew better. Daddy didn’t bluff; he had no reason to. The business suits, ties and diplomatic demeanor were only one side of my father, and it was the other side that worried me. The other side was as strong as Marc and still nearly as fast, but Daddy’s speed and strength were enhanced by an extra thirty years of wisdom and experience. Far from a figurehead, my father was Alpha in practice as well as in name. Yes, he gave orders, but he never ordered anyone to do anything that he would not or could not do himself. My father’s word was final.
I was kidding myself, and we both knew it. I could make my stand and run away, but no matter what I said or did, Daddy would come after me. Personally, if he had to. Eventually he’d catch me, and I’d be back to square one, after having my spirit broken by a few nights in the cage. So the real question was, Is it worth it?
And the answer was, Hell, yeah. I might not make it if I run away, but I definitely won’t make it if I don’t try.
My feet shuffled against the soft rug as I took a single step forward, but what I felt was cold, damp concrete. I smelled Daddy’s aftershave, but beneath that was mildew and the faint, metallic scent of steel, like the way your hands smell after you jingle coins in your pocket. I knew what I was risking, and I knew what would happen if I failed. But I had to give it one more shot. I owed myself that much.
“You can try,” I said, my resolve reinforced by memories of the cage and determination to avoid seeing it again. “But I promise you this. Whomever you send after me will come back blind and neutered.”
The phone on his desk rang, but he ignored it, eyeing me calmly. “You don’t mean that. You wouldn’t hurt your brothers.”
Apparently he didn’t question whether or not I’d hurt Marc.
“Don’t make me prove myself, Daddy. I—” I never got to finish my threat because Michael nearly tore the office door off its hinges. I heard his frantic heartbeat, and smelled distress in his sweat. It was sour, and made my own heart pound harder. Something was terribly wrong.
“Owen’s on the phone for you, Dad. He says it’s urgent.”
Thirteen
“Sit, Faythe,” Daddy ordered. Then, addressing Michael, “Don’t let her off the couch.” He turned his back on us both with the phone at his ear.
Still standing, I watched my father, trying to overhear the other side of the conversation. If I was going to be stuck in the office, I might as well do a little eavesdropping. That was the only way I’d get any information anyway.
Michael’s anxiety was contagious, and curiosity and worry for Owen had temporarily eclipsed my zeal for escape.
“Owen? What did you find out?” my father said into the phone.
Michael nudged me with his elbow and nodded at the couch. I shook my head. I was afraid to back down because once I had, I might never gather enough courage to stand my ground again. Instead, I’d be tempted to run off in the middle of the night, like I’d always done before. While that technique was pretty effective, it made me look like a coward and a child. Neither of which I was.