Page 39 of Lycan Prey (Little Secrets Duet #1)
· Aubrey ·
The next morning
The clink of cutlery against China is loud in the morning stillness as I nibble on a slice of toast, my mind replaying the conversation with Soren last night. The tension from our exchange lingers when Maribel’s voice punctures the quiet.
“Damian will be joining us for shopping after breakfast,” she says, her eyes bright with plans and excitement. I had completely forgotten about going shopping. She doesn’t notice how my hand pauses, toast halfway to my lips, or the way my stomach tightens at the mention of Damian’s name.
I force a smile. Damian’s cool, appraising gaze has always made me feel like an intruder in this family’s life. His distrust is a shadow that follows me, even here at the breakfast table, while his mother buzzes about colors and fabrics for the upcoming wedding.
As we clear the table, my fingers fumble with the dishes, the nervous energy making me clumsy.
I glance over at Soren, his brow furrowed with thoughts of the meeting that will keep him away from us today.
Part of me wants him to join us, to act as a buffer between Damian’s scrutiny and my own unease.
But his absence is unavoidable, his kingdom demanding his attention. I understand, and yet, my heart sinks at the thought of being around Damian, it is obvious he doesn’t like me or trust me, and honestly his distrust isn’t unwarranted, they have no clue who I am.
“Are you alright?” I jump slightly at Maribel’s voice. She’s looking at me in genuine concern and I realize I was staring off vacantly at Damian who folds his arms across his chest. Maribel glances at him and shakes her head.
I nod quickly, tacking on a forced smile, “Just a little lost in thought.”
She gives me a warm smile, placing her hand over mine. “Don’t fret about Damian,” she says as if reading my mind. “He can be a bit intimidating, but he means well. He is just protective of his brother.”
Damian snorts at the remark.
“What is your problem?” she snaps at him.
“Nothing, you know I don’t like rogues,” he answers. She sighs, rolling her eyes at her son.
“She won’t be a rogue for long, she is marrying your brother!” Soren punches his brother’s arm hard enough I even wince.
“Lay off my fiancé,” Soren growls. “You don’t have to love her; only I do!” Soren states, giving him a pointed look. Damian looks like he wants to say something more but stops when Soren grips his arm, dragging him out into the hall away from us. Maribel looks after them, alarmed.
“Gosh, why is he being like that?” she murmurs in confusion. “I thought he was starting to warm up to you. He was the one who told me himself you needed help with the wedding arrangements.”
“Who knows, he’ll get over it. You know how he gets about rogues. He doesn’t trust any of them,” Alaric states. “No offense, dear, we’ve had run-ins before, as I’m sure you know.”
I nod.
“If Soren says he loves you, that is good enough for me,” he adds. If only they knew their son doesn’t love me.
“Now come on, maybe he’ll warm up to you after spending the day with us,” Maribel chirps, and I follow her out of the dining hall.
As we step out of the house and into the crisp morning air, I cast one last longing glance back at the castle that has come to feel like home.
Soren stands there, watching our departure impassively, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me he understands my apprehension as his eyes flick to Damian.
We step into the car, and I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the weight of the morning’s tension settling over me.
Damian takes the driver’s seat, his expression unreadable, while Maribel chatters excitedly about the day’s plans for shopping.
Her enthusiasm is infectious, yet it does little to ease the knot of anxiety in my stomach.
Damian starts the car, and we pull away from the castle, the stone walls receding in the distance.
The silence between Damian and me is thick, only punctuated by Maribel’s occasional remarks about flowers and color schemes.
After a few minutes of tense quiet, Damian speaks, his voice cutting sharply through the hum of the road.
“I have your birth certificate,” he says, glancing at me briefly in the rearview mirror. “We’re going to stop by the council on the way to the mall. It’s time to get you officially registered.”
I stiffen, my heart pounding in my ears. “Why were you going through my stuff?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm, but there’s a sharp edge to my words.
“I didn’t. Soren gave it to me this morning,” he replies flatly, his eyes returning to the road. “He thought it best we handle this sooner rather than later and said if it helps me learn to trust you, it won’t hurt, so we’ll do that first thing; it won’t take long.”
Maribel claps her hands together, oblivious to the tension.
“Oh, that’s wonderful! See progress between you two!
It’s high time we rid you of that rogue status, dear.
It’ll be hard enough for people to accept you’re a werewolf, let alone a rogue.
Honestly, I’m surprised Soren didn’t register you as his pack the moment you both got engaged. ”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Her remark is meant to comfort me, but it only serves to remind me of how precarious my position here truly is.
The drive to the council feels like walking to the gallows in some medieval movie.
When we finally arrive, the building looms large and imposing, its gray stones cold and unwelcoming.
We walk through the tall double doors, and I’m hit by the sterile smell of antiseptic and old papers.
Damian leads the way to a small office, where a clerk waits with a stack of forms.
“Fill these out, please,” the clerk instructs, handing me a pen as if she’s been expecting us, which no doubt Damian called ahead.
His eyes linger on me for a moment too long, curiosity and suspicion mingling in his gaze.
I take the forms and sit, my hands trembling slightly as I fill in the blanks with him watching over my shoulder.
Maribel sits beside me; her presence is a comforting warmth as she helps explain some of the more confusing legal jargon. Damian leans against the wall, watching, his expression unreadable.
The clerk takes the completed forms and scans them into a computer along with my sister’s birth certificate. “It will take about a month to process these,” she says, her tone neutral. “You’ll be notified by mail when everything is cleared.”
A month. It is a month of uncertainty, of waiting, of hoping that nothing will go wrong which I know it will. My stomach churns with nervousness.
After the stress at the council, Maribel seems keen to lighten the mood by doing some wedding shopping. As we reach the parking lot though, I find it empty and glance around. Where are all the cars and people?
“I think it’s closed?” I tell her as she climbs out of the car. I climb out after her and peer at the doors and around the empty parking lot.
“Nope, my husband and your future one are just overprotective and called ahead, shutting the place down to the public. We have the place to ourselves!” she chirps excitedly.
As we wander through the place, every store is open, and there’s not a single shopper, making me wonder how much it costs to shut down an entire mall.
The oddity of it all does not dim Maribel’s excitement as we pick out linens and sample cake flavors; a part of me can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness.
This is everything I imagined doing with my own mother, and though Maribel’s enthusiasm is infectious, it underscores what I’m missing and something I will never experience.
Despite these bittersweet emotions, Maribel’s warmth and excitement make the day more enjoyable than I expected.
She has a way of making everything seem special, and her laughter is contagious as we dart from one shop to another with Soren’s credit card while Damian and her own guard follow closely.
Halfway through our shopping spree, Maribel claps her hands together with a conspiratorial grin. “I think it’s time for a little pampering,” she announces, steering me toward a quaint-looking beauty parlor nestled between a florist and a bridal shop.
As we enter, the scent of lavender and jasmine fill the air, a soothing welcome. My sense of relief is short-lived when Maribel leans in and whispers, “We’ll take care of that fur issue.” My face heats up with embarrassment, and I’m about to protest when she ushers me toward the back of the parlor.
“Wait, I don’t think this is really necessary.” I blurt while Damian snickers. I cut him a glare.
The beautician, a cheerful woman with bright pink nails and an even brighter smile, ushers me toward the door of a room out the back. I glance desperately toward the front, contemplating a swift escape, but Maribel has already settled comfortably in the waiting area with a magazine.
As she shuts the door, she tells me to sit while she prepares the wax.
“Queen Maribel said you have an unusual hair situation, that werewolves have some strange anomaly us Lycans don’t?” she asks, perplexed. Great, just what I need. Thanks, Soren!
“No, I shaved already,” I tell her lifting my pant leg, she looks confused when she glances at my legs.
“Oh, you’re already quite smooth, dear. No need for a leg wax, then.”
“But since the session is already paid for, we can move on to the Brazilian instead.”
My heart drops. “Brazilian?” I echo, my voice rising in panic.
“Yes, dear. Queen Maribel insisted you should experience the full package,” the beautician explains as if a Brazilian wax is a leisurely stroll in the park. “It’s all paid for, dear! Just relax and enjoy,” she calls out, giving me a thumbs up.