Page 169 of Unforgivable

Ezra

"You know we're not friends, right?" I mutter to Carmichael, who is leaning on the counter with a smirk plastered on his face.

"Are you sure? I have seen you rub your female off. That makes us something."

"Goddess. It makes you a pervert, actually," I reply. I point the wooden spoon at him, "don't say it."

"Say what? That you and your brothers serviced your Luna in front of over a dozen wolves, most of whom are the leaders of this pack?"

"Soon-to-be-deposed leaders."

"True," he muses thoughtfully. He taps his chin with his forefinger in contemplation, "do you think that old she-wolf saw it?"

I freeze while stirring my sauce, "Goddess, I truly hope not." I shudder at the idea of the Battleax watching us get it on.

"She saw," Teague wanders into the kitchen. "It was fucking awesome, though. Never thought of a public meal to cement your Claim," he adds, thoughtfully. "Should have, though."

"Listening to you on the phone with your mates is bad enough. No one needs to see you fuck them live," Carmichael says sarcastically.

"You won't ever fuck your mate, so there," Teague shoots back.

Carmichael's eyes narrow. Then he smiles cruelly, "you just admitted that Cassidy is mine."

Teague growls, throwing his shoulders back threateningly.

"Right, so," I hurriedly interrupt their pissing contest. "Lyri's Heat is winding down, for now. Luna Gloria claims that her tea will quell her symptoms enough to at least address the pack over the next few days," I blurt out.

Teague sticks a spoon in my sauce and tastes it. "We all know the next steps. It's your show, Ezra." He puts the spoon in the sink and starts to leave the kitchen. "My babydoll's sauce is better."

"Asshole," I mutter. What sort of misogynistic asshole calls his female 'babydoll?' I stir the sauce again. Lyri is sleeping for now. She'll need food when she wakes up, and I want to make sure it's waiting for her.

We have to wait for my 'show,' anyway. Alpha Macon and the Battleax have the next move.

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Alpha Jax

My grandmother looks at my son with a hardness that belies her age. She is tough as nails, and I know that, but she's a tiny, frail thing at her age. Right now, you don't see that fragility. All I can see is iron under papery skin. A seething, raging she-wolf who will seep into the cracks that I made in this pack and splinter them further and further apart.

"You loved having a bitch worship you," she tells Daan plainly. "She sucked you in by manipulating your desire to be some sort of hero. Tell your parents how you first met Cloe, little pup."

My son hangs in silver-laced chains from the cement walls of the cell. He's finally stopped fighting to escape, at least for a while. He's nude, bleeding, and bruised from the struggle to get him down here. Every so often, he shivers from the cold or nerves, who knows?

Head hanging in utter defeat, Daan mutters the story. "I was ten. Cloe was nine. It was MayDay, so almost exactly twelve years ago. The third day of the contests, I think." He rubs his face on his arm. "She was crying," he says softly. "I asked her what was wrong. She told me she lost every competition that year. She lost her best, the archery, to a female who was only seven."

His voice trails off, confusion flickering in his eyes. He looks so distraught. I feel my shattered heart thud. He's still my son, my only child, but goddess, why?

"Who was the female who won that day?" Grandmother snaps.

"Lyri Song," Daan replies, saying it in a soft voice as if her name is suddenly something sacred instead of something he always spat out as if it sickened him. I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, trying to quell the vomit rising.

"It was always Lyri. Always her... always winning. Cloe hated her. From the time we met, she hated her."

"She was jealous of a more talented, powerful female. She buttered you up good, pup. Told you how wonderful you are, how you're so amazing. Just what you wanted to hear, wasn't it? So you reciprocated by elevating a weak, manipulative bitch."

Daan just shakes his head, "she loves me," he mumbles, but there's no conviction in his voice.

"She loves having a powerful male to cling to," Grandmother snaps, "because she's weak. She clung to you like a vine because she's not capable of standing on her own two feet. She tore at Lyri because she couldn't ever beat that female fairly."

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