Total pages in book: 202
Estimated words: 193561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 968(@200wpm)___ 774(@250wpm)___ 645(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 968(@200wpm)___ 774(@250wpm)___ 645(@300wpm)
And it’s strange. Because he’s alpha and yet they’re looking directly at him. No one cowers when they see him. They’re smiling and waving instead of showing their necks and dropping their eyes.
“They’re excited,” he offers at one point when a lady claps her hands as we walk past her, startling me.
My eyes bounce to his face. He’s watching me, reading my confusion.
He explains, “They know I’ve identified you as my mate. They’re happy for me.”
My eyes dart away, and I can’t compute all of this. His mate? Can’t be. They believe in that here; I know that from hearing bits and pieces of conversations when I’ve spied on them in the woods, but this alpha really seems to think I’m his mate. The one created for him. That’s taking precedence for him over the crimes he knows I’ve committed. And I can’t wrap my mind around any of it.
As he keeps moving, more heads poke out, or faces are plastered to windows. They’re taking in my scent, as I’m a stranger, an outsider. Until they find out what I did… then I’ll be an enemy. An enemy whose scent they won’t forget.
Shame washes over me again, but I can’t help but glimpse through windows at families with open sets of drapes and although I’m terrified for the future and ashamed about today, about everything, I notice things, intriguing things…things that do not remotely feel like the abomination we were taught this pack is.
This place is vastly different from our so-called village. Worlds apart, even. This feels like paradise where my little world feels…post-apocalyptic. Dystopian.
Not only can I not help but be interested in my surroundings, taking in the famous Arcana Falls wolf shifter village, but my brain is also muddled by the alpha carrying me. He’s beyond attractive. He smells amazing. And his words about what he’ll do when he gets me to his home keep bouncing around in my brain.
He’s at least six inches taller than me and I’m tall for a female. He’s young, maybe in his early thirties, and he’s got dark hair with some premature silver threaded into it. It’s not long but it’s long enough to sift my fingers through. If I wanted to. But why would I want to?
My face burns hot with embarrassment at my train of thought. But I continue to assess his appearance even with my mortification.
He’s got a defined jawline, and those color-changing eyes that are striking even when they’re not changing shades. And he’s got lots of muscles. It’d be impossible to miss if he were wearing his shirt, but I’ve got that on so there are miles of muscles on display. He’s got scruff on his face, as if he hasn’t shaved in three or four days. It’s got a bit of silver in it, too. The salt with the pepper suits him.
The heat coming from him along with the incredible scent of him – I could almost fall asleep, which is strange. Beyond strange.
So many conflicting emotions wash through me that it feels like I’m not getting enough air. It’s like my heart is beating too fast. I need everything to slow down. I need to think. I need to… to flee, mostly. That’s what I really need to do. Because so much rides on today and on me getting out of the area and back home. But I’m caught and…
My thoughts scatter because he walks us past a restaurant and I can’t help but take in the stunning sights, scents, and sounds. Music. The scent of fried foods. The smell of beer and liquor. The aroma of males and females together. Sounds of laughter and chatter. This village has its own restaurant! My world tilts again because that’s something I’d do if it were allowed. Open a restaurant in our village. A meeting place where people could enjoy themselves while eating food I make for them. A place where I could cook all the things I want to try making for people. But it would never work in Silver Hills. People don’t laugh. There’s no joy. We don’t have the means. It’s a life of strife under Wyatt’s thumb.
“Wahoo, Grey!” a female voice shouts out.
Someone else whistles and I hear clapping from the restaurant, too.
He doesn’t pay attention to them, just keeps us moving east, past more of the homes built along the river. I know from the map that it leads to Chariot Lake to the west and going east it runs down to Hollow Point where it tapers down to a creek that runs along the old highway and past Drowsy Hollow.
More heads turn our way from inside and outside of nearby homes and a pickup truck of teenagers whizzes by, shouting cheers as Greyson rushes along the sidewalk. Such pretty homes are dotted along the river; all the homes different from one another. Two of them have boats moored to docks.