How To Marry A Werewolf (Claw & Courtship, #1)(30)
Faith answered for them, because it had to be her decision, as she was the injured party. “We intend to be there and are honored by your thoughtfulness, my lord.”
The Alpha reached forward, understanding in his beautiful eyes, and squeezed her hand. “Professor Lyall will be in attendance and eager to renew your acquaintance.”
Faith managed a smile. “Good.” She had not seen the Beta but the once, at her first ball.
Mrs Iftercast asked, “And will all the rest of the pack be there as well, my lord?”
“Likely most. They are not so very predictable in their activities, I’m afraid. But I expect a full house.”
No mention was made of Major Channing by name, but Faith felt warned and warm and worn all at the same time. Biffy was telling her that he would likely be in attendance and that she should brace for battle.
“My dear cousin,” Mrs Iftercast pressed, as they steamed back home in the privacy of the family’s Isopod, “I shouldn’t ask, of course, but his attentions were very marked. And now they are anything but. Was there no formal understanding at all between you? I thought that we had cause to hope. Did you put him off somehow?”
Teddy jumped in, glaring at her mother. “We all know the major is not the type to marry, Mums. Perhaps it is none of Faith’s doing.”
“Of course, my dear, of course. How thoughtless of me. It’s simply that we of the ton have never seen him behave so, not towards an unmarried girl. We thought, perhaps, that he was making an exception in your case. That you were somehow different – special.”
Foolish of me, thought Faith, I believed that, too. I believed I understood him – a hundred-year-old supernatural creature. And I blithely made a play for passion. I wouldn’t have minded if nothing more materialized beyond that. At least, I think I wouldn’t have minded. And he was there, with me. I know he was. He was mine. I made him burn. Except I lost him, and I’ve no idea why.
STEP SEVEN
Remember: Either You Are At Dinner or You Are Dinner
Major Channing had taken to coming home very late, or very early in the morning, whichever way you care to look at it, to avoid encountering the rest of his pack. This was not uncommon behavior, especially since the household had accidentally obtained two small children. But he had become more pointed about it.
He had an excuse, as there was a lead in some important BUR business. Those missing Sundowner bullets had, it appeared, been sold to a vampire. So, his professional attentions were now focused on England’s hives. This entailed paying formal calls and making very delicate inquiries himself, as none of his agents had enough social standing to visit vampires with impunity. So, it had to be Channing, much to his annoyance. He was, to put no small claw on it, uncomfortable around vampires. Unfortunately, nothing more had come of even his best, most polite enquiries, which drove Channing to distraction. It was beyond frustrating that he’d been driven to socialize with vampires and still nothing. He’d been polite, for goodness sake. Polite!
Channing was beginning to think that if the blood-suckers had sunk their fangs into his bullets, he might never get them back. He tried to be a little happy that at least the assets were in supernatural hands, and not in those of the Separatists. Nevertheless, he would have liked to have had some assurances one way or the other.
Major Channing hated dealing with vampires – they smelled abominable, were more arrogant than he was, and unconscionably sadistic. It put him in a terrible temper. He had a propensity to bite heads figuratively, because he could not do so literally (not without causing a great fuss, too much paperwork, and no little indigestion). His favorite vampire memories were those abroad, when his old Alpha, Lord Vulkasin, had given him free rein to tear his way through Europe, where hives were ostracized and it was open season on vampires (quite rightly). They tasted awful, vampires did, but Channing still loved to hunt them. As a wolf, he was never happier than with his jaws around the white neck of a blood-sucker, especially a French one. Even as a moon-mad beast, Channing remembered being caged like a dog. For that alone, he would never forgive them, but he had further reason to hate.
Oh, he had learned to bow and scrape and suck up (not like that) with the English vampires, because he must and because they were different from those on the Continent. London vampires dictated high society’s rules, so Channing played nice by default. But French vampires? Or Italian? Channing imagined tearing into their necks with such ferocity, he might sever heads from bodies. He imagined it in great detail because he knew the exact particulars of such a maneuver, because he had done it, once, to a vampire queen. The rush of satisfaction had been so all-consuming, it was as close to a sensation of real joy he had felt since he’d been turned into a werewolf.
All this to say that Channing hated vampires. Dealing with them made him even grumpier and more sarcastic than usual. And his feelings of annoyance were certainly not exacerbated by a blue-eyed American girl with stones in her heart and honey in her mouth.
God, she tasted sweet. And forbidden. She had yielded with such willingness. As though she knew he needed her surrender almost more than her embrace. He wanted to consume her. Instincts cried out to inhale her – blood sweet and rich, skin soft and warm, the smell of rum and raisins and sugar all around him. She was exactly everything a vampire queen was not, and in that profound difference he might find peace. He’d spent so long wallowing in petty thoughts of revenge – he was all sharp points, harsh and churlish. Sometimes, he wondered what he might become if that did not make up the lion’s share of his personality.