Chapter 2 - Robyn

Days like today were meant to be spent with family. Sun spilled into the living room, draping like warm blankets over the fluffy beige couches that formed a rectangle around the cream-white coffee table. Sat carefully in the center was a bouquet of roses, zinnias, and asters, varying from scarlet to violet. The scent of it filled the living room with a sense of life, learning, growth, and capability.

Through the patio door behind me came a wash of white light that illuminated the dark teal carpet, the gold lines separating the apricot panels of the wallpaper, and the multitude of canvas paintings my daughter had recently accomplished. Contrasting to the professional appearance of the house were the swatches of vivid primary colors, the slithering blocks of which turned my living room into an art gallery.

I smiled over my daughter's auburn-blonde hair that looked like strands of pure silk tucked into a fluffy pink ponytail. "Sydney, you've outdone yourself this time."

"Thanks, Mommy!"

Her dimpled cheeks were painted tawny beige with olive hues, chipmunk cheeks puffed up and forcing her eyes to close with her smile, eyes of which were yellowish-brown. Like a mix of her father's and mine. Like the way her father smiles when he tells a truly silly joke while he's stoned out of his gourd.

Near us sat a negative Nancy at a stained wooden desk that looked like it belonged in a Poe story. "It's like amateur hour in here."

She looked nice enough, the same tawny beige skin with a golden tan like me, almost like a movie starlet, with her red-auburn hair done in classic curls around her oval face. Nice enough, but not quite nice enough to be taking criticism from her. "It's tacky in here. What a tacky little house."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks, Mommy."

Sydney opened her eyes, those round marbles turning to her grandmother. "Auntie Val, do you want pink?"

Such a prim and proper voice practiced in pronounced enunciation should have belonged to a child of seven, maybe even a child of ten, but Sydney was a child of three with an explosive vocabulary and a remarkable talent for communication. The way she held out her fingers to her grandmother highlighted her elegant style still marked in every way by the clumsiness of a toddler.

Her toothy grin warmed my heart a thousand times over. "Mommy likes pink."

"Mommy loves pink," I agreed. "I'm so glad you love pink like me."

Mom snorted. "Benedict from the Bitterpelts does not like pink." She turned her button nose into the air. "In fact, pink is an immature color. It belongs to princesses and ponies in children's storybooks."

"I'm a princess," Sydney announced poshly.

Mom chuckled neatly, the sound as pristine as her manicured nails and perfectly trim eyebrows. "Only by birthright." She shot a sharp look in my direction. "And only if your mother mates with someone of proper standing."

"Not available," I said through tight lips.

Mom raised her eyebrows, though she wasn't looking at me anymore. "Matthew from the Graifurs would be a good and proper match. His blood is pure."

"I don't care about purity," I snapped as I inspected my daughter's nails. Perfectly polished. Every time. "I just care about taking care of Sydney and avoiding Bill as much as possible."

Like a ball of yeast heating up, anxiety ballooned in my core. I avoided my mother's cutting stare while knowing full well the weight of her glare by how the air felt around me. Thick with tension, wreaking of disappointment, rife with the irritation of a parent who couldn't get me to do anything.

Because I didn't want to do it.

Because I shouldn't have to do it.

Our family has been in good standing with the Wildtooth Tails since we originally founded the pack in the early 1200s. We were part of many historical events—good, bad, and neutral. The blood that occupied my veins was that of a medley of temperaments, from invasive ancestors inspired by selfishness to heroes who fought for the underdog.

By all the luck in the world, I was born to a selfish family who hyperfocused on royal blood for the ultimate marriage match, and those were usually handpicked by a male head of the family unit or even the Alpha himself.

An Alpha of whom was currently incapable of taking care of himself.

Unfortunately, my mother had taken it upon herself to find me a match. Given my pregnancy came before my mating, I was considered in poor standing according to royal standards. That meant my time was limited. And since I couldn't get my inheritance unless I mated with someone who could help carry on the family name, well, that meant I was in a huge pickle.

It meant I was broke until I chose some Joe off the street to marry me.

"Bill has protected us for a long time," Mom explained in a low but authoritative voice, "and that means we owe him our allegiance. You will mate with someone to ensure protection for this pack, and you will earn your inheritance so none of us sink."

"Are you seriously going to ignore the biggest problem we have?"

Her eyes widened as sweat formed on her brows. "I don't know what you mean, Robyn. Our biggest problem is that you and Sydney don't have a protector." She made her eyes bigger, if that were possible, and tilted her head toward me while gesturing subtly to the front door.

Right—there were ears everywhere. If I mentioned anything about Bill, it would certainly make its way back to him. I had to make sure what I said next was worth mentioning and ignoring simultaneously.

I licked my lips and tried to calmly rub my daughter's hands. "You're right. Sydney needs a good father to help me raise her."

Mom slacked in her seat like she was resisting the urge to collapse on the ground. "Good thinking, Darling. We'll have you matched with someone in no time. Don't you worry about that."

Pfft, I would always be worried about that. Worse than getting forced into marriage was doing it under the guidance of an Alpha who was possessed. It was right around the time I got pregnant a few years ago that I noticed Bill had started wearing sunglasses during the day. Rarely did wolves find it necessary to shield their eyes from the sun that gave us life. After that, it was a downhill trot that turned into a sprint right into the shadows.

The change was fast. And once we noticed we were in the thick of it, we couldn't figure out how to get out of it. Bill changed a lot of our laws, so we couldn't leave the pack so easily. Our homes were monitored often. His lackeys would scour the pack at night to listen to what people were saying. If someone said too many things, they would just disappear. They and their family. Gone.

That wasn't the life I wanted for my daughter. As loathed as I was to admit it, I needed to secure a strong match with an eligible man. Our survival depended on it.

Sydney wiggled her fingers and shrugged her shoulders. "Mommy, too tight."

I lifted my hands from her wrists. "Sorry, sweetie. I got lost in my head."

"Thinking about daddies?"

I laughed. "Kinda."

"Sydney, wouldn't you like a new daddy?" My mother asked in a musical voice like she was speaking to an infant. "Someone to give you airplane rides and tuck you in at night?"

"Mommy already does those things," Sydney replied. "No, thanks."

Amusement exploded through the room as I fell into a giggle fit with my daughter. She was smart, eloquent in her speech, and totally independent unless she wanted to match me, and then she would because she wanted to do it. Her headstrong attitude and resilience were inspired by me. Like mother, like daughter.

That was the only time I would assert that kind of thing, especially when it meant standing up to my mother, who was rotten from the inside out from her marriage failing. As the laughter tapered off, I didn't miss Mom's smug grimace and the way she turned her nose up again and again whenever Sydney looked in her direction.

Immature, for sure , I thought. But unfortunately, she has a point about the mating stuff.

Demonic possession tended to spread once it got into one host. If we didn't do something about it now, we would end up suffering the same fate as Bill—and maybe sooner than we thought.

***

Sydney always went down easy at night. Even with the uncertainty of the future looming ahead of us, she managed to get sleepy the moment her head hit the pillow. Bless her for that because I needed a few hours to myself to make a backup plan.

None of the men that my mother recommended were remotely fit to be a father to Sydney. Mate stuff didn't matter to me. It was all about my daughter and her well-being. If a competent prince—or even a high-ranked duke—could marry me, then I could keep Sydney safe behind several layers of protection.

It was all I could think about as I walked the hallway on the second floor to my bedroom, separated from my daughter's room by a veranda. Just to the right of my bedroom door was the staircase that descended into the living room to the right of the garage door, which was right under my bedroom.

So much space to ourselves had us spoiled. When I was growing up, Mom and Dad had separate rooms while I was forced to share a pocket-sized office with their Pomeranian nightmare of a yapping dog. With my own bedroom to spare, I had plenty of opportunities for visitors—which I had certainly taken advantage of whenever Sydney's father came to visit.

Well, he used to visit. Now, he doesn't call or write. I wasn't sure he existed anymore. He could have gotten caught on a run to the docks here in Maine, where the ships would carry his product to the shifter wolves across the sea. That was his thing at the time, and I didn't think he would ever change.

Why would he change? He lived such a cushioned life after he left here last. It didn't take long for rumors to spread from the southern bars up to here about a long-haired Adonis gifted with the art of humor pleasuring every waitress from Bangor to Charlotte. And at that, I gave up on any hope of Cliff returning to us.

Did he even think about me anymore?

I sighed as I drifted into my bedroom and floated toward the window on the other side of the room. Dukes, princes, whatever—titles didn't mean anything. It was all about character for me. What people did when no one was there to make it count was far more telling of their nature than anything else.

And seeing as Cliff had ditched me…

I crawled into my queen-sized bed and tugged the silk comforter to my chin. Soft satin caressed my body, encouraging me to nuzzle into my fluffy pillow that smelled of vanilla. Men like Cliff didn't mind their mistakes. That was why he hadn't come back; I was willing to bet. He caught wind of Sydney and turned tail.

Like a selfish coward.

Usually, it took me a while of thinking to get me to pass out. Tonight was something else. I closed my eyes and lost myself to the sleepy mist that came over me whenever I was exhausted. Cotton white clouds surrounded me, thickening as I walked along an evergreen path. Swirls of gray silver sparkled in various places around me. I reached out to part the mist, folding it aside like marshmallows coated in powdered sugar.

My breath caught in my throat. " Cliff ."

There he was, that darling scruffy goofball with the short ponytail and the strong jaw wearing his sunny smile and filthy overalls without a t-shirt underneath. An unruly lock of dirty blond hair sprouted over his forehead, tickling his cheek, just an inch too short for the ponytail.

He held out a calloused hand to me, the threaded muscle in his arm flexing when he wiggled his fingers. "I've been looking for you."

I reached for his hand instinctively. "Why?"

"I miss you."

My heart fluttered.

This was a dream. I knew this was a dream, but it had been greeting me every night since Sydney was born. Except now, instead of a wide cavern separating us, we were holding hands on the edge of a cliff.

On the edge of—

He embraced me, his boxy-buff body encompassing me entirely. With my face buried in his neck and my arms around his shoulders, I felt like I was clinging to a giant boulder, a strong, sturdy, stable boulder that would keep me from getting yanked out to sea by the ravenous tide.

To look into his eyes, I had to tilt my head back, and then I was met by the glorious swirl of hazel brown that dazzled me with its glassy quality. My lower lip twitched as he gently traced my chin with the tip of his finger. One teasing kiss led to another and then another until it was like a broken dam spilling affection all over my face.

Each kiss deepened my desire. Every touch turned me into a pliable mess of writhing limbs. He undid me in ways I couldn't control, purely dream-like in delivery, yet effective on my conscious body regardless of it being made up in my head. This was made up.

But then, if it was made up, why did it feel so real?

Though my vision blurred in twisted patches like wet paint on canvas, I was impacted by the bruise of his thumb and fingers squeezing my right shoulder. The way the digits dug into my flesh unwound me even more, causing my knees to buckle, my head to sway back, and my mouth to widen as his canines pressed at the main artery in my throat. The tiniest pricks would lead to a lifetime of connection.

If only this were real, then maybe it would count for something.

Then maybe I would be important to someone.

Then maybe I could save my daughter…