12 Chapter 12: Call For Mates

I run, this time in human form, too irritated to enjoy the game or to embrace my wolf. I may not be as fast in this shape, but there is a certain satisfaction to the pounding of my feet, and the air rushing from my mortal lungs.

It's easier to tire myself out, to wear down the edges of my frustration and pique without the boost of supernatural energy I gain from my werewolf body. And I've had more than enough werewolves in my life in the last week for me to ever desire to take my other shape ever again.

He had to put the call out for mates, didn't he? I underestimated my grandfather's intentions. I believed he would only do so locally, that our own pack would be the extent of his reach. When I discovered the truth, it was far too late to stop him from his plan-to call out to every single eligible weremale in the world to come and woo his granddaughter for her hand and the position of prince consort.

The old fool. I bite down hard, clenching my jaw against the need to scream curse words into the quite forest air. I'm far too much returned to Charlotte Girard, too well trained to allow my true feelings out, especially now. I have no choice but to hold myself to the highest level of my embedded discipline while packs from places I've never even heard of continue to trickle in, their panting, hungry offerings one sickeningly self-centered ass after another.

Disgusting, the lot of them, with their common arrogance and need to prove they are better than me. I've humiliated publicly more than one of them in my grandfather's throne room, but they do not learn and they just keep coming.

When I confronted Oleksander about his decision, he seemed hurt by my anger.

"Sharlotta," he said. "We must find for you the very best mate possible."

While there are a few specimens that might perhaps be trainable into decent runners-up, I find myself thinking of Piers and wishing I could simply announce he is to be my mate. I've waffled over the past seven days, between running away after all, and simply ending this entire masquerade by upsetting the werenation, choosing the sorcerer over all of them.

How simple my life has been until now. I had no idea, so innocent and naïve. Syd would laugh at me, I'm sure of it, tease me for my worldly face hiding a nervous and now upset girl behind the mask of my duty.

I hear them behind me, following me on my run. A few of the weremales have taken to joining me every day. But this terrain is mine, and I know it far better than they do. They maintain their own human shapes, bumbling through the foreign forest, noisy where their wereshapes are silent.

Irritation turns to bitterness as I toss aside my shirt and strip my pants from my body, shifting in an eye-blink. It costs me pain, but I embrace the feeling. I've used pain in the past to make me stronger, years of it my training ground, and today is no exception.

I cover more distance, laughing spitefully into the air as they fall behind, struggling to shift and follow me, catch me, even. They have no hope. They might be bigger, and, in some cases, stronger than I, but I am more powerful and my smaller body swift.

If they can't keep up with me, I don't want them. Nor does my inner wolf.

My mood lightens as I feel them fall away, stretching out, running at my fastest deeper into the forest. I allow the wind to wash away my anger, the rush of passing trees and scents and sounds to clear my mind. I only pause when I sense my wolf pack, waiting for me, coming to a panting halt not far from their den.

They've never made themselves known this close to their home before and the moment I stop, I know why. They are upset. Something is troubling them, some creature or creatures close by threatening their territory. I worry at first it's the males who follow me and the flood of werewolves now expanding the population of the palace, but no. This is something entirely new.

The pack retreats, the white wolf and the alpha the only two remaining. I sniff the air, stiffening myself, a low growl escaping my jaws as I catch an odd scent. The ocean mixed with something bitter and almost putrid, hidden by the salt smell of the surf. I turn to the two wolves, only to find them gone.

A chill runs up my spine as I feel a pack approaching. No great surprise more weres are on their way. But these feel off, odd and unusual, enough my wolf inside forces me to back up and tense as a group of werewolves flow into the clearing.

There are only about twenty of them, but that is enough. Their unusual scent washes over me, silencing the few birds overhead still chirping, sending the last of the tiny creatures of the forest scrambling for cover. I hold my ground, feeling the approach like an assault on my body, though they offer me no physical aggression as they form up into a pack and observe me.

A giant gray leads them, his ears at least a foot over mine, shoulders so broad I wonder what his human shape looks like. He shows me a moment later, perfectly formed body morphing to tanned skin covered in thick, black tattoos. I keep my eyes on his face though he is fully naked, my inner wolf pacing, unsure if she is attracted or repulsed by this werewolf.

He takes a step toward me, as casual and unconcerned as though he were fully clothed on a city street. I secretly admire his confidence and the pure masculinity exuding from him even as I shudder from the odd sense of wrongness I smell on him.

"You," he says in a voice deep and cold, "must be Charlotte."

Anger snaps a rubber band, a flash of sparking rage forcing me into human shape. I stare him down, icy exterior well practiced and perfectly flawless in the face of his arrogance.

"You have the honor," I say with chill disapproval, "of addressing your heir, Princess Sharlotta Moreau of the werenation."

He grins at me, teeth flashing white against his tanned face, the scruff of his dark beard. He's shaved his head close, stubble showing the perfect shape of his head.

"Your Highness," he says as though he doesn't mean it as an honorific.

I will tear his heart from his chest and devour it before his dying eyes. But we are no longer alone, his pack gathering behind him, shifting to human form, watching me with contempt and what I feel is some secret deceit as the pack of suitors who followed me finally catch up.

The new leader observes them as they crowd around me, only a dozen or so, but more than enough to give his pack a fight. I have no doubt he would fight them, if I allow it.

Who is this were and why does he smell so strangely?

"I am Cicero Caine," he says, gesturing behind him. "My pack. We heard the summons to compete for your hand," his smirk tells me what he thinks of his competition as he looks at the panting weres behind me, "and I have come to win you, Princess."

"You have wasted your trip." I know already he will never touch me, not with my consent.

"We'll see." He shrugs his wide shoulders, tribal tattoos rippling. "We've come all the way from California. Surely you won't send us back without at least the chance to pay our respects to our king." Caine uses the word like it's a joke, as though my grandfather's position amuses him. Irrational need surges, the desire to leap on this were and rip his throat out with my teeth so strong I shudder.

He may be handsome on the outside, one of my wolf's prerequisites, but internal beauty is just as important to her, and this Cicero Caine is rotten to the core of his being.

I don't know how I know, only that I do. The more time I stand here, smelling his funk, feeling the contempt of his pack, watching him stare at me with eyes holding nothing but hunger, the deeper my antagonism grows.

I would love to send him packing, right here, right now. But I know my place. This isn't my job to fulfill, but my grandfather's. I will ensure, however, Oleksander knows exactly how I feel. And will personally escort Caine and his people out of Ukraine. By the scruff, if I have to.

I really hope I have to.

Caine's grin is feral, and yet amused at the same time. "Give me time, Princess," he says. "You'll come to appreciate I'm your best choice for a mate."

The werewolves around me growl their unhappiness at his affront.

I finally allow my anger to win, turning my back on him. "You'll have to catch me first."

And, in a surge of renewed agony, I embrace my wolf and run back the way I came.

Just let him try.

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