executed, it sounds almost exactly as it would if he stood before Drek in human form. “Does that matter, really?”
No. Yet, they somehow had a hand in Tahlia's rescue. Or Tahlia somehow helped them . Without the details, Drek is not happy dismissing their lives so quickly. And one is a female Were. He scented her. Unfortunately, the demonic, like the vampire, are scentless.
“I suppose no ,” he finally answers, “but I believe this female rogue was the one who Tahlia assisted back at the highway. And as I put the pieces together, I further postulate that the Alpha who was so neatly gutted at Region One is part of her capture. And Tahlia interrupted it.”
“That Alpha is bad news, Drek. I don't want that following us to Lanarre country.”
Drek sighs, knowing he should have finished gutting that one. However, it would have been cowardly to kill a defenseless Were without clear reason. And in front of witnesses, when no transgression was made against the Lanarre? No. A bad move.
“We own the Hoh. It is ours.” He misses thumping his chest by a hairsbreadth. “It is the Lanarre who has kept the western half of the United States free of problems among Lycan. The alliance between the southwestern Lanarre region through my mating with Thalia would have solidified that further.”
“Come on, Drek. You know that's not true. There's been unrest. And I don't believe you want the ancient status quo any more than I do.”
He gives Bowen a hard glance but keeps his misgivings to himself. Bowen is right. Small packs keep popping up. They don't feel the need to formally align with the Lanarre, preferring an outlaw lifestyle to the strength of unity. It's troubling. But that further solidifies Drek's ideas about progressing Lycan culture into a more modern direction.
“Listen”—Bowen claps Drek on the back—“you can't take all this bullshit political evolution on as your singular mission to save everyone. You just have to make the Lanarre pack the very best of us. We worry about the rest later, yes?”
Bowen is wise.
Drek is fraught with obligation, responsibility, and thoughts better left unsaid and not dwelled upon.
However, Drek does dwell. He dreams of a better life, more communicative between packs, agreement on inter-pack matings, and a cessation of rites that leave females in precarious positions of being fought over. That is not a healthy environment for perpetuating the breed.
At least that will not be Tahlia's end. No Were would want the cast off of a prince. She can live out her life in peace, without being forced to wed Drek—if, and only if, he is able to effect change.
Without change, the muck of tradition will weigh them down like boulders in quick sand.
“Lead on,” Drek says.
They run.
*
Drek slows, his lungs on slow-burning fire. The Hoh receives more than a hundred forty inches of rain per year, and the forest is slick with trailing moss and undergrowth.
Wolfen flesh has a coating similar to a duck’s; the rain wets the tips, and the hair sheds the majority of the wetness. Still, the rain dampens the pair, making the travel wet and chilly, even in their partially changed forms.
“You're rugged for a prince,” Bowen huffs as he speeds through the woods.
Drek lets the next branch swing back. He hears it whip Bowen, who curses.
“Kidding!” Bowen shouts from behind him.
Drek smirks. Bowen is always poking fun.
Loud voices in conflict reach his ears.
“Wait!” Drek says, wrapping a long arm around a trunk to assist his slowing.
Tahlia's sweet scent fills his nostrils, and Drek inhales deeply, relief flooding him. Nothing compares to a female of royalty, and Tahlia's safety.
He scowls, his nose wrinkling at the second scent: one who is in heat. The odor reaches him easily—all male Were would scent the same.
Bowen reaches him, eyes as wide as his nostrils. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes,” Drek says.
“Tahlia has somehow come to the pack, and another
No. Yet, they somehow had a hand in Tahlia's rescue. Or Tahlia somehow helped them . Without the details, Drek is not happy dismissing their lives so quickly. And one is a female Were. He scented her. Unfortunately, the demonic, like the vampire, are scentless.
“I suppose no ,” he finally answers, “but I believe this female rogue was the one who Tahlia assisted back at the highway. And as I put the pieces together, I further postulate that the Alpha who was so neatly gutted at Region One is part of her capture. And Tahlia interrupted it.”
“That Alpha is bad news, Drek. I don't want that following us to Lanarre country.”
Drek sighs, knowing he should have finished gutting that one. However, it would have been cowardly to kill a defenseless Were without clear reason. And in front of witnesses, when no transgression was made against the Lanarre? No. A bad move.
“We own the Hoh. It is ours.” He misses thumping his chest by a hairsbreadth. “It is the Lanarre who has kept the western half of the United States free of problems among Lycan. The alliance between the southwestern Lanarre region through my mating with Thalia would have solidified that further.”
“Come on, Drek. You know that's not true. There's been unrest. And I don't believe you want the ancient status quo any more than I do.”
He gives Bowen a hard glance but keeps his misgivings to himself. Bowen is right. Small packs keep popping up. They don't feel the need to formally align with the Lanarre, preferring an outlaw lifestyle to the strength of unity. It's troubling. But that further solidifies Drek's ideas about progressing Lycan culture into a more modern direction.
“Listen”—Bowen claps Drek on the back—“you can't take all this bullshit political evolution on as your singular mission to save everyone. You just have to make the Lanarre pack the very best of us. We worry about the rest later, yes?”
Bowen is wise.
Drek is fraught with obligation, responsibility, and thoughts better left unsaid and not dwelled upon.
However, Drek does dwell. He dreams of a better life, more communicative between packs, agreement on inter-pack matings, and a cessation of rites that leave females in precarious positions of being fought over. That is not a healthy environment for perpetuating the breed.
At least that will not be Tahlia's end. No Were would want the cast off of a prince. She can live out her life in peace, without being forced to wed Drek—if, and only if, he is able to effect change.
Without change, the muck of tradition will weigh them down like boulders in quick sand.
“Lead on,” Drek says.
They run.
*
Drek slows, his lungs on slow-burning fire. The Hoh receives more than a hundred forty inches of rain per year, and the forest is slick with trailing moss and undergrowth.
Wolfen flesh has a coating similar to a duck’s; the rain wets the tips, and the hair sheds the majority of the wetness. Still, the rain dampens the pair, making the travel wet and chilly, even in their partially changed forms.
“You're rugged for a prince,” Bowen huffs as he speeds through the woods.
Drek lets the next branch swing back. He hears it whip Bowen, who curses.
“Kidding!” Bowen shouts from behind him.
Drek smirks. Bowen is always poking fun.
Loud voices in conflict reach his ears.
“Wait!” Drek says, wrapping a long arm around a trunk to assist his slowing.
Tahlia's sweet scent fills his nostrils, and Drek inhales deeply, relief flooding him. Nothing compares to a female of royalty, and Tahlia's safety.
He scowls, his nose wrinkling at the second scent: one who is in heat. The odor reaches him easily—all male Were would scent the same.
Bowen reaches him, eyes as wide as his nostrils. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes,” Drek says.
“Tahlia has somehow come to the pack, and another
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