Chapter 8: The Soup

Jarrett's POV

A seventeen-year-old pinned me in the sparring ring that morning, and I could not get him off.

I had been the strongest wolf in Stillwater for eight years.

The boy knelt on my chest with his forearm across my throat, and he looked scared to death.

"Alpha?" he said. "I'm sorry. Alpha, I didn't think you'd let me."

"I didn't let you," I said.

The patrol watching from the fence went quiet.

I got up slowly and wiped dirt off my mouth.

My wolf had howled once, the night Faye was released and drove out of the valley.

It had not answered me since.

I told the patrol that I had a headache.

No one believed me.

At supper that night, Imogen's aunts filled the long table in the pack hall with their jewelry and their loud talk.

Imogen sat at my right with her hand on my sleeve.

She was smiling at everyone.

Her ring was wrapped in new tape under a second gold band.

She lifted her wine glass to the aunts for a toast.

The ring slid off her hand and dropped into the soup.

It made a small, clear splash.

The whole table looked down at the bowl.

"It's the sizing," Imogen said brightly. "The jeweler is a fool. I'm having it done again tomorrow."

She fished it out with a spoon, wiped it on a napkin, and put it back on.

Her fingers were shaking.

"That's the ninth time," I said under my breath.

Her smile did not move.

"I haven't counted," she said.

"I have."

She dug her nails into my sleeve.

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