Chapter 4: Sunday Table

On Sunday, half the pack came up the ridge to eat at the Alpha's table.

It was an old custom.

Every week the whole pack ate one meal under the Alpha's roof.

Every week I had set out the folding chairs, and this week somebody else had.

This week I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched them come in.

They stared at me. They were polite about it.

Colt's cousin patted my arm and said he'd missed me.

Someone's grandmother asked, very loudly, if I knew what year it was.

"Nineteen ninety-something?" I said, and she laughed until she coughed.

The Alpha's living room was too full to cross.

I was edging along the wall when a hand settled at the small of my back.

It steered me forward.

"Left," Dane said, close to my ear. "Then the chair by the window."

It was a crowded room, and he was only moving me through it.

His hand stayed there after we passed the last person.

He didn't take it away, and I didn't step out from under it.

I could feel the heat of his palm through my sweater.

I was aware of every one of his fingers.

At the window chair, he let go and stood over me while I sat.

His breath was uneven.

Under it I heard something lower, a sound that started in his chest and stopped before it reached his mouth.

"Are you all right?" I whispered.

"Fine," he said. "A lot of people."

His shoulders were rigid. His hands were fists.

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