Page 4 of Wolf’s Fated Bride

Sören shakes his head. “Some days, I think you’re the older sister,” he says to me.

“Luckily, I’m not, or I’d have to marry the Fireborn Alpha.”

Maren turns on her side and props her head in a hand. “Thanks, sis.”

“Welcome.” I snatch her wrist and pull her to her feet so I can apply red lipstick to her lips. Once that’s done, I step back. Maren twirls in her light blue dress. Diamond earrings dangle from her ears and end in the circular shape of a full moon.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her.

“You look like a princess,” Sören says.

“I am a princess.” Maren’s blue dress is a tribute to the color of our pack. Water is blue. Fire is red. Air is silver-gray. Earth is green. Maren looks me up and down and frowns. “I wish you were wearing the dress Helmi made for me so we could match.”

“I can’t wear a blue dress during formals. You know that.”

Maren huffs out a breath. “Those pack laws are ancient. And stupid. Why shouldn’t you wear a blue dress if I want us to match?”

“Because, my dear sister, it would confuse the males since they’re only staring at the blue fabric that stretches over our breasts instead of taking in the entire person.” Maren and I have large breasts. Very large breasts. While I expect males to look when I display cleavage, it’s disappointing when they don’t look up into my face, even when speaking to me.

My brother clears his throat, reminding us of his presence.

“Did you try the dress Jorna made?” Maren asks.

“No.”

She pouts. “Runa, please.”

“You should try it.”

“But she made it for you,” she says.

I tried it already. That’s how I knew it wasn’t for me. “My hips are wider. Jorna made it for you, but gave it to me after you chose Helmi’s dress.”

Maren gasps. “How do you know that?”

“Her daughter slipped and told me the other day.”

“Then neither of us will wear her dress,” Maren declares, her nose tipped up. “Jorna shouldn’t gift you secondhand gifts. For shame. In fact, I’ll have a talk with her tomorrow.”

I shrug. “It doesn’t bother me.”

A soft knock sounds before Maren’s friend Gerdie pokes her head inside. “Incoming.”

Shit. Maren scrambles for shoes but can’t find any. I throw her the pair of heels she already rejected, and she kicks them back over to me. “Not those.”

“Incoming,” Sören repeats, then assumes his regal position, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands neatly folded behind his back. We join him, standing on either side of our brother. I look up. My God, I forgot how tall Sören is.

“You look handsome,” I tell him.

“Thank you.”

Maren slouches. I reach behind him and pinch her arm.

“Slut,” she whispers under her breath.

“Whore,” I say right back.

“I fear our female genetics are severely compromised,” Sören says.