Page 89 of Wolf’s Fated Bride

“I hope you’re right.”

“In the meantime, we must keep everything a secret until the Fireborn Alpha recovers.” Maren steps into the bathroom. “Crap. I look like a strung-out bunny with my hair sticking out every which way. Did my father have any instructions on the dress code?”

“It’s a formal summons. Pack colors.” Lindsey turns to me. “You too, Runa.”

I frown. “Why me?”

She shrugs. “That’s what he said.”

Maren walks out of the bathroom. “Sven won’t talk.”

“He knows about Runa and Ash?” Gerdie asks, a pinch of fear in her voice.

I cringe, hoping Maren doesn’t join our girls-tell-all party and spill about her affair.

Maren evades by speaking directly to me. “Sven won’t tell anyone, even if he noticed something. He’s not stupid. If he says anything, he’ll be blamed for not reporting it sooner. In the best-case scenario, Sven will be ostracized, stripped of all his diplomas and his livelihood, and be forbidden from practicing alchemy.”

“You think so?” I ask.

Maren nods. “He’s smart. He’ll use the situation as a stepping stone to climb into a higher role.”

Sven is a survivor, I’ll give him that.

“Can’t you just take Maren’s place?” Lindsey asks. “They could redraft the treaty, and it could all work out the same.”

“The Peacebroker will want Maren. If it’s not her, they’ll consider it a breach of treaty.”

“Yes, but why?” she asks.

Maren sighs. “They’re on a power trip. I wish they would whore themselves out and leave me out of their deal.”

“Maren…” I warn as she puts on her pants. “Dad said pack colors. That means a blue dress.”

“He’ll get blue jeans,” Maren counters. She finds a white blouse, pulls up her hair in an elegant bun, and applies red lipstick. Effortlessly pretty.

I match Maren. I won’t wear a dress if she’s wearing pants. We can be equally defiant, a small protest against the men and werewolf males who want to control our lives. I wear blue slacks and a matching shirt, and Maren and I descend the staircase.

Guards in black uniforms stand at the doors of our gathering hall. Never seen those uniforms before. Uncertain, I look at Maren, who bites her lip.

Just when I think she’ll slow down, my sister strides right up to the tallest one standing in the middle and turns up her nose to sniff. “Well, well, well, what do we have here? A wolfblood.”

Part wolf, part human. The man glances at me. His bright hazel eyes tell me his mother must’ve been an omega wolf, which means his father is human. Most of the mixed unions broke up under the political weight of the war.

“Spread your legs and lift your hands,” the man says. “I need to search you for weapons.”

Maren and I don’t object, and the man pats us down then opens the door.

I walk in, but Maren stops and snaps her teeth right beside his neck.

Thinking she might actually bite him for touching her, I pull her by the hand.

Dread accumulates in my belly at the sight of my father surrounded by uniformed men while he sits at the head of the table. The Peacebroker, a tall, brown-haired man wearing a white two-piece uniform and a green scarf, stands by the window.

No cocktails or food are served. My father signals his displeasure that way. Guests get a warm welcome. Armed men do not.

Instead of a tray of food, the treaty Maren signed lies on the table. I count three werewolves and about three dozen Wardens in the hall. Fear makes me want to pee my pants.

“Daddy, what’s going on?” Maren says.