Treehouse
A whole new wolf pack, with a whole new host of dark desires...
I had a treehouse.
That was what made me special.
Unique.
It was beyond Lariot castle and its inner bailey, past the wooden gate which was generally left lowered, and just after the expansive grain field that would feed us well through the leaner months of snow.
And when the Mating Moon rose and took over every wolf for the four hundred miles encompassing the Doglands, every other female that didn’t have somewhere to hide or lock herself in was bred. Willing or not.
If she’s caught.
When the most playful, good natured of our males turned into predatory, feral things ready to hunt down every female pheromone they caught whiff of.
But they couldn’t get to me.
I intended to choose my own mate.
And who breeds me.
I was unwilling to submit to any of them.
I’d yet to meet one I yearned for as a mate.
But every year, about this time. I started preparing that treehouse. Stocking it with food. Checking the rope ladder, climbing up and down it to ensure the ropes were sturdy. And hauling up pails of water with the help of my brother, Dillon.
Who had originally built it for me, when I came of age to be bred.
He and I were all that was left of the Witherstring family. Mother and father had caught the wolf plagues that decimated most of the Doglands, and exiled themselves, with everyone else carrying the disease, to protect their young. Heading out into the wilder woods surrounding the castle. Risking coming across the beast of the Wildwood or the feral packs out there, that had banded together to survive.
Dillon and I were part of what remained of the next generation of the Lariot pack.
The rope I held creaked as I tugged it a bit harder. Working my hands higher up and ignoring the uncomfortable chaffing along my palms. Sloshing that metal bucket back and forth and sending a spray over me. Dousing the front of my hair and down my front. I swore and ignored it, while I pulled on the other rope.
“Ha ha!” Dillon laughed. “Caught a splash there, didn’t you?”
“Are you making me do this, just to laugh at me?” I demanded of him.
Ignoring his grinning face hovering over the balcony of the treehouse to beam at me.
“Nope. Just an extra perk.” He untied the pail and took it through the open entrance to put a flat of wood over it.
Same as the others.
He came back out, sweeping a hand through his curling black hair. “It’s payback, after all the years I had to do this. You’re finally big enough, for me to get to hang out up here, picking my nose.”
I huffed in annoyance. Tossing my curling brown hair back over my shoulder. Leaving it fluffed, in its usual wild tangle. My dress was soaked. I pulled it away from me to inspect it disdainfully.
“Next pail.” Dillon called.
“That’s the last of them.” I hollered back. Still frowning at my old blue dress. Flicking it to try to dry it off, so it didn’t cling to me so readily.
“I’ll go in and get everything situated.”
“Fine.” I muttered absentmindedly. Assessing the damage of my dress. And wondering how I was going to get back through the bailey, in this, I didn’t notice someone’s approach.
“What have you done now, Henna?” I knew that playful, drawl.
I immediately stiffened. Turning away, as I suffered the immediate urge to keep the fabric from me, in an effort to hide what it revealed. Not wanting him to see.
“Oh, no need for that.” KJ Lariot, one of the eight princes of our pack, strode around to the front of me. Catching my wrists as he caught my movement, and shaking my hands lose to inspect the damage.
Freeing the dress from my fingertips. As it settled to stick against the hollow between my breasts. Revealing the wide, smooth hollow between and molding around the inner and lower curvature of them, though not quite revealing the soft brown nipples beneath. Thankfully. Though they immediately hardened due to the cold.
Increasing the intensity of his study. His pupils pinpointing then blooming as he focused on the alluring curves, that traitorous damn dress revealed.
He was tall. Towering over me, though most did. He was lean and honed from sword fighting his seven brothers. He had a narrow, angular face that was full of expression. Usually, disdainful amusement at the expense of everyone else. He had waving silvery blonde hair that was always smoothed back from his face. That hair was so pale it was undeniably striking. There were whispers that the Lariots had fey blood in them, and that’s why they all had tints of white in their hair. Others gossiped that they were cousins of Archer Gray, the Dark Prince of White Mountain Fortress.
But I didn’t believe any of that. He didn’t have blue eyes like most of the fey. He had odd, distinctive, gold eyes that had a way of watching you like a predator sighting prey.
I didn’t like that thought I won’t ever be his prey.
His frame was made broader by the fur trimmed, brown leather vest he wore. The black and gray pelt trimming it lifted to surround his face, silhouetting him and making him seem more imposing.
As if he needed help with that.
His deerskin leather pants were cut in straight lines that molded sinewed legs and muscled flanks.
It was his most common outfit. What he chose to wear any time he wasn’t expected to be in fancier garb, such as for a fine banquet or ceremony. Nonetheless, it drew the eye.
It was what I remembered him always wearing, when we were all little. Though he’d not filled it out as much as he did now.
Between the open flaps of that vest, I could see the black leather encircling his neck. Hanging from it was the mark of the Lariot. A silver wolf’s head carved into shining metal. It rested between the lean lines of his defined chest. Sitting just where his sternum ended above the outline of a hard abdomen. All those muscled lines seemed to converge there. Luring my gaze lower…
“Who’s staring now?” He lifted a brow.
