Not that Sweet Water pack has ever had enough money to pay servants—that is, if these ones are even paid at all—but Randall definitely looked down on anyone who didn’t cater to his ego or wasn’t in his little social circle.
Which wasn’t actually very large considering what an asshole he was. Another thing Randall and Earl have in common.
Earl spent the entire time the two of us were alone trying to convince me to stick around and take my place as his heir. I told him in no uncertain terms that wasn’t an option for me, but considering he not-so-subtly threatened to keep Ollie here if I refused, I’m not so sure he’s willing to accept that.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter what he says anyway. The triumvirate is coming for him. All I need to do is humor him for a while longer.
“So, Luke, why don’t you tell us a little about your pack?” asks Wanda. “It’s in Alabama, right?”
I force a smile and give a brief overview of the Sweet Water pack and how I run it, listing all the changes I’ve made since taking Randall’s place as Alpha.
“It sounds like you landed on your feet, then,” says Wanda as if proving a point.
“I guess,” I say, slightly confused.
She nods to herself, flicks a glance at Clay, then returns her attention to her plate.
Earl snorts. “Personally, I’ve found the most effective way to run a pack is treating it as more of a—what do you call it?—feudalsociety. In exchange for land and homes, the pack works for me, the betas taking care of cleaning, farming, cooking, and all that with some help from the omegas who are…”—he gestures in Ollie’s direction— “well, I’m sure you know what they’re good for.”
A strained silence falls for a few seconds before Wanda says, “I think my mate simply means that the entire pack chips in to keep things running around here.”
Somehow, I doubt the “entire pack” she’s referring to includes her or Earl.
Earl nods, shooting his mate an almost approving look. “That’s right. Over five hundred acres managed by a pack of a little over a hundred.”
“And you have multiple omegas in your pack?” asks Macy, cocking her head to the side. “I thought they’re rare.”
“A few of them pop up in every generation,” says Wanda. She pauses as if thinking. “I believe right now we have three total, four now with Oliver back.”
“I didn’t see any other houses,” says Ollie from beside me. “Where does the rest of the pack live?”
Earl spares him a brief glance. “Each family is provided with a cabin, but those are farther out so they don’t disrupt my view.”
“I see.” I cough into my elbow to hide my laugh. It somehow doesn’t surprise me that Earl doesn’t like having to see the likely small and dilapidated houses of his underlings.
Each course is brought out separately, so the meal drags on and every time a server approaches the table, Ollie goes tense. The third time it happens, I stare at the young man who just filled Ollie’s glass, trying to figure out what’s upset my mate.
Does Ollie recognize him? Or it is something else?
Ollie glances at me, then rubs his hand over the front of his neck and looks back to the server. My gaze catches on the metal band around the young man’s neck that I’d thought was some kind of jewelry earlier.
Macy catches the direction of my gaze and she frowns. “What’s with the collars?”
Earl glares at the server as he leaves the room. “Those are for when one of the members of my pack has trouble… accepting their role.”
“So, the collar is some kind of punishment?” asks Macy.
“More of a way to correct behavior,” says Wanda with thin smile. “After a few ye—months in one of our collars, they learn their place. It’s for their own good.”
My stomach roils with disgust and I fight to keep it off my face. Ollie doesn’t manage to hide his reaction, going pale and staringdown at his plate like he’s about to puke. I place my hand on his thigh, squeezing gently in an attempt to reassure him.
The conversation kind of dies after that, but the food and the wine keep coming. By the time the desert comes out, I’m beginning to feel a little dizzy.
Which is weird. It takes a lot of alcohol to get a shifter drunk and even with my wine glass being constantly refilled, I don’t think I’ve had that much.
On the other side of the table, Macy coughs, then gives her head a brisk shake as if trying to rouse herself. Is she feeling the effects of the wine too?
“What, uh, vintage is this?” I ask pointing at the wine glass.
