“You should know by now, dear creator.” Taking my hand, he detaches it from his arm. “I always win.”
“For the love of God.”
“You can call meYour Lord.”
“I’d rather call you an unreasonable, neurotic control freak.”
His nostrils flare. It’s boring. “You owe me,” he grates.
“For what?”
“For putting me through everything you’ve ever put me through.”
“It was for your own good.”Although you’ve clearly not lost your ego. Or your obstinacy. Or your holier-than-thou attitude.“Fine,” I say, sighing.
“Oh good, I knew you’d see sense.” He reaches for the glass bauble dedicated to him, his lip curling at all the other alphas littering my table.
“Hold your horses, Ward.”
He freezes, looking over his shoulder with a worried, raised brow. “What?”
“If we’re going to have a debate over top spot on my Alpha Tree, it should be fair.”
His shoulders drop, and he looks to the heavens for patience. It’s the most condescending gesture. “And I’ll win that debate too,” he drones, claiming his jar again and sinking his finger in.
“We’ll see.” I collect my mobile off the island.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting the others.”
“Wait, what?” His finger, half coated in peanut butter, hangs limply in front of his open mouth. “The others? The otherwhat?”
“I’m texting all of my other alphas.” With the exception of Johnny and Frank. They’re in 1816; no telephones. Telepathy?
Jesse laughs, and it’s one hundred percent uneasy. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Feeling threatened?” I ask, head tilted, silently amused.
He sniffs, standing tall, chest puffing out. “Watch your damn mouth.” Then licks his finger clean.
“You’re so fucking predictable.”And exasperating.Jesse flinches, my blue language obviously like razors over his skin.Good. “Take a seat.” I point to a leather chair in the corner of the snug area, and he looks at it, unsure.
“Fine,” he grunts, slamming the jar down and stomping over, dropping to the seat and crossing one leg over the other, his palms splayed on each arm. “And I think you’ve had enough.” He nods at my wine.
Laughter erupts from deep in my belly, filling the room. “Oh, I’ve had nowhere near enough.”Now you’re here.
“You’re really texting them?” he asks.
“Yep.” Why the hell not? It’s not like my patience could be shredded any more.
So I do. I send a mass message to each and every one of them—and a mental message to Johnny and Frank—and, as expected, they all reply in a heartbeat.
All on their way.
Through the wonder of fiction—and time travel—they arrive immediately, a chorus of various engines rumbling down my driveway. With the exception of Johnny and Frank, who arrive on horseback.
From 1816.
