He watched her as she filled the kettle, reached for a mug, chose what tea she wanted. She went for an English Breakfast. Odd. Normally, she liked a herbal blend, something aromatic and full of fruit or spice.
He shook his head almost violently. Since when did he know what sort of tea Layla Hawthorne enjoyed?
Eventually, she figured out she couldn’t ignore him any longer. With a sigh, she turned, holding her mug to her chest as if it were a shield.
“Why are you here, Dominic?”
He shifted his weight. “I told you. I’m looking for Theodore.”
Her eye twitched. “And as we’ve established, he’s not here.”
He shrugged. “He might come back.”
It sounded lame even to him.
The sound of the rain filled the silence, drumming against the window. Beneath it, angry and churning, the ocean crashed against the shore.
Layla’s fingernails tapped against the mug.
“Can I ask you something?” she said suddenly.
He regarded her warily, but she didn’t seem like she was about to attack. She just looked…tired.
“What?”
She peered down at her tea, a small frown creasing her forehead. He’d almost decided she’d reconsidered talking when she finally spoke.
“Why are you so cruel to me?”
He stared at her, dumbfounded, but she wasn’t deterred. If anything, his shock seemed to spur her on.
“I mean, Theodore is your best friend. Yet you constantly torment me for my breeding, my bloodline, my house, all of it. I don’t get it.”
“Theo’s strong,” Dominic said, “strength is everything in a pack. You know that.”
“Do I?” she asked, her eyes wide. Eighteen years old, she was. And it seemed she’d found her bite.
He scoffed, turning from her, setting his gaze out the window. She was being childish. He didn’t owe her anexplanation; he didn’t owe anybody an explanation. He was the son of the Alpha. He could do as he pleased.
“Where the fuck is Theo,” he muttered, fists clenching. “You shouldn’t be here on your own.”
That earned him a bark of laughter, “I live here,” she said, “and I’m not alone.”
“You are,” he said before he could stop himself, “most nights.”
Her gaze flicked to his, sharp, “Why do you care?”
“As you say,” he replied, “you’re my best friend’s sister.”
Her expression grew angry, “So you’ll happily bully me all you like, but I’m supposed to see it as some kind of affection? I’m supposed to know that deep down, you really care about me, because family does actually mean something to you? Give me a break.”
He took a step forward, something deep and animalistic satisfied at the instant bow of her head, the unconscious submission.
“Careful,” he said quietly.
“Or what?” Her jaw worked as she stared at the floor, defiant despite her instincts. “You’ll yell at me? Call me weak? You’ve been doing that for years. It’s lost its sting.”
“Has it,” he said.
