“I am calm,” I grit out through my teeth, but Charlie shakes his head.
“About as calm as a cat in a wet paper bag,” he murmurs. “Seriously, you’re not doing yourself, orher,any favors acting like a damn Neanderthal.”
I shake him off as Simon continues.
“I don’t suppose Lucas here has asked you to the Social, yet, has he?”
Bugger. Of course he’d bring up the Social.
I knew I’d have to bring it up eventually, but between her arrival and her avoidance—not to mention herheat—I hadn’t found a chance to speak with the woman, let alone tell her about the social engagement scheduled to take place here at the end of the week.
Emily tenses in her chair.
“The Social?” she asks, clearly surprised.
“You don’t have Socials where you are from?” Sarah asks. My mother looks up from her spot at the table, from behind the book she was reading. My father clears his throat, looking directly at me as if to question me.
Emily shakes her head.
“Um… no.”
“The Pack Social is a monthly event held during the full moon. It’s a mixer of sorts,” My mother starts, but Sarah squeals with delight and chimes in.
“It’s also one of the ways we meet ourmates.”
“A different pack hosts the event every month,” my mother says with glee. “And we are the esteemed hosts this month.”
Emily blinks.
“You’re hosting the social… here? In this house?”
“In the ballroom, yes. And partly the courtyard. It does get rather stuffy sometimes from all the… heat.” My father’s steady gaze catches mine and I have to force myself to look away.
“Without Pack Socials, how do you meet your mate?” Sarah asks curiously.
I watch Emily, keeping my gaze trained on her.
She tucks some dark hair behind her ear. Her shoulders hunch.
She’s nervous. Uncomfortable. My alpha rises at this, wanting nothing more than to comfort our omega.
“Some packs still arrange meetings,” she says, glancing at me as the room falls silent. “But most of the omegas and alphas register for the Scent Bank upon graduation from the Academy, or they just meet, you know… by chance.”
“Leaving a decision such as a mate up to chance seems dangerous,” Sarah says.
“Scent Banks? Good heavens,” my mother says as my father scoffs.
“Does it really matter?” I ask, pulling all their attention to me.
“I beg your pardon?” my mother asks, looking at me in question.
“How the packs do things in America is how they do things. We are in no place to judge them. Just because their traditions may differ from ours does not make them less valuable.”
My father’s gaze settles on me, heating me with its intense judgment.
“Traditions are something to be upheld,” he says coolly. “There is honor in tradition.”
I sip my tea, the tension shifting in the room.
