“Where do you plan to continue your studies?”
I laugh awkwardly and resist the temptation to rub the back of my neck, a habit I was supposed to have grown out of. “Well, I—”
“Max has been accepted into the arts program at NYU,” Jasper answers for me.
“Wonderful,” Aaliyah says, her extraordinarily long and intricately decorated nails rapping against the side of a champagne flute. “And what about the two of you?”
I glance from the pair of alphas to Jasper and back again, clearly not understanding.
Aaliyah shrugs, grinning. “Now that we’re at peace aren’t you considering ...” She trails off, wafting a hand in front of her like the end of her sentence should be obvious.
“What my nosy comrade would like to know,” Carmine says, “is, now that there aren’t any interpack complications, when we should expect an invitation to your marking ceremony.”
Marking ceremony?!?!
My mouth drops open, instantly turning desert-dry, and my eyes are surely bugging right out of my stunned face.
“Our—ourwhat?”
TO BE MARKED
“Would you excuse me?” I say, not caring too much if the visiting alphas are offended. It’s suddenly too warm and too packed inside, so I head for the doors to the balcony, Jasper trailing behind me.
“Wait up,” he says once we’re outside, taking my elbow to turn me back to him. The sky is almost all the way dark, and the pleasant summer breeze is helping cool me down. “Are you okay?”
I struggle to look him in the eye. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“What just happened?”
Without looking up I know he’s studying my face, his eyes probably full of care and concern.
“Why did you freak?” Jasper finds my hands, lacing his fingers through mine. “Tell me.”
Mustering the courage to meet his gaze, I find I can’t hold in my thoughts any longer. “Are people seriously expecting us to have a marking ceremony? We’re, like, teenagers, we’ve only been together for like a year and half. I’m ... we’re still young and I’m about to go to college, and—and marking ceremonies are just so—public, they’re such a spectacle, and I ...” Spotting the grin creeping into the corner of Jasper’s peachy lips, I trail off. “Why are you smiling?”
“You hate the idea of bearing my mark that much?”
“No, it’s not that.” I squeeze his hands a little tighter. “You know it’s not that, it’s just ...”
How do I tell the wolf I’m mated to that I don’t know if I ever want to be marked, let alone have a very big, very public ceremony to—excuse my phrasing—mark the occasion?
For werewolves in packs, marking ceremonies are basically like weddings. They’re this big ritual where two mates get all dressed up and stand in front of a big crowd, full of their loved ones and everyone they know, to confirm how much they love each other. One partner, historically the more dominant one (which is archaic AF), or both (the more modern way of doing things) will bite the other’s neck, leaving a mark on their skin that lasts forever.
It’s super corny and harks back to a less civilized time in wolf culture, when dominant wolves laid stake to their more submissive mates. And it’s permanent, an irreversible decision.
Not that I’m doubting Jasper’s and my potential to go the distance, but I’ve always been on the fence about whether being marked or having a whole-ass ceremony is something I want.
“Hey.” Jasper leans in closer, his forehead resting gently against mine. “We don’t have to have a marking ceremony anytime soon, okay? People are just happy for us and they want to celebrate what we have.”
I glance up through my curly bangs, feeling sheepish. “But you do want to have one—a ceremony, I mean—one day?”
Jasper leans back so I can see his expression clearly and the pure excitement there has me freaked.
“Yeah, of course,” he says. “I mean, it’s expected as the future alpha. And it’s tradition. An alpha always marks their luna.”
For a second I don’t say anything, twisting the heel of one foot into the ground until it aches. Jasper is so confident that this is something he wants. What if me not wanting the same thing is a deal-breaker?
“And you want to do this in front of people?”
