Isabelle Slate had gone her whole life looking forward to finding her mate- the one who'd look after her, love her, and protect her. But when she's matched with the most narcissistic, possessive, gorgeous, and powerful Alpha in the whole Southern Pa...
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"Isabelle! I have lunch!" Grant's loud voice booms and echoes off the halls of the large cottage house. I look up from the copy of The Bylaws of American Packs and sigh.
I scoot my chair out from under the desk, then make my way towards the kitchen, the smell of pasta wafting through the air.
"I had lobster pasta catered," He says as I enter the room.
"Smells good," My mouth waters as I see the food set out on a plate at the bar.
"Believe me, it's amazing," He affirms my preconceived notion and I sit.
We both begin to eat, an easy silence covering us. We have an agreement: Talk about things not involving Jaxon.
However, today, I simply can't help myself. "So, how's pack life?"
His eyes shoot up to me, realizing what my underlying question is. He sighs, sets down his fork, and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Isabelle, you don't really want to know if Jaxon is with other women. You think you do, but you honestly don't."
I swallow the lump that had quickly formed in my throat and play with my food, "So he is, then?"
Don't get upset. You haven't even seen him lately. You shouldn't even care for him!
"Isabelle," Grant massages his temples, his voice filled with exasperation, "we've been over this."
I stand and walk the few feet until I'm standing in front of him, "I know, Grant, I know. I-I-just," I pause and compose myself, "-need to know, ok."
He sighs once more, then nods, "Yes. He's been with other women."
I step away from him and wrap my arms about myself, trying to bring my own comfort. "I-I need some air," I stammer out before flying out the front door and into the forest.
However, as soon as I exit, I run straight into a firm body. I bounce back slightly, but a tight grip on my shoulder steadies me. I stare up into those stormy, icy blue eyes that are currently filled with anger; but what's new?
"Isabelle," He hisses, his grip tightening, "I thought I told you not to leave the house."
"I-I was just going to sit on the steps," I hurriedly lie, not wanting to enrage him further. "W-What are you doing here?"
He narrows his eyes at me, "What am I doing here? I own this house. Therefore, I can come and go as I please."
"Th-That's not what I meant," I say back, playing with the hem of the sweater I'm wearing.
His eyes trail down to where I'm fiddling with the fabric and his voice is almost comical, "I see you found my closet." I nod, friction building up on my thumb from my incessant rubbing of the sweater.
It's silent for a moment before he exhales and steps back, frigidity taking over where his presence had once been. "Where's Grant?" His voice becomes cold and I point to the inside of the house.
