Chance Nightshade, daughter of the Melbourne City Alpha, will avenge her brother's murder at any cost. Even if it means working with a charming vampire prince.
Season 1 of Witchfire
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"So..." I trailed off, pushing at my food with my fork. "You're from France?"
Seated across the table, my suitor nodded, lean fingers expertly prompting our best set of cutlery — non-silverware, of course — to spear a bite-size portion of steak. "Oui," he said, voice deep as a well and smoother than red velvet cake. "And you are from Australia."
I mocked his answer with silence and watched him eat, one weirdly sensual forkful at a time. The man was so handsome it was ridiculous. His back was straighter than the minority of the nation protesting gay marriage, and he acted as though dinner with my father, the most fearsome alpha in the shadow world, was an effortless affair. Like an arrogant prince from a bedtime story, I thought, taking a sip of water, glaring at him over the rim of the glass. The bridge of his nose was a slightly crooked, hinting that it had been broken at least once. It was the only imperfection I could find on his person. Broad of chest and shoulders, narrow-waisted and with a jaw as strong as his bulging arms, my suitor looked like an ancient sculpture brought to life.
He's a fine specimen, the analytical part of my mind noted. Prestigious bloodline, physically and politically powerful, attractive... a worthy mate, it decided. Not that I cared. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and that was the end of the matter.
After swallowing his steak, he smiled in a decidedly sultry way. Unabashed, I arched a brow and returned to butchering my steak. The knife missed the meat, screeching as it hit the ceramic plate. We all winced. Father shot a thundercloud look in my direction from the head of the table. I promptly looked away, so that he wouldn't be able to see the satisfaction in my eyes. He deserved to feel uncomfortable. It served him right for leaving me in the dark.
Matrimony — a shock indeed.
"Why don't you tell us about yourself?" Father ventured at last, somehow coming across as both casual and authoritative at the same time. He was like an interviewer, in that sense. "I hear the Paris Pack is flourishing under the leadership of your father."
A shadow fleeted across our visitor's face, but it vanished as soon as it came. "Yes," he said. "We don't have the same renown as the Melbourne Pack, but the Paris Pack flourishes under Matheus' rule. More and more are converting to our ways, embracing our strict approach to tradition."
"Wonderful," I said aloud, careful to balance the sarcasm with an enthusiasm that could be mistaken for real. "I'm betrothed to someone of the Blanc bloodline. I must ask, though: which son are you?"
"You don't know who I am?" my suitor asked, genuinely surprised.
I noticed that his hair, the brown of rich soil, was styled to look messy in accordance with the modern hype. "What's the matter?" I asked with the falsest concern I could muster. "Not as famous as you thought you were?"
"Chance." The warning was in my father's tone, if not explicitly expressed. He turned to our guest with the closest thing to an apology he was capable of: an excuse. "I haven't had the chance to inform her of the betrothal. Other matters called for our attention."
