Because we had a deal. The moment I crossed my fork and knife on my plate, Megan would dump something foul and liquid all over me. Here amid humans, the potential Consort would have no choice but to bow to social standards when I stormed out to change my clothing. Willa would deal with the unenviable task of letting failed applicants down over the phone the following day.
After thirty-five times through this process, I already knew how today’s “date” would end. Still, I straightened my spine and pasted on a human smile.
After all, I might as well try to enjoy the process. This was the closest I’d ever come to bonding with a mate.
THE THIRTY-SIXTH POTENTIAL Consort, though, continued to act differently than expected. His eyes didn’t open until I set the tray down on the table between us. Even then, there was no leering, no foul language. Just a restrained nod.
Time for his second test, then. Would he accept food a woman had picked out for him? To get a good gauge of the applicant’s personality, I’d gone full-on girly with the menu. Quiche, a skim latte, and a bright pink cupcake with piped yellow rosettes on top.
The potential Consort didn’t even glance at the food. Instead he spoke my name in a voice so deep and liquid I wanted to swim in it. Not Alpha but: “Tara Whelan.” His eyes smiled if not his lips.
Meanwhile, he rose, opening up both seating options—the bench he’d been meditating atop and the two normal chairs on the table’s other side. Sidling out of the way, he made space for me with the elegance of a wolf hunting. Each foot was placed so carefully it made no sound against the tiles.
“What a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he continued. “Please choose a seat.”
I frowned. I should have been the one speaking. Guiding the conversation. I couldn’t afford to let a Consort wannabe gain the upper hand.
So I pulled upon the arrogance of Alpha. “What does it matter where I sit? We have business to attend to.” Then I dropped my gaze to his file on my phone as an additional power play.
The gesture had only been meant to prove my wolf’s ability to rip out our enemy’s throat without watching him every second. But I found myself frowning as I skimmed over the scanty data.
Why had Willa arranged this meeting when the potential Consort had filled in so few of the application questions? He hadn’t bothered to submit a DNA sample. Hadn’t listed his ancestors. Hadn’t even put down a surname. Just his first name....
“Butch?” I looked from the phone to the stunning specimen of masculine beauty before me. “What kind of name is that?”
The applicant’s eyes were closed. As if he’d decided to take advantage of my pause to finish up his meditation. But long lashes fluttered back open as I addressed him. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
Then he waited. For what? For me to choose a seat? Perhaps this was Butch’s return power play. Whatever. I sank into the closest chair, expecting Butch to slide back onto the bench on the other side of the table.
Instead, he pulled out the other standalone seat, folding his long body into it. Now he was so close that his presence warmed me like summer sunshine. My entire face heated. I knew from experience that my cheeks had turned a brilliant red.
And...Butch scooted his chair back a precious four inches. Murmured an apology. Picked up his latte, took the tiniest sip, then set it back down in its saucer with a gentle clink.
“I understand you’re looking for a mate.” His words were a quiet rumble, almost gentle. I found myself leaning forward, then caught myself and shook my head.
“No, Whelan Alphas don’t bond with mates,” I corrected. “We hire Consorts, a temporary, paid position. Please allow me to explain the logistics before you speak.” It was easier, I’d found, if I just spat it all out in one go.
Well, easier for me. Most male werewolves took offense halfway through and interrupted. If they did, the fork and knife crossed and the interview ended. Thinking ahead, I dropped my left hand to the butter knife. Then I returned my attention, to the phone in my right hand.
“I’ll just run through the entire checklist,” I told him, before proceeding to do so.
The once-a-generation job was simple, especially when the Alpha—me—was female. The Consort would be on call until I hit peak fertility. During the subsequent twenty-four hours, he’d do everything in his power to ensure conception, after which he’d receive his first stipend. If necessary, both job and payment would be repeated for up to six months.
“Then you’ll receive a smaller weekly retainer to make yourself available,” I informed him. I should have been gauging his reaction, but just saying the words made me slightly queasy so I kept my eyes on my phone as if I needed a cheat sheet. “First pregnancies have a 25% chance of miscarriage, so we might be forced to circle back around to the beginning. That will be determined at the discretion of both parties, using the same structure of recompense. At the time of birth, your job will be complete.”
I paused, expecting him to say something. But he didn’t. Shrugging, I continued on to the legal side of the equation. Butch would be expected to sign papers asserting his total lack of rights to the child. “They’ll hold up in human court,” I informed him. “But that’s unlikely to be necessary. If you attempt to use the child to gain a foothold into our pack, I will personally rip out your throat.”
His chair leg scraped against the floor. That had gotten a reaction.
Meanwhile, air currents promised Megan was passing close to check on the state of my silverware. Her human ears couldn’t overhear my murmured threat, but body language must have clued
