pack had its own coat of arms.
The screen faded, showing an array of seating. One grand throne was elevated; other thrones were arranged to either side of it in three rows of five. A short pillar loomed in the foreground; atop it sat a wooden box that appeared to have a small opening in the top.
Within seconds, men started strolling past the container and dropping something inside before finding their seats.
I tried to text Zhan. It wouldn’t go through. Renaldo leaned over. “You can’t get a signal in here.”
“Then you’re going to have another woman coming up your stairs.” I put the phone away and thought apologies to Zhan.
After long minutes of men walking by the box, the studious group assembled in the seats on the screen. Two seats were empty, one of which was the elevated throne. Lastly, a man in a long black cassock strode past, ignoring the wooden box. He placed three stones upon the empty throne: white, red, and black. Then he ceremoniously took his place on the remaining seat.
“They’ve replaced the Rege already?” I whispered.
“Taine Vega,” Gregor whispered back.
The new Rege had dark hair in a style that would have satisfied any drill sergeant. The tribal tattoos on his square face began between his dark eyes to mimic the arch of his brows. Lines defined the bridge of his nose and pointed to his high cheekbones. Accentuating his thin lips, a pair of swirls graced his chin.
A shirtless young boy scurried into view on the screen. He set three small plates before the pillar where the camera and those assembled could see them. He opened the box and retrieved a small white stone from within. Over the next minute he sorted twenty-nine stones. “Eight black. Six red. Fifteen white,” he said.
The new Rege stared into the camera. “Eight of my brethren oppose you, Mr. Newman.”
“Fifteen do not,” Johnny said.
“And yet six are indifferent. My old seat is unfilled.” He gestured toward the seat he’d placed the stones upon and I noticed his hands had tattoos as well. “Should those six be swayed to oppose you and should my successor choose to oppose you, the vote is split.”
“It is your vote that decides, Rege, regardless of the democratic process you’ve asked your respected peers to engage in.”
“Indeed.”
His gaze conveyed seriousness but not pride, like that of an official whose new responsibility brought with it a dose of loathing. On the plus side, he didn’t look like he was suffering from a swollen ego. On the minus side, he didn’t look happy at all.
At first, I expected Johnny to ask him what bribe he required. The former Rege had candidly stated he would not confirm Johnny as Domn Lup unless Johnny gave him something—namely me. He’d learned of my ability to perform the spell that enabled wærewolves to retain their man-minds while in wolf form. While that deal- making had occurred in private, this Rege had his peers present to witness the proof of Johnny’s power. He’d also had them vote and had had the stones tallied before everyone so he could consider his peers’ opinions before making his decision.
As the silence wore on, I was glad Johnny didn’t inquire about that bribe. This Rege’s thoughtfulness proved he was quite different from his predecessor. That could be good. Or it could be just as bad in a different way.
On-screen, the new Rege tapped his fingers on his thigh and said, “I confirm you, John Newman.”
CHAPTER TEN
As the assembled Cleveland pack members showed their enthusiasm by howling and applauding, Johnny struggled internally to keep his poise. Always before when he transformed, even for the few noncyclical complete changes, his beast had roused and paced within, growling, but safely caged.
Not this time.
This time, his inner wolf had burst into sentience with such intensity that all his previous transformations suddenly seemed semiconscious by comparison. Though his man-mind had remained, the instincts of the beast ambushed him, enveloped him in vehement desires so powerful he could barely keep the impulses from becoming actions.
It was so overwhelming that he’d willed an immediate reversion to human form.
The wolf had withdrawn into human flesh, but it did not slumber as before.
On the screen, the Rege called for silence. “Let us talk soon about the date of your coronation. I need to assess the schedule I have just inherited, but I would like to move forward with the ceremony sometime next month. I will make the announcement later today and, afterward, make arrangements for your press conference in Cleveland on Saturday afternoon.”
“Agreed.”
“My Lord.” The Rege gave a bowing nod and gestured. The screen faded out to the wolf rampant and shield, then faded to black.
Again the crowd howled. Gregor leaned into Johnny’s ear. “Someone was spotted coming up the steps. Kirk has gone to investigate.”
“Good. Where are my pants?” Johnny wanted nothing more than to vacate the room and have a few minutes alone to gather himself.
Gregor gestured and a valet hurried up with a long, thick robe. He held it open for Johnny.
Johnny didn’t budge. Rage boiled up inside him instantly—in his mind he knew he wasn’t even angry, but the rash, hot rage begged to be unleashed. His forearms itched. Only desperate resistance, like clenching some mystical muscle, kept his fingers from sprouting claws ready to slash Gregor for his mistake. “Dude. I said
Gregor snapped his fingers and the valet scurried away. “Forgive me. As you are confirmed now, I assumed a robe would be more . . . kingly.”
“I don’t wear robes,” Johnny snapped.
Gregor tipped his head. “It will not happen again.”
The crowd quieted into the white noise of happy chatter, and The Dirty Dog—the pack’s official bar—was mentioned repeatedly. Some were leaving already.
The valet hurried back with black denim jeans. Johnny grabbed them from him. “As long as I can still bend over and put my legs into my pants, I wear pants.” He wouldn’t admit that donning jeans in public felt distinctly undignified. “Besides, the new Rege didn’t call me king.”
“He won’t until after your coronation. But here, to your pack, you are king already.”
Johnny zipped the jeans. He wanted everyone gone. He wanted to be alone and get a grip on what was happening to him. He flung his arms up and shouted, “To The Dirty Dog!”
As expected, cheers rose and people converged on the exit. It was the quickest way to empty the room and buy himself a moment of privacy.
However, as the pack massed at the doorway, the air of the room shifted, and a distinctly
Johnny deserted Gregor, inexorably drawn to Persephone’s aroma. It always made him want her, but tonight, because he hadn’t seen her in days, her scent was new all over again. That newness made his reaction stronger. He was getting hard just thinking about touching her.
When she came into view, the wide neck of her sweatshirt slipped and his attention stuck on the pale skin of her bare shoulder. Her dark hair lay against soft flesh and he brushed the tendrils away and reached behind her neck. His fingertips buzzed with a vibration he knew was her energy—he’d never noticed this gentle and enticing sensation before.
She was always beautiful, but more so when all her skin was exposed and the smell of her sex mingled with his. Add this little electric feeling . . . if it was amplified when their bodies were entwined—
