Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
I have not been this close to my father for years. I have seen him from time to time, in the distance, being tended to by his wives. But the daughters of the ancient alpha are not of much interest to him. We are like cattle to be traded, nothing more.
“This is my daughter,” my father says, rising from his chair to cast an expansive arm in my direction. “My very flesh and my blood given to you.”
I turn slowly and hope the warrior who has come to claim me is handsome and kind. It seems unlikely that he would be both. The state some of my sisters have been left in after their night of breeding has made me glad that the men who did it were consumed by the hungry things.
But… wait… why so many strangers?
I feel a moment of intense confusion as I realize that there’s not one male standing in front of my father’s dais. There are three.
Three massive Karis warriors, each with long raven-black hair to their shoulders, bare chests showing rippling human physiques, and traditional black tartan kilts that can easily be shed for a transformation without being destroyed. They are wearing long black boots that come up past the knee.
My mother’s books taught me that they’re from wetter isles than these mountains, which tend to be dry and hot during the day, and dry and cold at night. Their skin is pale and their eyes are bright blue, a striking contrast with their dark hair. Their jaws are broad and well formed. They are handsome, and very similar in appearance. Related, perhaps? Small packs tend to breed similar traits.
One is probably a few years older than I am. Perhaps mid-twenties. Another seems older than him. The third one is graying at the temples and must be at least twice my age.
They have all come to die. But first they have come to take me as their own.
Not one.
Three.
Nobody told me three.
What would three warriors do to me? How would I ever hope to take them?
I try to dash off the stage as fright takes me, but my father intercedes by grabbing me by the arm. There is no escape.
He drags me down the front stairs of the dais, toward the three warriors who only look larger the lower I get in front of them. The middle one has to be approaching seven feet tall, a prodigious height by any estimation. He looks down at me with eyes that seem black, though I know them to be blue. His pupils have dilated so much upon meeting me that there’s almost no color in his gaze at all.
“This is the token I have for you. This is the appropriate sacrifice in return for your sacrifice,” my father says. The men aren’t listening to him. If they were, they’d ask more about this whole sacrifice deal.
I am inspected by three piercing sets of eyes, each of which seem to bore right through me, finding the secret parts of me I would most like to hide. I am on display for our dwindled pack, and for these strangers whose blood will be shed in the effort to turn back the dark tide. There is desperation in the air, a heavy, mournful energy that intertwines with this sexual transaction.
“You bring us a single female?” the eldest, most grizzled one says. His scarred features turn in disgust. I do not know if he finds me very displeasing, or if the fact I am alone is what is at issue.
“A small one at that,” the tall one says.
“A morsel,” the youngest grins, flickering a little wink at me.
“Barely a bite,” the tall one continues.
“We were promised great reward,” the eldest says.
“This is my greatest possession,” my father says. “My seventh daughter from my seventh mate, freshly turned eighteen years of age. Tibby.”
“Tabby,” I mutter. I’m also his thirteenth daughter, but I know he lost count a long time ago.
“Tabby,” he says.
It doesn’t matter. The men aren’t listening to my name anyway. They’re too busy worrying about the fact that there’s only one of me and they were promised three. And, apparently, my age does not please them either.
“Eighteen,” the middle one says to the eldest.
“Young enough to be my own pup,” the eldest murmurs in a voice that does not suggest he thinks it is a good thing.
“I think she’s cute!” The young warrior close to my age beams at me.
I wish I could shrink in on myself and sink through the floor. I have never felt so completely inadequate before, and I grew up with a dozen sisters, so that is really saying something.
“We were told there would be mates for us all.”
“This is a mate for you all,” my father says. “To share.”
All four of us now look shocked and horrified.