CHAPTER ONE
A monkey. A fucking monkey!
Jane Lupo practically threw her invitation at the goon guarding the doors to the reception hall. Bad enough that one of the most eligible werewolves in the pack— the world a—was now off the market, but he'd taken a pure human to mate.
Um, not that there was anything wrong with that. Humans were okay. If you liked sloths.
She stomped toward her table, noticing with bitter satisfaction the way people jumped out of her path. Pack members walked clear when she was in a good mood. Which, at the moment, she was not.
Bad enough to be outnumbered five thousand to one by the humans, but to marry one? And bang one and get it pregnant and join the PTA and eat lots of salads and...
The mind reeled.
Jane had nothing against humans as a species. In fact, she greatly admired their rapaciousness. Homo sapiens never passed up prey, not even if they were stuffed—not even if they didn't eat meat!
(And what the hell was up with that? No meat? Did they lose a bet?)
Humans killed each other over shoes. They had gone to war over shiny metals and rocks. Jane had never understood why a diamond was worth killing over, but a pink topaz was hardly worth sweating about. Humans had fought wars over the possession of gold, but iron ferrite, which looked exactly the same, was worthless.
And when humans started killing, watch out. Whether it was "Liberate the Holy Land!" or "States’ Rights!" or "Tear down that wall!" or “They’re gonna cancel Game of Thrones!” or whatever they deemed worth risking/implementing genocide, when humans went to war, your only chance was to get out of the way and keep your head down.
But marry one? Marry someone slower and weaker? Much, much weaker? Someone with no pack instincts, no loyalty to the group as a while, someone who only lived for themselves? It'd be—it'd be like a human marrying a bear. A small, sleepy bear who hardly ever moved and only cared about eating. A nice bear—though one with a temper. A bear you liked spending time with, but at the end of the day, you were still latched to a slow lumbering thing that you could never truly have a relationship with.
And there was Alec, sitting at the head table and grinning like he'd won the lottery. And his bear—uh, wife—sitting next to him. She was super cute if you liked chubby, which Pack members did as a general rule. A bony wife wasn't such a great mother when food was scarce. Not that food was scarce these days, but a million of years of genetic conditioning died hard.
Okay, there wasn't anything wrong with her looks. Her looks were fine. So was her smell—like peaches packed in fresh snow. And the silly thing knew what she was getting into: her old lady had worked for Old Man Wyndham, way back in the day, so the whole family had experience keeping secrets. But to call a sloth a sloth, the new Mrs. Kilcurt was not Pack. Wasn't family. And never would be, no matter how many cubs Alec got on her.
And you’re jealous. At least admit it.
Well. Yeah. Alec’s mate already looked more at home with the Pack in two hours than she’d felt in ten years. And Jane knew she had no one to blame for that but herself.
"Dance, Jane?"
"I'd rather eat my own eyeballs," she said moodily, not even looking to see who asked. Why was she going to her table, anyway? The reception wasn't mandatory. She'd just gone to be polite. Very unlike her.
She turned on her heel and marched out. The goon at the door obligingly held it open. Which was just as well, 'cuz otherwise she'd have kicked it down.