She beckoned Myrna forward, but instead of following, Myrna said, “Aunt Alisha, I’ve been taking an emotional intelligence class, and your body language combined with your words tell me that you plan to, as my mother would often say to me when I was in my fourteenth winter and wished not to perform my princess duties, hijack this fest because you’re mad. I hope that is not so, because many good people have worked on this celebration and also helped me prepare for it. Also, since Rafesson is both your fenrir and your son, I would like to believe you would not deliberately sabotage his festivities. Like a…what did my mother used to call me…a spoiled teenager.”
“A spoiled teenager?” Alisha repeated, her eyes narrowing. “Girl, you are aware that I’m a very respected Professor Emerit’x and old enough to be your mother.”
“Yes, I am aware of that,” Myrna answered flatly. “And that is why it grieves me so to have to say such words to you before we enter the festivities. I respect you as my elder, Aunt Alisha, but I will not let you embarrass our fenrir. Therefore, if you cannot be nice, you should take my mother’s advice and be quiet, so as not to embarrass your fenrir or yourself with such unmotherly behavior.”
Wow. Rafes found himself stunned and speechless as he looked between his mother and his future wife.
Alisha glared down at the much smaller Viking, a thunderous silence overtaking the goodwill of just moments before. But Myrna held Alisha’s angry gaze as if she was prepared to stand here all night, in heels, to get her point across.
Not exactly Layla Rustanov, who Alisha would have straight up paid to marry Knud. And Rafes had to wonder how this future mother-in-law vs. daughter-in-law showdown would end.
But then a sudden loud and prolonged cackle disrupted their stand-off.
They all turned to see Wilma, bent over and near to tears as she declared, “Oh, I don’t be liking most these Vikings, but you, Myrna gal? You all right! I been waiting my whole dang life to hear somebody sass my daughter the way she used to talk back to me!”
“Mama…” Alisha began, her face as huffy as a teenager’s.
Only to be cut off by Wilma throwing her hands up to the sky. “Lawd, you up there? You hear that? My life is now complete. Somebody then finally told off my big-mouthed daughter. You can take me now. I’m ready! I’m ready…”
Wilma barely got the last word out, she was laughing so hard. And Rafes, found himself having to smother a snicker of his own as his usually listless grandma laughed and laughed even bigger than that time when he and Nago took their grandparents to the Redd Foxx hologram show in Vegas.
Alisha tried to defend herself a few more times, only to have every protest interrupted with a fresh gale of old lady laughter. Finally, with a tight jaw, his mother said, “Fine, I’ll keep my mouth closed. Tonight only.”
That and only that, stopped his grandma laughing. “Congratulations, baby. I knew you had some sense somewhere inside that thick head of yours.”
Now, it was Alisha’s turn to hit her mother with a grumpy look. “I supposed I can always meet with the Alaska representative tomorrow since I’m in town anyway. C’mon, Rafes, show me to the bar, before Mama starts laughing again and I change my mind.”
Rafes, who’d once witnessed two Vikings get straight slaughtered by his father, before his mother willingly backed down could barely believe it.
But for the first time since the gates were announced, his mother regarded him with something other than antipathy. “Well, are we going outside or not?”
“Yes, we are going outside,” Myrna answered enthusiastically for the both of them.
And Rafes found himself taking his wild Viking princess by the hand for reasons that had nothing to do with appearances as he led the group outside.
16
Myrna
“The Rain in Spain,” played inside Myrna’s head all night. It had become an echoing mantra as she'd executed the plan three months in the making. She talked to the Lupine Council members, and she said just the right thing to the spouses of big donors, and she stuck closely to the practice scripts she’d worked on with her culture and media trainers. She exchanged bread recipes with the Queen of Oregon…and talked with the King of Maine for nearly half an hour about what the forecasters suspected would be an abnormally cold winter.
And sure, it was a little boring. Myrna would never have chosen on her own to speak of new designer lines, recipes, or the weather. Also, it was hard to keep her mind from wandering when the King of Mexico launched into a diatribe about the price of beans these days. And she also found it difficult to pretend that she was so very fascinated with what everyone said to her, that the only words that came out of her mouth, were very careful summaries of what she’d been told, and requests to be told more. Indeed, quite a few times during the gala, it felt a bit like she was a glamorous hologram of herself, without a true personality or any opinions of her own.
As was her fated mate, she’d observed throughout the night, as she moved with him around the party taking place on the Wolf House’s back lawn. At first she had not understood what Em had told her about Rafesson’s President Robot nickname. But that night it became a little more clear, for Rafesson seemed…it was hard for her to articulate, even with her extra English lessons. False somehow. As if he also operated off some unseen script, but pulling off the role so precisely, he appeared completely wolfless. Without passion or warmth, just cold rational answers and thoughts.
Yet, becoming these holograms of themselves absolutely worked. Especially for her.
For the first time in her life, no one reacted to anything she said with appalled looks or moved quickly away lest Myrna Ever the Maid somehow contaminate them with her inappropriate humor and life view.
Everyone, according to their body language and micro expressions liked her. The council member from Alaska even called her charming after she sincerely complimented him on his decision to support the boxing of his gate per Rafesson’s program, despite opposition from the mother of Nago, Alaska’s current king. No one, not even Myrna’s loving parents, had ever called her charming before.
Yet did the compliment strangely unsettle her. She could once again hear the voice of her mother, telling her not to sell her soul for a man. And she couldn’t help but wonder what her father would think of all of this. He’d found her love of hatchet and fighting amusing, if not charming. And he’d eventually learned to make jests about Myrna’s refusal of the Jelling prince and every male who came after. Were he here, would he wonder why she was going to such extremes to please her mate, when she wouldn’t give most of the wolves he presented to her, so much as a second meet?
But then Rafesson leaned down after the Alaska council member moved away and whispered, “You’re doing great, Myrna. Just perfect,” in her ear. Thrilling her with the compliment and stirring her wolf with just one approving look.
She positively beamed during the entirety of Rafesson’s speech. Especially the part where he thanked his fated mate who’d somehow survived an attack meant to seize her own kingdom’s gate, to find him before the North Dakota gate was boxed up.
And though, Alisha had kept her promise to leave before he delivered his speech, everyone who stayed clapped heartily for their fenrir and his charming future wife.
“I say, she’ll make an even better mate for you than Camille Deslobos,” the King of Alberta told her and Rafesson as they stood in the garden, holding glasses of champagne in their hands as tinkling music streamed from an invisible source. “I think Camille left a bad taste in a lot of our circle’s mouth when she went running to the press after ambushing you on your own front lawn. Plus, that’s one helluva back story your Myrna has. Much more interesting than being raised a pampered princess who never had to work a day in her life.”
Myrna’s heart thrilled when Rafesson nodded along with the Canadian king, as if he’d never had any doubt about their future union whatsoever.
“I think so, too. Hopefully the voters will feel the same way.”
“Well, after the pictures of your beautiful bride-to-be hit WolfNet, I think a lot of people will change their minds,” the Canadian king said, before getting pulled away by an aide for a conversation with another king.
“Why do you look so surprised?” Rafesson asked her after the Alberta king left.
She was still so shocked, that she told him the truth as opposed to referring to one of the many scripts she’d been given for tonight’s festivities. “In truth, I’ve never been called beautiful before.”
Rafesson squinted, surprise entering his expression. “Really? None of the males in your village ever told you that?”
“No,” she murmured. “In fact, the opposite was often said behind my back, because of my lack of woman’s skills and my hair, which was red like theirs but not long and silken.”
Rafesson shook his head. “Well, all the men in your village were idiots. And now you’ve been told by two men just how beautiful you look tonight.”
Worth it. Suddenly everything she’d done to please him, to transform herself into a perfect wife felt worth it at that moment.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to do since we spoke earlier,” he told her when the last of the guests had departed and there was no one but staff and a few members of Rafes’ team left on the back lawn.
What could that possibly be? But the question flew out of her head when he reached out, his much larger hand engulfing hers, as he led her toward…well, she had no idea. Did not, in fact, care that he nodded at Craig and Arik to follow behind them. Only that he had touched her, not for a photo op as they entered the party. But because he wanted to hold her hand.
Tingles ran up her arm, making her wish to laugh though no one had told a joke. And her wolf rolled happily inside of her to finally have the touch of her fated mate again.
Strange, she thought, placing her free hand over her fluttering stomach. She wouldn’t have thought it possible to feel as happy as she did now three moons ago—indeed, not even this morning, when it seemed she might never become a mate worthy of this land’s fenrir.
But now here they were, holding hands, as her own storied parents so often did. Walking away from the garden towards…the kitchen?
Myrna tilted her head in confusion when she saw the familiar door. “Do you have hunger still?” she asked, thinking that perhaps he hadn’t a chance to eat fully from the large buffet the party staff had set up outside. “I believe there is still some food remaining on the table.”
But Rafesson answered, “This isn’t about food,” his voice thick and dark.
Then, before Myrna could ask any more questions, they were at the kitchen’s outside door.
“Hang back and wait for my signal,” Rafesson told Craig and Arik before pulling open the door.
Strange how quite a few things remained the same, despite her change of time periods, Myrna thought after they stepped into the Wolf House’s large and modern kitchen. True this space held no hearth, and her mother probably would not have recognized most of the room’s shiny appliances, many of which ran by themselves or with technology that Myrna could never hope to understand herself. Yet the scene itself was easy enough for Myrna to sort out.
A man with lustrous silver hair shouted orders while the rest of the uniformed kitchen staff hustled around to fulfill them. This was Yves, the same head chef, who’d commanded her outside to skin and prepare her “poor bunny,” the first week she was here. And in this moment, he reminded Myrna of her mother, who so oft did direct Myrna and the rest of the longhouse she-wolves in the cleaning of their hearth and the preservation of any leftover foods after big feasts.
However, Yves cut off mid-order and all bustle came to an immediate halt when they saw Rafesson standing at the kitchen’s back door.
“Mr. President!” Yves said, snapping to attention, along with every other member of the kitchen staff. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“Yves, dinner was excellent. You outdid yourself with the buffet.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Yves said, preening like a male bird who did assume he would attract any mate he chose in the spring time. “I do pride myself on knowing exactly how to molecularize a dinner that will please even the most sophisticated of palettes.”
“I’m sure you do,” Rafesson answered. “And who is your sous chef?”
“Oh, she is over there,” Yves answered, waving in the general direction of the kitchen staff. “But I assure you I oversee every aspect of any meal that leaves this kitchen myself.”
“I’m sure you do,” Rafesson answered with a courteous nod. “But could the sous chef, please step forward. I believe your name is Jenni. Jenni Ramirez?”
A dark-haired woman, who was even shorter than Myrna raised her hand and came around one of the many gleaming counters to say, “Yes, that’s me, sir. It was an honor to—”
“Help. She helped me pull off this meal,” Yves said, speaking over her in a way Myrna truly did not like. As if his words were so much more important than Jenni’s. And she bristled at the chef’s over prideful expression as he said, “And I couldn’t be happier that you enjoyed tonight’s offerings enough to come back to the kitchen to thank me.”
“Oh, I did enjoy it, but I’m not here to thank you,” Rafesson answered, his own voice as brisk as the chef’s was smug. Then he turned to the small sous chef to ask, “Jenni, do you have any problems whatsoever with my mate occasionally bringing a rabbit she’s caught in the backyard into this kitchen?”
The pride began to seep out of the chef’s smug smile. “Oh, is that why you’ve come? I assure you, I meant no offense, Mr. President. It was just so unortho—”
However, this time it was Jenni’s turn to interrupt the chef. “I have no problem with that, whatsoever,” she said, shuffling forward to stand in front of the head chef. “Not only is it totally bad-ass that your mate can kill a rabbit with a throwing knife, but it seems kinda crazed to brag about all our locally-sourced food, but then get upset when someone brings a rabbit—which by the way we paid top dollar for when we hosted the King of France last year—through the door.”
“I was not upset,” Yves said, throwing Jenni an infuriated look. “But no one can blame me for being quite disconcerted when a dead animal is brought into my kitchen with the expectation that I or a member of my staff should skin it.”
“Jenni, does anyone here have any hunting experience? Know how to skin a rabbit?” Rafesson asked the small woman as if Yves hadn’t spoken at all.
“How would we be expected to know that?” Yves asked. “It’s not something one includes in a job interview.”
“Yes, sir. Harold over there, grew up with a prepper father in Virginia. And he still catches everything he eats outside this kitchen,” Jenni answered at the same time Yves protested Rafesson even asking the question at all. “Hey Harold, raise your hand for the president.”
And again, Rafesson only seemed to hear Jenni. “Great, Harold,” he said nodding at a young male with a boxy haircut and a patchy beard toward the back of the group. “Do you have any problem skinning and preparing whatever my wife brings you?”
The man grinned. “No, sir. No problem at all.”
However, Yves sputtered, “With all due respect, sir, that is simply not how things are done in my kitchen. I have protocols and standards.”
“You’re right,” Rafesson said, meeting the man’s eyes for the first time since he’d called out to Jenni. “I am due respect, as is my future wife. So effective immediately, this is no longer your kitchen, Yves. Congratulations, Jenni, you are now the Wolf House’s head chef. Craig, could you and Arik handle Yves’s escort out? Don’t bother with an exit interview, he’s made it clear how he feels about this job.”
“What?” Yves shouted, his face mottling with his anger. “You can’t do that to me...”
But apparently, Rafesson could do exactly that to him. Before Yves could finish that sentence, Craig and Arik stepped forward and took the older man by the arms. �
��Right this way,” Craig said, polite but firm as they led him away.
The former head chef might have protested some more. But whatever else he had to say was soon drowned out by the very loud applause of the staff he no longer oversaw.
Myrna could have clapped along, indeed there was already much cheering going on inside her chest. However, she found herself unwilling to let go of Rafesson’s hand. Or to stop staring at the male, who instead of deriding her for her strange quirk of hunting rabbits in his backyard, had come to her defense.
By the time she and Rafesson walked upstairs together, the song inside Myrna’s head had switched from “The Rain In Spain” to “I Could Have Danced All Night.”
She gazed upon her fated mate with both her human and her wolf holding her breath as he brought them to a stop outside her door. “Alright, this is where I drop you off,” he said.
However, he did not drop her hand. And neither did she release his.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said after a few moments of them standing there and not letting go. He looked down, then back up, his eyes softer than they been all eve as President Robot. “I can see how hard you must have worked, and you were…so much better than expected.”
Such quiet words, but her heart thundered like a stampede of horses as that deliriously happy song swelled inside her head.
“Rafesson, thank you for your words,” she answered, her voice just as quiet and sober as his. “Was it enough?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Rafesson said. “Everyone was very impressed with you. And my press secretary messaged that the story is already getting a lot of traction on WolfNet. We should see a good bump in the polls over the next few days as the media team releases more images from the event.”
“Oh, that’s very nice,” she said with a little confused smile. “But in truth, that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?” he said, his eyebrow arching in a way that made him look timelessly handsome.
The Brothers Nightwolf Trilogy Page 54