Keeping My Pack
Authors: Lane Whitt
Tags: #Romance, #New Adult & College, #Paranormal, #Werewolves & Shifters
KEEPING MY PACK
LANE WHITT
Copyright ©
2016 Lane Whitt
All Rights Reserved
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: © L.J. Anderson,
Mayhem Cover Creations
Formatting by
Mayhem Cover Creations
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ISBN-13: 978-1534786936
ISBN-10: 1534786937
For Amanda, Zoe and Ryan. My own loosely formed pack that has been there for me for support and encouragement. Each of you inspires me every day.
Thank you to all the readers who have left reviews, sent me messages and shared your love for the first book. Thanks to the all the other Reverse-Harem authors who have welcomed me into our small group of support and dedicated readers, you guys are amazing and so talented, and I’m honored to be a part of it.
M
y name is Kitten. I am a prisoner. I love eight men. Two of them are dead. I will never see any of them ever again. My name is Kitten. I am a prisoner. I love eight men. Two of them are dead. I will never see any of them ever again. My name is Kitten. I am a prisoner. I love eight men. Two of them are dead. I want to see them again more than anything.
N
O! I shout at myself. You said it wrong, now we have to start all over again. My name is Kitten… Wait. When did we start referring to ourselves as we? There, you did it again. No... I did it again. Just me. I’ve been here too long. Having conversations with yourself means you’re crazy right? God. I hope I’m one of those crazy people who are blissfully ignorant, not the tormented kind. You’ve never been that lucky. If I tell myself to shut up, will I listen?
“You’re getting worse.” I look up into bland gray eyes. The same eyes I have seen every day for…well, who knows how long. The sad looking face looking back at me is yet another reason I have completely lost my marbles. Remy visits me, or I guess his ghost does. He always asks the same question.
“
What do you want most Kitten?” I just stare at him. Drinking in each of his features while I can. I used to answer him. I used to shout out all the things I wanted. You. To go home. To escape. The list is endless really; I want anything other than to be here. No one’s life is easy, mine certainly never was, but I don’t think humanity was built for this type of torture. No one should have to go through this. I’ve asked myself countless times whether or not I really want to survive it. The only thing that keeps me going sometimes is that thought that six of the eight men I love are somewhere on the other side of that door. That thought also crushes me until I find it hard to breathe. If it weren't for me, then Remy and Tristan would still be alive, they’d still be happy. If it weren't for them, I wouldn’t expect anything other than the life I’m being forced to live. I could give in. But because of them, I never will.
I reach my hand out to ghost Remy, watching as he drifts away like a cloud of smoke. It never hurts any less when leaves. His departure is a reminder that he only exists in my messed up mind now. The strong, faithful leader of my pack of wolves is no more. It’s a knife to my heart.
I hear the chains on the outside of the door rattle. Telling me it’s time to try and escape again. I try every time someone comes in, but I never made it past the white bathroom. They expect it now, and I don’t hold out hope of escape anymore. I do it for two reasons. Remy won’t return until I try again and really; what else am I doing? I get beaten and whipped each time of course, but I’ve become numb to it. I think my brain knows that it hurts, but it’s just a routine now. The same routine, every day, again and again.
The chains rattle, I try to escape, I’m beaten and left with breakfast food. The chains rattle, I try to escape, I’m whipped, and Adam comes in with a sandwich and talks. The chains rattle, I try to escape, I’m beaten, then led to the white bathroom where I shave, shower and dress for dinner.
It’s the dinners I hate the most. Uncle and Adam are always seated at an elegantly laid table. The room is stuffy, with old portraits in gold frames lining the walls. The dishes are delicate and easily breakable. Guards line the back wall with two stationed on either side of the entranceway. Each night, I take my seat across from Adam with Uncle taking the position at the head of the table. They pretend like I’m not a prisoner, but a guest here. They talk pleasantly to me and each other. After that first night, I know not to touch any of the food. I never do. Food sickens me now. I don’t need it to live; they supply their blood whenever they think I’m about to die of starvation. Eating the food means Adam gets to touch me. I’ll never forget that first night.
I walk into the stuffy room; several men are standing about the room, but what grabs my attention are the two who are seated. Both Adam and Uncle are donning full suits. Uncle looks like he belongs in one while Adam looks like his is trying to strangle him. They both stand and smile at me. I squeak and try to flee the room. Two men whom I didn’t notice before are behind me, blocking my exit. They don’t touch me, just gesture for me to turn around and sit.
“
Don’t be afraid. Here…come sit.” Adam says in an amused tone. Like I just did something funny.
I glance behind me at the two mountains of men. They aren’t moving. I swallow thickly and tentatively move towards Adam where he stands behind an empty chair. He pushes it in as I sit.
“
You are a guest at my table, and I expect you to act as such,” Uncle tells me. I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
I glance around me, wondering how far away from the door we are. I wish there were windows in here. Uncle and Adam start a conversation about God knows what. I don’t want to talk to them. I’m confused about what is going on here. After a short time, three men dressed in weird suits enter the room, carrying silver trays. Somehow, they manage to place the trays in front of each of us at the exact same time. The man who has my silver tray lifts the dome thing, revealing a bowl of soup. Soup? You’d think rich people would eat better than this. Even so, my stomach rumbles loudly. I like soup.
