The Mystical Attraction of Alpha

Chapter 116 – Reeling

Ella

Hugo, Sinclair and I are all staring at the television with wide eyes and slack jaws, unable to process the images flitting across the screen. It seems like every time we manage to take a few steps forward, Lydia and the Prince find a way to send us reeling back – and this is no exception.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” Hugo expresses, obviously overwhelmed. “Why would he risk losing the pack’s sympathy by parading around another woman so soon after his wife’s death?”

“Trust me, Hugo – Damon isn’t the one calling the shots here. This is all Lydia.” Sinclair states gruffly. “She’s going to force her way onto the throne one way or another. Right now she’s playing the doting friend, but mark my words, by the time the election ends she’ll be in his bed.”

“How bad is this?’ I ask, looking up at Sinclair’s handsome face, “Does she have information that could hurt you?”

Sinclair squeezes my shoulders, “She knows some secrets.” He relates, “but luckily nothing I could imagine as a smoking gun. In fact most of what she knows would be more harmful to the Prince – things like my father’s attack. Things the public believes were accidents but our private investigators proved malicious.” His mouth flattens into a hard line. “The real danger is that she knows how we think, how we operate. Not to mention that the Prince doesn’t have more than two brain cells to rub together, but Lydia has plenty.”

“So what do we do?” I ask anxiously, my head replaying the news reel over and over again. “My bed rest isn’t common knowledge, and they’re making it sound like my absence from the public eye is suspicious. Do we tell everyone about my condition? Or do we make an appearance?”

“I’m afraid making an appearance might play right into their hands. This could be some sort of attempt to lure us out of hiding.” Hugo advises, looking very grim indeed.

In the distance I hear the front door open and close – a fact which comes as quite a surprise, since my hearing has never been so sharp before. Wheels roll over the door jam, and then Henry’s voice floats up toward us, “Good Morning!”

aback yet unsurprised we stayed in bed so long. Sinclair’s father has been coming over almost every day since we agreed to be invalids together, and he’s been an invaluable

modesty is too deeply ingrained to allow me to strut around nude the way Sinclair does – and I’m definitely not changing in front of Hugo. When I emerge,

my protests. My blood pressure is improving more and more every day, but it isn’t enough to free me of bed rest yet. We all gather around the breakfast table, the men analyzing these recent developments in low, serious voices, and me feeling like an outsider eavesdropping on matters I can’t begin to understand. It’s not that they exclude me, I just feel so

his blazing emerald eyes to me. They’ve been going around in circles for more than half an hour, debating how we should respond

trying to ignore the flash of emotion in Sinclair’s eye as he observes the nervous habit. Releasing my swollen lip, I sigh, “Do we ever know what happened with Lydia’s husband? I mean the Princess is dead, but Lydia’s still married to some other Alpha, right?” I clarify. When the men nod, I continue. “Where is he in all this? Even if he doesn’t want her anymore, it must make him look bad for her to be gallivanting around another

praises, maintaining a straight-faced expression which reassures me that he’s not giving out false compliments. “Maybe we’ve been going about this the wrong way. Instead of trying to understand their motivations, we can simply leave it at knowing they’re corrupt and respond without playing into their hands. After all, they’ll be expecting some sort of countermove to challenge the media’s narrative, but we might be able to spin ourselves out of the hot seat and refocus the attention

rustling up her husband and causing

his features are still drawn with worry. “I still don’t like it. I think it’s the best hope we

scoffs, “You don’t need to convene a blue-ribbon committee to tell

I feel like I’m missing something.” Sinclair replies drying. “There’s something

Princess Angeline’s death felt off – like a

but one the Prince is too unimaginative to have orchestrated.”

then he clenches them shut, closing his hand into a fist and swearing

who isn’t too unimaginative?”

while Prince Damon might have seen his mate as little more than a trophy, he’s not the type to impulsively destroy one

what I think you are?” I gape, both certain I’ve understood and yet unable to

other explanation do we have?” Sinclair inquires, rising to his feet and pacing back and forth behind the dining table. “If the Prince had lost his temper and beat her to death, I wouldn’t question it. And if there was some