I'm the Alpha's Crush

Chapter 32

"-okay, fine," River conceded, third glass of wine sloshing as they gesticulated wildly, "but there is one thing that you will never convince me of."

Zoë's eyes glimmered with amusement as she asked, "What's that?"

"The names." River looked around the oval, "why did they all have the same damn names?"

There were murmurs of agreement, and River continued, "She didn't even have the courtesy to give the characters distinct identities - it's like Brontë was trying to make her story as unpleasant as possible!"

Josie shook her head, swallowing her bite of cupcake before musing, "No - wait, we talked about this in one of my literature classes." Licking her finger, she added, "If I remember right, I think the duplicate naming was trying to make a point about the cycle of abuse? Or maybe generational trauma?"

River frowned, seeming to consider the idea, "I don't know, I'm gonna have to call, 'Bullshit'."

"Oh?" Zoë asked, laughter in her voice.

Shrugging, River explained, "You can tell a story about generational trauma and abuse while still making it readable. Try to justify it if you want, but I think it's bad writing."

"For the record," Zoë spoke, "I agree."

Josie glanced my way, "What about you, Sophie?"

I stared into the depths of my empty cup and sighed, "If I'm being honest, it made me appreciate my senior English class."

"How so?" Patricia asked, watching me with a curious gaze.

"I found it pretty hard to follow this time around," I admitted. "Having someone who understood what was going on and could clarify would have helped a lot."

"Interesting," she muttered, eyes locked on mine.

"I mean," I hedged, suddenly unsure, "Don't get me wrong, I can see why it's a classic, I just think that writing has changed so much since Brontë's time and modern readers are going to have a difficult time adjusting without help."

"-like, instead of reading, they could watch Tom Hardy playing Heathcliff in period-appropriate flowy shirts," Zoë smirked.

I grinned, "Exactly."

The conversation passed on, and the emptiness of my cup drew me into the Den's kitchen, upturning the bottle to get at the last drops of chardonnay.

As I was turning around, looking for the recycling bin, a voice came from behind me, "You can leave it on the counter - I'll take care of it later."

Patricia walked casually through the open doorway, heading for the fridge and digging through clanking beer bottles before fishing one out.

"Oh," I muttered, "thanks."

Standing, she took a bottle opener out of a drawer and popped the cap off, downing a swallow, "Don't mention it." Tossing the opener down, she leaned against the counter, watching me.

A shiver of anxiety raced over my skin, and I couldn't shake the feeling of being sized up by her cool gaze.

"So," I began, uncomfortable in the silence, "Return of the King?"

Patricia nodded, "I first read the trilogy when I was in high school right after Francis-" she cut off, explaining, "-the alpha before me, had asked me to be his apprentice." Her eyes grew distant with memory, "I thought he was insane - who in their right mind looked at me and saw potential? I was five foot nothing with a smart mouth and a bad attitude. I almost turned him down so many times." She shrugged, "But he saw something in me that I couldn't." A small smile curved the corners of her lips, "It took me a long time to recognize it for myself. I guess that's why the trilogy hit me so hard."