A Fate Foretold (formerly: A World Gone Mad)

A Fate Foretold 20

        Ally and Christian stood in the private office, evaluating one another’s reactions. Not that Christian could read his nat amatra at all, but he still searched her face for any sign of – anything.

        “What now?” Christian asked uncertainly.

        “Now we go on as normal,” Ally said calmly.

        “Normal?”

        “Yes,” she said sternly. “Everything must continue as it always has been, Christian. You are to treat me no differently. No one must suspect anything. This is imperative.”

        Christian nodded slowly in understanding, but beneath the surface he began panicking. How could he ignore her identity? He decided that avoidance was the best strategy for the time being, at least until he sorted some things out in his mind.

        It was not difficult, as Ally kept out of the way in the house regardless of what was going on. Now that the diplomats had left, she could emerge from her room and resume her former duties, helping Zazzie in the kitchen. The pink-haired girl had thrown herself into her job with gusto over the past week and overwhelmed even the exacting guests with her elaborate dishes at every mealtime. Now that she was again reduced to serving average meals, Zazzie became more of her usual crabby self. Ally’s company in the kitchen helped, but would never truly ease her irritability.

        Ally stood over the stove, where she was keeping an eye on the enormous pot of chicken stock that Zazzie was making for future use, as she listened to Zazzie describe each and every dessert she presented the guests with. Ally had only seen and tasted small bits of the exquisite food, as she ate plates of leftovers in her room, but Zazzie was happy to recount every petit four and tartlet she had created.

        Christian wandered into the kitchen, looking for a drink of water, but stopped short when he saw Ally wearing an apron with a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead from the heat of the stove. He paled at the thought of the First Descendent slaving away in the kitchen to serve meals to the lowly werewolves that made up the pack unit. No wonder she had been so inept in the kitchen when they first in together in the cabin in California: she really had never had to cook before. He didn’t know it for a fact, but he assumed the First Descendent probably pored over military maps, history books, and diplomatic reports of other packs, listened attentively to her teachers, advisors, and supplicants of royal favor, and trained physically; they did not do common household tasks or allow anyone to order them around. Waves of guilt crashed over him and he jerkily slammed the refrigerator door without getting anything from it before tramping out of the room.

        “Why’s our future alpha acting all squirrelly?” Zazzie asked, nudging Ally and nodding towards the door that Christian had just walked out of.

        Ally shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably still on edge from the negotiations.”

        “I guess,” Zazzie mused, although she remained unconvinced. “Did you ever see Sir Walter? I thought I’d drop to my knees in submission when I first saw him, he looked so imposing. Our future alpha was literally quaking in his boots.”

        “I stayed up in my room,” Ally answered vaguely.

        “I bet he’d even shake your composure.”

        Ally smirked at the thought as she stirred the pot.   

        As she came out of the bathroom later that afternoon, Christian pulled her aside in the corridor, where he had been waiting for her to come out. “You know you don’t have to work in the kitchen if you don’t want to,” he told her earnestly.