The Wolf and the Sheep (Wolf 1)

You’d think I’d be numb to his cruelty, but it was like a fresh wound every single time. “Then how would you hold up your end of the deal? I’m the one marrying her—like you asked.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’d shoot to wound, not to kill.”

“Be careful. Because I shoot to kill—every time.”

My father stared at me coldly, his eyes turning aggressive at my threat. He’d been getting away with his offensive behavior for almost a year. His wife died, so he thought it entitled him to be the world’s biggest ass.

I could only tolerate so much.

Arwen opened the door. “That’s quite a loud knock you’ve got there…”

My father looked her over, unimpressed, and then stepped inside the house without issuing any kind of greeting.

She watched him move past her before she cocked an eyebrow and looked at me. “I see where you get it from.”

That was the worst insult she’d ever given me. I followed my father inside. “How is he?”

My father wouldn’t even tolerate the simple question. “It doesn’t matter how he is. He made a promise to us, and he will keep it…unless he wants his daughter to end up like your mother.” He walked off and headed to the dining room in the rear of the house.

She watched him go, her eyebrow staying raised like she couldn’t believe his audacity. She turned her gaze back to me, still in shock at his rudeness.

“Now I don’t seem so bad, huh?” I smiled even though I didn’t feel an ounce of joy inside my body, then headed to the entryway.

“I’ll get my father…” Arwen took the stairs.

When I passed the kitchen, I took a bottle of wine and a few glasses then joined my father.

He was huffing and puffing like a wolf about to blow the house down. He looked straight ahead and drummed his fingers against the table, so noticeably anxious that he made all the figures in the paintings anxious too.

I poured the wine and pushed the glass toward him.

He ignored it.

Maybe it was an evil thought to have, but sometimes I wished my father had died and my mother had lived.

At least she was a good person.

Martin walked into the room moments later, looking worse than the last time I saw him. He walked a little slower, breathed a little heavier, and it seemed like his skin was about to drip off his face.

Arwen pulled out the chair for him and helped him sit down. Concern was in her blue eyes, and she looked after her father with obvious love. She wasn’t the fierce woman with an attitude that could bite. Now she’d been reduced to her rawest emotions, her fears. Her father was going to die, and there was nothing she could do to help him…but she tried anyway. “How about some water?” She rubbed his shoulder as she looked down at him.

“Yes, thank you.”

She walked off, her diamond ring shining on her left hand.

My eyes went to the portrait of her on the wall. Now I noticed a distinct contrast between the painting and her physical appearance. That ring made all the difference in the world, and without her wearing it, she seemed like a changed person. It subdued her somehow, like a bridle on a horse.

My father cut right to the chase. “Ramon. Where is he going to be and when?”

Martin turned to me. “It’s nice to see you again, Maverick. I’m sorry I missed your visit yesterday—and thank you for the beautiful ring—”

“I asked you a question.” My father took over the conversation once more, ignoring anything else that wasn’t relevant to what he wanted. He was focused on one task only—to the detriment of everyone around him. “I don’t give a shit about your pleasantries. We made a deal, and you need to spit it out now or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Arwen stepped into the room, carrying the glass of water in her hands. She wore a dark blue dress that complemented her dark hair. Pearls encircled her neck, and her hair was pulled to the side, hanging down in a braid. The glass hit the table with a noticeable thud as she faced off against my father.

Arwen didn’t understand boundaries.

But neither did my father.

Martin cleared his throat. “Princess—”

She raised her voice a little louder, matching my father’s rage with her own. “Or you’ll what?”

My father stared her down, clearly surprised someone was standing their ground against him. He didn’t know if he should get up and slap her in the face or just smash her head into the wall.

“Asshole, this is how deals work.” She placed her hand on her hip. “You get your shit when both sides of the deal are completed. I haven’t married your son, and you haven’t gotten your information. That means we don’t owe you a damn thing yet. So shut your mouth, or I’ll shove this bottle of wine so far up your tight ass—”