Duke Charming | Craig

Four

It was one of Scotland's surprise rain showers that evening. By now, I was used to it. The weather in Europe was, after all, unpredictable.

But that didn't stop me from lying awake in my bed and listening to the pattering of the drops against the window as the hours dragged on. I couldn't fall asleep for the life of me and chose to rather listen to the downpour while contemplating the day's events.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline that kept me awake? Could be. We've never catered for upper class people before, even less royals. My brain's been on autopilot since the moment Rheon told me he'd send a car to pick us up – which later turned out to be a limo.

I still wondered if there wasn't some sort of mistake in the vehicle choice. Like, maybe the limo was supposed to pick Ash's parents up from the airport only for the communication to slip up. That would somewhat explain Ash's father's unpleasantness. Maybe he wasn't satisfied with their form of transport.

However, back to my brain and its autopilot.

There weren't many ways I could put it into words; hearing that a duke wanted to hire your small and rather new catering business to cater for his wedding. The closest I could come to describing it is by having finished a whole bowl of mashed potatoes only to remember you are lactose intolerant afterwards. The rush to the bathroom was the less than pleasing way of describing the panic I felt throughout the day.

Multiply that by the anxiousness of being under the same roof as eight other werewolves that could discover me at any time, and I should've resembled an epileptic Chihuahua at its worst.

But I'm relieved, and grateful, that my defects came with the bonus talent of hiding from other supernatural creatures. And I'm even grateful for my father's role in my past. Had it not been for the countless days I ran and hid from his disapproval; I would've never learned to hide my scent.

Or any sounds I made whatsoever.

Turning onto my back, I stared at the ceiling, following the shadows of the raindrops chasing each other across the surface. My thoughts traveled to that man at dinner, mostly to the sound of his voice. His accent was thicker than the rest of the Balfours, as though he didn't bother diluting it at all. It was almost too hard to make out what he said, but I did, and his words haven't left my mind since.

Neither did the odd sensation I felt afterwards.

My senses functioned differently than other werewolves'.

For starters, I could feel any shifts or changes in the air. Sandra could never understand how I could predict a storm coming a week prior to it hitting Direfair. At some point, she even thought I was psychic.

'Sensing' the weather was only half of it, though. Warmth, pleasantness, comfort, and danger – I can sense all those things, to only name a few. That was how I could sometimes predict whether or not it was safe for me to approach my father or members of my former pack.

It was also how I sensed my father's overbearing disappointment and regret the day I returned to him...without a mate. The weight of the atmosphere still haunted me to this day. The only way to describe it was the feeling of being crushed by a solid, heavy object on top of you. There was no way out, no space to move, and no air to breathe.

It was dark and bitter and suffocating.

Secondly, as though my ability to 'read' the atmospheres – quite literally – my eyesight was above the werewolf's capabilities. Not that I've told anyone of my old pack about it, mind. They'd only wave it off as me trying to fish for validation. The only way I knew I could see better than any of them, was when I saw the heat signatures of my father and cousin through the walls of the house, where they were discussing the leadership of the pack if I couldn't 'perform'.