My chest tightened. “But today is my—”
“Your what?” He finally lifted his head, amber eyes dull and heavy with age and disinterest. “You’re not young anymore. The world doesn’t cater to women like you. You’re nothing like Camille.”
The name felt like claws raking my throat.
Camille—his brother’s widow. Elegant. Blonde. Draped in silk and expensive perfume. A woman who carried herself like she belonged in glossy magazines, not among working wolves. She looked at me like I was something tracked in on her shoes, and Thorne never once corrected her.
“She’s useful,” he went on calmly. “She travels for the pack. Makes appearances. Knows how to represent us. She fits the image. You, on the other hand—you’ve always worked best behind closed doors. Taking care of the house. That’s your role.”
Behind me, laughter erupted.
The twins—my grandsons—snickering like hyenas.
“Seriously, Grandma,” Ken mocked, “you look like a walking skeleton in funeral rags.”
“Smells worse too,” Nolan added, pinching his nose. “Like mop water and roadkill.”
They howled with laughter.
No one stopped them.
No one ever did.