Chapter Ninety-Eight. Davina.
Davina’s Point of View.
I watch, gobsmacked at the queen of werewolves, turns and smiles, her hand up in a small wave.
“Come in, don’t stand on ceremony. Park your arse, I will be with you in exactly thirty seconds,” she giggles at us.
Mars chuckles as I stand, rooted to the spot, in awe of the woman dressed in black ripped jeans that fit like a second skin over her womanly curves, her black t-shirt is ripped across the shoulders with safety pins holding it together, and a silver crown on the front with Queen Of Bitches, written in purple italic script underneath. Her feet have her trademark Doc Martins with added purple spray paint across the toe caps, as she looks at her watch.
“Asher, I put you in time out because you were being mean to your broth
