**Sequel to Rightfully Hers - reading the first book is highly recommended.**
When Arabelle Warren shifted at seventeen, she quickly realized she didn't have a wolf. Physically, yes. But mentally? There was nothing but silence. As a result, her and...
"Favourite colour?" She asked, one hand on the wheel, the other holding mine in my lap. Despite going a good eighty kilometres an hour in a sixty zone, she looked over at me for my answer.
"Green. Yours?"
"Red." She smiled widely, and then turned back to the road. "Favourite book?"
"The Shining," I answered.
"Horror?" She mused, "shockingly enough, I didn't expect that of you."
I was facing her direction anyways, my left leg bent so I could look at her as we asked questions back and forth, but I perked an eyebrow as if she could see me. And, unsurprisingly, she could, because she shrugged. "You seem like a romance girl at heart."
"Sometimes they're good, not my favourite, though. What's yours?"
"I'm a big fan of Oscar Wilde," she told me, smiling, "any of his works, really. Not many mortals I know read his works anymore, it's upsetting. He was brilliant."
"You met him?"
"Yes. He was one of my closest friends in the 1870s and 80s, and very funny. I can certainly say he was ahead of his time." She looked at me, amusement swimming in her eyes.
Curiosity practically drowning my brain, I prodded, "What was he like? And who else have you met? Wow..."
"He was hilarious, and intelligent beyond words. He was the one who got me into publishing my works. I had been writing longer than he'd been alive but had never published anything. He convinced me to." She paused, and I stared at her, waiting in anticipation for her to continue speaking. "I've met a few historically significant people, I assume. I met Mozart very early after I turned, and entirely by mistake. I was still with my Maker, at the time, but she hated classical music. It's all in the past now, though."
She seemed relieved by her last statement, and I had a feeling I didn't want to ask about her Maker, regardless of my curiosity. So I didn't.
"Huh... well, what's your favourite movie?" I asked, deciding that changing the subject was my best option.
"Movies have only been around for not even a full half of my existence," she reminded me, laughing to herself, "and there have been quite a few eras of it. I liked the eighties, and I really liked the nineties for film. I don't think I could name any in particular, a lot of my favourite films aren't even in English."
"Subtitles?" I assumed out loud.
"I speak seven languages," she informed me, laughing at my dumbfounded expression.
She pulled into her driveway then. As we exited her car together, I voiced, "What languages?"
"Irish, Japanese, Korean, English, French, Russian, and Italian."
She unlocked her front door and entered into the darkness. I followed behind her, closing and locking the door behind me. It was nearing nine now, and I knew if I didn't text my mother soon, she was going to start spamming my phone.
Saoirse switched on the light that illuminated the open space, and Lola meowed from her position on the couch. She peered up at us and I grinned, making my way over to her. When I sat down beside her, she meowed again, and then slid her way onto my lap while I pulled out my phone to send a message to the family group chat.
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