The memories that arrived came too fucking slow. And they burned like a motherfucker, dribbled into her brain like sludge.
The Sloane Everhart of this world was just like her: same body, same face, same name, same fucking voice. But this Sloane had more than she could ever dream of. This Sloane was basically a fucking princess. And in the deep recesses of her mind, lingering on her tongue, were the memories of gamey duck, warm runny eggs and slabs of seared fat-dripping beef.
But the Duchess blew it all up.
Sloane's jaw clenched at the thought, a volley of regret roaring up her spine.
The Everhart duchy of the North had once been a formidable clan of werebeasts.
The North was known for its fertile lands, deep mountains and brutal warriors. Perched at the edge of the kingdom, they served as the nation's first line of defence against all enemies. For years, they were the crown's prized gem. Warriors that were raised to bleed for the crown.
They were the most favoured hound lying by the king's heel, obedient, ruthless, loyal.
But they had the biggest motherfucking stick up their sorry asses. With their great strength came an inflated ego, blown up tight like a flimsy rubber balloon. They possessed an arrogance that could only be inherited, not earned. The kind of pride that rotted from the inside, and did not smell until it was far too late.
They became weak, stupid, and complacent.
A sneer grew on her face.
Still, their downfall, as idiotic as it was, was not without reason.
The people of this world were called werebeasts, humans born with the characteristics and behaviour of their animals. But it did not come without its caveats, for some went too far, driven by instincts, cursed by their animals. They lost themselves entirely. The people called them feral. The wild ones that traversed the North in nomadic packs. The feral destroyed crops, tore through livestock and humans alike, leaving only blood and bone.
It made life in the North difficult, dangerous and expensive.
Too expensive to be supported.
It was easy for the Crown to wash their hands of them, to deem them a wild, unnecessary sword once the feral were successfully culled. Plus, the rival country was no threat, after all, with a peace treaty in place and a beautiful marriage set between the two kingdoms.
And the remaining feral were keeping to themselves, or at least, they were staying away from the kingdoms. It did not matter, for they were weak enough to be easily dealt with now that the kingdom had the alliance. So the money stopped first, then the people and then the grain. Trade dwindled, and people left. Their duchy wilted.
Her family, the Everharts, had always been too proud to consider other sources of income. Too conceited to bend, too egotistic to beg. Too stupid to plan. When the money ran out, they lived just as grandly as they did before, and did not save a single damn coin. No plans were made beyond the next feast. So when their coffers echoed with nothing but dust and shadows, they did not tighten their belts.
They gambled.
They fucking gambled.
Sloane cursed then.
Gambling was an endless pit, a broken cup. The elite came to prey upon their weakness, providing them with loans of money that they wasted away. They pecked upon their remains until eventually the entire territory was swallowed into another's bellies. And then her parents each met their sorry, devastating end via alcoholism and then depression.
Shame was unheard of for the pompous Everharts.
And so the end of their reputation was enough to kill most of her family.
Sloane was the last of the lot. The weakling. The one to gamble the grand empire to its final sorry little coin. The rumours spread, twisting from the truth to lies. Her destruction of the finest duchy to its ghostly, skeletal waste was renowned.
The Duchess was alive because she was a gambling beast who killed her family. The Duchess was alive because she ate the weak. The Duchess was alive because she was close to feral. The Duchess was alive because she had eaten her mates. The Duchess of the North was a poor, savage monster.
It was the craziest fucking thing she'd ever heard.
Sloane frowned then, a hand to her temple. Her eyes swayed to the bunny before her.
Three.
There had been three husbands.
Three husbands for the Duchess of the North.
Her first was the prince of the lands himself. He had annulled the marriage right before the scandal, knowing of the Everharts' incoming end. A fucking beautiful bastard who had broken the Duchess's heart. He'd left her to marry the prince of the rival country, joining the wealthiest pack in the world. This might have fuelled her gambling addiction, and the Duchess dreamed desperately of becoming rich enough to coax him back into her arms.
Fool.
Her second was—her temple stung then, burned an awful lot. He was the commander's son, a promising soldier of the Everhart duchy. He'd been resourceful; he had only been mated to her because of his family's loyalty to hers. He'd been tasked to protect her. Her mind blurred with the memories of a man who spat curses and grumbled about life but still worked goddamn hard to live. Duchess Sloane had hated him for that, had been jealous of his tenacity. But he'd left soon after for the royal army.
And then the third was his lover, an orphaned commoner bunny named Riven. She couldn't have one man without the other, the two having mated each other, so she kept him too. Her eyes searched the bunny's face, temple stinging. Her memory drew a blank there.
Riven. She knew he was her husband, but why was he still here? What did she do to him? How did they meet? What happened between the gambling and then to Riven? Why the fuck was such a gorgeous creature staying with useless Duchess Sloane?
She had never bitten him, she knew that. There was no mating claim to keep him here with her. But why was he still here with her? She frowned, mind blurring. The memories were like dreams, wispy ribbons of smoke that struggled to stay. Perhaps he had no one else in this world except her. Maybe the locals here were concerned about propriety, and divorce was unheard of. The thought had her heart quivering in her chest.
Perhaps, he just did not have the means to leave. That had her mind steadying, memories settling like dust in a pool.
Riven was far too poor to venture out on his own.
"Alpha?" Riven's voice trembled timidly, and Sloane felt something within her quiver.
She pressed a finger to her temple. The pain grew when she stood, her body shuddering, stomach making itself known with a painful aching wail. Her vision swam, growing dark. A kaleidoscope of green sparks flashed before her eyes, and then the world returned with a groan.
Fuck, her new body was starving.
"Sloane?"
His voice was deeper now, rasping out her name in an almost melodic lilt. A testy question on his tongue. And she squinted at him, watched as a dance of something strange quaked in his eyes. The gentle rose was swallowed by a growing liquid void. He was acting strangely, but she supposed she must appear suspicious in his eyes.
"Would you happen to know," she said, "where I could find something to eat?"