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I should loathe her and her beautiful, peaceful sleeping face.
Instead, I want to crawl under the covers and wake her with my mouth between her legs. I want to make her come on my tongue, then I want her curvy thighs wrapped tight around my waist while I shove my aching cock into her slick heat and ride her, possess her. I want to fuck her until she orgasms, screaming my name, and I come like a freight train, emptying every bit of my seed inside her.
Just thinking about trying to put my baby in this woman is enough to make me even harder, thicker.
My cock has its own miserable heartbeat for fuck’s sake.
So far, this fated mate shit is…shit.
My right mind has no interest in this woman or babies. The fact that some primal instinct is attempting to trump my sense of reason and shoplift my free will, is maddening. If the fated mate bond were a person, I would lock it away in my dungeon, where it couldn’t cause any more trouble.
I’m imagining all the ways I’d torture the personification of Destiny when Willow stirs and makes an adorable sleepy sound.
It’s fucking cute as fucking hell and I fucking hate it.
I hate it so much I almost tell her how much I hate it, but then her lashes sweep open and she’s looking at me like she wants to cover me in honey and lick me clean with her tongue and it’s all I can do not to rip the covers off her body and get her under me.
Her hungry, turned-on expression only lasts a moment, but it’s enough to make me wish I’d honored Diana’s request to have Willow summoned to me, instead of storming into her bedroom.
“What do you want?” she asks grumpily, tugging the covers higher on her chest. “Why are you in my room?”
“It’s my sister’s guest room and this apartment is one of the Alpha’s family properties,” I growl in response. “And even if it weren’t, this entire tower is mine to rule and protect. I go where I want, when I want.”
I sound like a petulant pre-teen, but it’s too late to take the words back. The best I can hope for is to change the subject before Willow calls me on my adolescent behavior.
“I heard about your focus group,” I continue in a calmer voice. “I’ve given Hermione the go-ahead to help you. But from now on, you come to me with any plans for the pack at large. If you don’t, I’ll have you publicly whipped for insubordination at the next full moon gathering. Understood?”
She lifts a haughty brow. “I don’t see that forming a focus group is—”
“Understood?” I cut in. “It is my right and responsibility as Alpha to protect my wolves and keep order in this pack. Once you’ve proven you deserve it, I’m happy to let you take a leadership role, but you come through me, first. You don’t know this pack, I do, and you haven’t earned the trust needed to make decisions for my people without me.”
“Our people,” she corrects, then hurries on after a look at the no-doubt murderous expression my face. “But yes, I understand. And I agree. I’ll come to you with any future plans.” She hesitates before adding quickly, “As long as you promise to be reasonable and give my ideas a chance.”
“I promise no such thing,” I snap. “You piss me off, and I can see myself staying pissed at you for a very, very long time.”
“Then we’re both going to be miserable for a very, very long time,” she says, mocking my inflection. “Which is stupid. What kind of person would choose to be miserable when he has the entire world at his feet? When his people love him and he’s in control of one of the most powerful, wealthy, vibrant, and happy packs, not just in New York or Human Side, but the entire world? So, one teensy tiny thing in your life didn’t go exactly as planned, so what? Believe me, most shifters have it far worse.”
Ignoring her last statement, I ask, “If my people are so happy, why do we need a focus group for female pack members?”
“Just because something’s already good, doesn’t mean it can’t be better.”
My lips curve in a hard smile. “And you prove my point. Yes, it’s ‘good,’ I suppose, to marry a woman who’s acceptably attractive, reasonably intelligent, and whose company I enjoyed before she proved to be a conniving, scheming little brat, but…” I shrug. “I’d prefer something better.”
By the time I’m finished her eyes have narrowed to furious little slits.
I’m expecting her to throw a pillow at me or launch herself across the mattress, claws bared, in an attempt to rip out my throat with her bare hands.
Instead, she…laughs.
It’s soft at first, just a faint chuckle accompanied by the shake of her shoulders. But within a minute she’s laughing so hard she’s rolled onto her side on the bed and is clutching her stomach with both hands.
“What, may I ask, is so funny?” I ask, fighting the urge to smile.
But dammit, her laughter is infectious.
“We are,” she says, still thick in her giggle fit. “Before I met you, I thought I was a nice person. But I’m not. I am a brat, and you’re an asshole. We’re awful.” She breaks off with a gasp before laughing some more. “Totally obnoxious. I can’t stand us.”
My lips twitch. “Finally, something we agree on. We’re a terrible match.”
