“It will come to you, Princess. We have to be patient.”
Tilting my head toward the sound, I come face to face with Mr. Blondie. Princess? There’s something about that nickname that feels…familiar.
“What did you call me?” I whisper, desperate to chase that feeling in my chest again, and he grins.
“Princess.”
I rub my lips together, trying to place it, but it doesn’t come. My shoulders sag when I give up, but he reaches out to grab my arms with a warm smile on his face.
“It’s okay. It’ll come to you. Then you’ll remember I’m your favorite,” he adds with a wink, pulling me into his embrace, and I stiffen as the familiar scent of ocean mist wraps around me.
I press my nose into his t-shirt, inhaling sharply as his hand ghosts down my spine.
“Please tell me I smell familiar and not of shit, Princess,” he grumbles, and I snicker, embracing the pool of hope in my gut as I tilt my head to look up at him.
“Familiar,” I admit, and his grin spreads wider. The air feels lighter, and I lean into the playfulness surrounding him. “Who’s to say you’re my favorite anyway? Maybe it’s Baron.”
The fourth fated mate, seated beside the man in question, looking just like him but with cropped hair and different colored eyes, scoffs. It jerks my attention toward him, but also quickly cuts through the calmness in the air, making my eyebrows pinch in confusion.
“What am I missing?” I ask, slowly glancing around the room, and when no one gives me an answer, I jolt out of Mr. Blondie’s hold, wrapping my arms around myself protectively.
Archer purses his lips while Mr. Blondie dips his gaze, avoiding eye contact. Baron remains as gruff and distant as he has been this entire time, comfortable in his seat by the door, while my fourth mate leans forward on his elbows, glancing at his laced fingers.
I move on instinct, shuffling back to the bed to stand before Archer. With my hands held out, he knows what I want. I expect him to decline, to give me some ridiculous excuse, but to my surprise, he holds his hands out willingly.
“Is there something I don’t know?” I ask, pressing my palms against his.
“Yes.”
Heat greets me.
Truth.
“Am I going to be pissed when I remember?” I push, the temperature seeming to increase.
“Yes.”
Truth.
Irritation flares inside of me, but I can’t make sense of any of it. I’m here with my brother and my four fated mates. Why would I feel like that?
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
Ice.
False.
My lips part, ready to express my frustration, when my spine stiffens, locking my muscles in place as my head jolts back, tilting my face to the ceiling, but I don’t see it. Not when my vision is alive on the back of my eyelids instead. My face tingles with heat, my bones groaning with an invisible weight as I sway on the spot.
Memories flood me.
One after the other.
Drowning me in pain and anguish as I recall my mating ceremony and the six-letter word that will forever haunt me.
Reject.
