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Catherine called fifteen times.
I dial her back with a topsy-turvy churn in my gut.
“Lilah?”
“What’s wrong?”
Catherine tsks. “Nothing’s wrong, just urgent. The Sorensens and a handful of packs have been calling nonstop to schedule private dates.”
“I didn’t want to schedule any more.” And freaking yikes. Is she paid on commission?
I definitely said no more.
“Sorensens were already on your calendar. I highly, highly recommend that you meet with them. They’ve already offered to double their bid.”
Twice as much?
How romantic.
I want to say screw it and cancel, especially now, but years of shit going south stop me from torching this last flimsy getaway bridge. “I won’t leave the compound. I’m not risking my life for lamb chops.”
“Understandable, but can’t you swing a meeting there? I’d be happy to call and see if there’s a venue we can rent.”
Luckily we’re not on video, because my face twists.
A venue?
It’s a freaking military compound.
Unless Sorensens want to take me to the shooting range, we’re out of luck. “I’ll ask, but don’t get their hopes up.”
“Wonderful. Just get back to me as soon as you can. The sooner we sign contracts, the sooner your heat partners can be at your side. It must be terrible, what you’re going through alone.”
Right.
So terrible.
No orgasms at all. No snuggles. Torture.
I cough. “I’ll call you back.”
Flopping into the soft pillows, I swim in the guys’ scents until my nose picks something even better.
Breakfast.
I dart into the closet to grab a sweatshirt, but there are too many choices. My nose pulls me to the corner filled with guys’ clothes.
Five sweatshirts hang in a row, all lightly worn and so fucking sexy, I’m not responsible for the weird purr-squeal that chokes up my throat.
I want to layer them all, but that would send the wrong signal—because at that point, I might as well get my Wyvern ass stamp.
I mean, shit.
I should check a mirror.
Might already have one.
I end up grabbing Finn’s hoodie.
