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Bishop tsks. “You act like I don’t pay for private security. Kairo’s soldiers won’t be dragging anything except their Neanderthal knuckles.”
“I said they’d try.” Jin flashes his death god smirk. “Not that we’d lie back and take it.”
Before I lie back and take whatever Jin wants to give me, I clear my throat. “Call Kairo. Ask him to meet us there.”
Bishop always shimmers when he smells a hustle. “What are you scheming?”
“Like you said. The SAS doesn’t like moving in public or screwing with the mafia. With the Redfangs headless, who’s to say I’m not the real Serafina? I’ll sign away her inheritance. Then Kairo can take the cartel, you’re on his good list, and we can flee the country before the SAS realizes. Everyone wins.”
The best part is, we have to move fast.
Sign some contracts, hop a cargo plane, then tag all these problematic alphas off on their actual mate.
Marisol gets wasted on spiked coconut water, escapes mass murder charges, and fades into the sunset, alone.
The End.
“Not everyone wins.” Bishop rubs his chin with a thoughtful thumb. “There’s a Triad issue you haven’t factored.”
“What else?” Please don’t take away my sunset.
“Jericho.” Jin’s grip strains the wheel. “He and Serafina were supposed to mate. My father doesn’t want a deal on paper. He wants a deal in blood.”
I grip my throat. “But isn’t Jericho…?”
“In a coma.” Reese grins until he bounces.
“Poor fuckboy fiancé.” Good thing Jericho Moon won’t be coming anywhere near my throat.
Dutch wrinkles his teddy bear nose. “You’re right on the fuckboy part. But poor? Dude deserves to suffer.”
I’d love to handle that for them. Later. “Then what if I’m already mated?”
Bish sucks a breath. “Are you—”
“No! No,” I trip to explain. “I mean, you’re scent-matched to Serafina, right? What if you and I pretend to be mates?”
“Pretend?” Dutch jerks so hard his forehead dings the dome light.
“Pretend,” I test the word, loving it more and more.
Fake mate feels so much more solid than my current role—childhood friend of questionable origin and importance.
Plus, when I slip and do something stupidly sappy, I can play it off as acting.
Will it be torture?
Worse than kissing the electric fence.
I have plans on plans on plans for escaping solo, but if all five of us all have to survive—a must when I’m this obsessed with them—I don’t see another way. “Anyone have a better idea?”
Bishop pulls his phone from the pocket of his robe. “Not at all. Your scheme comes with the perfect reason to flee the country.”
I don’t trust his secret smile. “What’s that?”
“Pack honeymoon.”
“Honey—” I choke on the word and the sudden jackhammer of alpha pheromones.
