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Bishop packed me enough fancy lingerie that the real Marisol—hopeless slut—is happy to walk out and greet them wearing just lace.
I don’t even know how to style my hair when Vivian’s not giving me buzz cuts, and I’m not required to wear a military bun so tight it prevents wrinkles.
Solomon is my best option.
Dressing like a boy will hide my scars and remind me to keep my distance from the pack.
After a full-body scrub, scraping off sweat and makeup, I change into my new identity.
Loose athletic pants cover my gnawed ankles. A baggy T-shirt goes over a yoga zip-up to hide my throat, and I tie my hair in a low pony for extra protection. When I pinch out my contacts, I don’t force in a new pair or paint on more makeup.
The last touch is Reese’s hat, pulled low on my forehead.
I shiver through a cocoa hug.
That leaves me waffling over whether to give myself another shot of Serafina. My stomach rumbles before I open the syringe case.
It votes to have one solid meal that doesn’t repeat.
I wrap a clean shirt around the case, jam the bundle in my backpack, then hide that at the bottom of my suitcase, pushing everything into the corner under the shaky towel bar.
I live here now.
I’d rather sleep on tile and a bed of Bishop-approved linens than brave the minefield of the too-perfect nest that isn’t really mine.
Territory and secrets more secure, I head to explore.
The hallway opens to an overwater villa clipped from a travel mag.
White curtains billow in the ocean breeze. Every wall is made of windows, overlooking the sea. Past a living room furnished in delicate white and turquoise furniture, opens a huge, modern kitchen.
The only decorations that aren’t photo-copied from my vision board are the burlap sacks piled on the bamboo countertops. They spill out bunches of bananas, toilet paper, rice, and other supplies.
Where are the guys?
Before I can scramble a one-woman search, Dutch’s overexcited voice nears the open front door. “Come on. Come on. You have to meet her.”
“Don’t be a pest,” a female chides. “I’ll upset her, this close to her heat.”
My nervous system fires a panicked blast of static.
That gentle voice is my only warning.
Dutch tugs a woman into the living room.
She’s a fraction of his size, with strawberry blonde hair in a loose bun, and kind, blue eyes that sparkle just like her son’s. In an adorable, island-print dress, even her slight wrinkles are soft.
I’ve had two mothers, and neither ever looked at me with an emotion more gentle than contempt.
When Dutch’s mom spots me, she covers her mouth with both hands.
A railroad stake sinks between my ribs.
Dutch spots me standing like a sculpture, and his doofy grin hammers the spike through my marbled backbone. “Mom. This is my mate, Solomon. Solly, this is my mom, Lisa.”
“Solomon?” Lisa gasps. “It’s really you?”
Shit. She has tears in her eyes.
