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“Soon,” I agree, smoothing my buttons and breathing, trying to soothe myself until Dutch scents the opportunity for a hug.
I’m no pocket-sized alpha, but Viking Dutch clamps my shoulders like a sarcophagus—impossible to fight. “Is it supposed to hurt this much when she hurts?”
“She’s our mate.” Reese piles into the hug. “I’d cut off my fucking arm to stop her hurting.”
We’re all quaking for our queen.
But we can do better than quivering like a pack of useless rabbits.
Squeezing my phone between their bodies, I search for the boutique that furnishes The Barrington’s five-star nesting suites.
A common nest uses a rubber sheet as its base layer. As if my mate is going to smell cheap polyester and pass out in a wet spot during her heat.
I pull up the thickest mattress pad. It has a high-tech core, with a reservoir rated to wick away gallons of slick.
Costs more than a mortgage.
I choose four—two black, two white.
Add to cart.
Reese whistles. “Do million-dollar pillows next. Our baby needs the best.”
“Our queen,” I correct. From diamond-tasseled heat sheets to the spot of her choice on my waiting, well-moisturized throat. “We’ll give her everything.”
I layer clothes on clothes on clothes, but full body armor wouldn’t cover my raw nakedness. My horror bleeds through fabric.
Spilling the ugly truth leaves me empty of everything but freakish pheromones, my ragged skin crawling with millipedes.
They saw.
They know.
Now, even if they don’t reject me?
I’ll have to reject myself.
You’d think I’d stop wanting Meadows Pack, knowing how we end, but parts of me are too baked-in.
I have to wear socks to sleep, I hate warm lettuce on my cheeseburgers, and no matter how many times reality screams you can’t keep them, I’ll always be the same stubborn bitch.
I want the impossible.
I want them to want me—the real evil, crazy, loyal, obsessed, weirdo freaking gamma, Marisol.
The footsteps stalking down the hall boot all versions of me out of my post-throat-reveal trance.
I can’t handle the bathroom. No mirrors. No glass.
The only place left to flee is the nest.
Jin follows.
The packleader of my dreams gleams darker than the underwater blackness. Energy crackles around his shoulders, dragging me back to a forgotten afternoon.
Nobody had warned us there was a tornado watch. We were playing ball when the eerie silence hit.
No more birds or backfiring engines. The world held its breath until the clouds split, pelting us in knife-sharp hail.
