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I wanted to help Bish, even if I was just the kid who carried his hand sanitizer.
But he and the guys are three or four years older, and they grew up first. I saw them less and less before I was kicked out of town, and what I wanted with them was never going to be more than a dream.
Even after I stumbled onto Reese’s roster, I never looked up where the rest of the pack landed. One, because the SAS reads my internet history. And two, I don’t have the balls.
Because, see?
Just Bishop’s name rattles my game.
Get your shit together.
If I blow this op but somehow survive Redfang vengeance, I’ll be locked in Brandon’s dungeon and pin-cushioned with potions ’til I’m eighty.
Not that I’ll live that long.
My heart pumps pre-emptive adrenaline when Silas parks under the covered entrance.
Showtime.
Silas finally hears the curtain call, opening my door before tossing the keys to a valet who submissively stares down the red carpet runner.
Channeling Serafina’s badass vibes, I strut into a lobby so swanky, my fingers flatten to my thighs. Vivian’s shrill warning echoes from the past. Don’t touch a thing or I’ll beat your ungrateful butt!
My foster mother. What a saint.
I resist the poor-girl instinct to shrink.
Serafina Redfang could take a bat to the grand chandelier and the manager would have to apologize for falling glass.
Silas herds me to the reception desk and slaps our keycard onto the mirror-polished wood. “Key stopped working.”
The girl at the desk blanches—not at his gruff command, but at me, flinching when I toss my ponytail over my shoulder in fake impatience.
Wow. Wonder what Serafina did to her?
“Right away, Miss Redfang. I’m so sorry for the trouble.” Her fingers tap-dance across her keyboard, possibly sending an SOS. “Can we send a bottle of Bergerac to the penthouse to make up for the inconvenience? We have a thirty-year vintage in the cellar.”
“Fine.” I wave, pretending I always drink five-thousand-dollar booze.
So good being the princess.
If I get to reincarnate, I’m choosing mobster’s daughter for my next life.
Oh wait.
Already tried that and it sucks.
Next time, I’ll try being a normal omega. Mate sweet, stable alphas, roll my own pasta, and try to be born in a family that doesn’t prefer me dead or caged.
This life’s already effed.
Carrying fresh-minted keycards, we ride the elevator to the penthouse. Luckily, my so-called teammate sticks to his silent bodyguard persona.
I have no bandwidth for chit-chat.
With a quarter of my concentration keeping my pheromones under wraps, and another quarter wasted balancing in Serafina’s stripper boots, the other fifty-percent of my brain goes goblin mode, populating images of a grown-up Bishop walking the halls in one of his tailored suits, dressed to maim, slaughter, and fucking kill.
To ground myself, I pat Serafina’s weapon holsters. When I win my freedom, I’ll treat myself to a one-time image search of my vision board mates.
