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Instead of punting my baseball dream-boy away like I should to spare my heart, I yank his sleeve, drag him in, and lift my chin like the queen bitch. “Don’t be fucking walnuts. Daddy said I could have company.”
“No. That’s not what the boss—”
“You’re already dead if he finds out you let an alpha through my door.”
They freeze. They know I’m right.
After a long second, the other guard growls. “Five minutes.”
“No clock, or I tell him you disobeyed.” I slam the door before they can argue.
My heart speeds until my fingertips numb, but not because of the close call.
Reese eats the distance between us.
He’s so much taller than I remember. His voice is deeper. Rougher. Rumbling dangerously close to a purr. “Need to get you out of here.”
“You need to get out.” I dodge his advance, catching a lung-full of nutty cocoa butter.
I don’t get it.
Why does my mouth flood when my body’s dead?
I’m like a freaking vegan salivating over steak.
If Reese isn’t mine, then his scent should turn my stomach, just like every other alpha’s always has.
I’d worry why he’s the exception, but my basic brokenness explains it all.
Freak.
“Nikolaj is on the way,” I choke through his chocolate-scented head-trip. “If he finds out you’re—”
“Your mate?” Reese finishes the death sentence.
“I’m not…” I’m not Serafina.
Not his mate.
I’m not anything to Reese—not anymore.
He sets his shoulders like he’s bracing for a haymaker to the face. His comforting, perfect cocoa sharpens until it’s so bitter, his ache curdles my blood.
Spacy vertigo yanks me back from the cliff.
I can’t reject Reese when my fake scent is promising I’m the one.
I’d rather grind my heart to dust than taste one more lick of the hurt he’s never deserved.
I’m the liar.
Have to see my own bullshit through to the end.
“Nikolaj doesn’t care if we’re fated.” I dance around the truth, half happy and half shattered when life returns to Reese’s eyes—chocolate brown. They sparkle as his scent sloughs off its bitterness, mellowing with hope.
I need him gone before his sugar rush rots my brain and makes me forget I’m acting. “I’m a trophy, okay? You can’t come in here, screw up his sale, and expect to walk—”
“Fuck the auction,” Reese’s saw-blade snarl strokes my insides. “We’re getting you out.”
