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So impossibly soft.
So destructively cutting.
I can’t tell if I’m shivering, shuddering, or leaking shoved-down pheromones when Reese’s broad, bandaged hand finds my waist.
I’m expecting the cringe—the full-body, get-the-fuck-away-from-me-and-my-throat clench that’s been the go-to since my forced awakening.
Surprise.
The curse is broken.
Or possibly just starting.
Reese’s hands are warm and familiar and everything I feared, sparking longing, sweet memories, and not a single twinge of fated mate.
I want to hug him so deep, I melt into his purr.
I want to throw my arms around his shoulders and let him carry me somewhere safe.
What I don’t want?
Reese’s bite.
He smooths up my spine. Rough gauze tickles through my lace as his head dips. He reaches higher and higher. Fingers caressing toward my neck, Reese draws me in for a kiss I can’t afford.
There’s the panic.
A high-pitched alarm blares from my brain stem to my still-bruised tailbone.
I wrench out of Reese’s killer arms before he hits the ridge of scar tissue hidden at my throat. Before I feel his heat and really freak.
“Hurry.” Decisive and a little bit deranged, I shove him away. “Nikolaj can’t find you here.”
“Yeah.” Reese’s eyes drop from my lips, and he awkwardly lowers the bandaged hand that hovers where my neck used to be.
I breathe through the bitterness of burnt chocolate.
Failing to act like Serafina, Marisol, or any sane girl alone with the childhood crush I’d die to mate, I shove Reese into the hall and shrill my voice. “Bring me a new drink.”
Make it a whole bottle.
He hesitates, dropping his chin like a bull about to charge.
The guards tense.
I frantically flick my eyes. Don’t be stubborn. Please, Reese.
He must hear my pleading.
Reese finally turns down the hall, leaving my pulse roaring with a weird mix of adrenaline, regret, and misplaced appreciation for his ass in that suit.
When he’s out of sight and hopefully out of danger, I brush off the guards’ scowls and slam the door. Fingers shaking, heart in hummingbird mode, I hide the evidence that I’m anything but the trophy daughter Nikolaj is expecting.
Using a prissy throw pillow, I sweep shattered glass under a curio cabinet. Then I tidy my hair, spritz on pheromone-boosting perfume, and slosh a little extra on the rug to cancel out the spilled liquor and anything left of the cocoa shellacked to the roof of my mouth.
When I’m done, my disguise is perfect, and there’s not a whiff of Reese.
So why am I drooling?
