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If I’m a princess, I look like one who’s so far down the line, I’ll only inherit the throne if a plague kills off the entire royal family.
I look like I’ve already survived a few plagues, with dark circles under my eyes and too-hollow cheeks and collarbones.
If I had makeup, I could hide every flaw.
Nope. Think again.
If I had makeup, I could play up every flaw.
I don’t want to look well-rested or healthy or glowing. This stringy hair, malnourished waif vibe is exactly my jam, and I hope it repels every single alpha at the ball. I’m keeping my shoes on my feet and getting my ass out long before the clock strikes midnight.
Footsteps and voices sound while the pack gets ready for the night. I slip into the silver heels I stole from the club and tiptoe upstairs.
Hunter and Finn stand at the bottom of the grand staircase, and I should’ve done deep-breathing to prepare for seeing them in formal wear.
Fitted suits hug their bodies so tight the air abandons my lungs.
I want to yank their silk ties, haul them against me, and feel what it’s like to be sandwiched while they drag their teeth up and down my neck.
One growl and I’ll be dripping.
“Babydoll.” Finn rakes me with a gaze so predatory I tip dangerously close to a hands-free orgasm. “You look like a snack.”
I duck my head.
All I want to do is run downstairs, dive into my blankets, and hide the night away.
But it’s play along or line up for my hormone shot.
It’s just so hard to remind myself they don’t want me when they look at me like that.
“Hurry up!” Hunter bellows up the stairs. “We’ve got to make a stop on the way.” When he turns to me, offering a hand, his voice and scent are a low, smoky smolder that melts away my fears and sends me gliding into his arms like a fluffy little lamb.
“Let’s get you in your carriage, princess.” Hunter takes one of my hands, Finn takes the other, and when they both curl our fingers together, my heart coils in on itself.
How am I supposed to resist?
***
Twenty-Two
LILAH
Hunter and Finn sit me between them in the back of a luxe limo while we wait for the others.
There’s an inch between our thighs, but the alphas are basically on top of me. I shouldn’t love it, but all I can think about is how to climb into both of their laps at once.
Between their body heat and their smoky, sweet, citrusy, mouth-watering scents, I’m in a toaster oven for pheromones.
I clench my legs tight enough to crush walnuts.
Finn watches every little twitch, his pupils dilating. When his hand creeps toward my knee, I know I won’t be able to say stop.
I’ll let him do whatever the fuck he wants to me, and if Hunter doesn’t end it, I’ll be begging him to join.
I’m so screwed.
Before I can invite them to my first-ever orgy, Atlas ducks into the limo in a cloud of leather and a presence so all-consuming, I only half-register Finn’s touch brushing my leg.
