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Jin, Bishop, Reese, and even Dutch, whose sneaky pheromone ghost keeps trying to creep inside my nose. They’re Michelin-star desserts; the sweetest, richest treats I could possibly stick in my mouth.
But I’m just waiting tables, passing their plates to someone else, and even if I could sneak a taste, there’s no way I can afford the bill.
The truth is the lead ring squeezing my throat.
Not mine.
My neck itches under lace. All I want to do is get clean. Have a minute to myself under water so hot it steams away this train of thought.
Bishop catches me picking my sleeves. “You can take Dandelion’s room.” His tone is so heart-tuggingly flat, I wouldn’t believe he felt the mate connection if I hadn’t seen him loosen his tie at the hotel. Bishop can lie with the best, but he wasn’t faking the mate-bomb that left his elegant features slack.
Now his mask is just as tight as mine when he shows me down the single hall. “Help yourself to clothes. If the scent bothers you, we’ll run a wash. Bathroom’s here. Toiletries, clean towels, toothbrushes.” Keeping me an arm-length away, he opens a linen closet filled with labeled shelves of expensive, unopened product that screams his touch. “We’ll be across the hall.”
The doors to the bedrooms and bath cluster in a triangle, the house so small, I’m going to have to work my ass off to escape without getting caught.
Bishop’s careful distance makes me that much more desperate to bail.
He deserves better.
A mate who’ll jump into his arms. Not a fake who leaves him wearing the same blank face he used to wear when his father left him black and blue under his fancy suits.
“Thank you,” my voice wavers.
Something flickers behind his eyes—a flash of heat?—but I duck into the bedroom before I screw myself and tug his sleeve to ask what’s wrong.
I collapse against the door.
Was it this hard staying away from them when I was younger?
I have to get out.
Before I rip myself in half, pretending.
I’m beginning to loathe slammed doors.
When my supposed mate shuts me out again, a numb wave crashes over my shoulders.
Can’t feel my fucking spine.
If I had claws, they’d be steak knives, gouging the wood.
Instead, I make fists with manicured nails, battling the rabid urge to stake a claim that she so obviously doesn’t want or fucking reciprocate.
I check my buttons one-by-one, feeling up and down my shirt again and again and again.
Not until I’m calm—that’s not happening with my head buzzing like I drained the bar of lemon drop shots—but until I have to move my ass or risk Serafina catching me standing frozen like a twat.
In the kitchen, Jin chops onions while Reese droops on a stool, looking as defeated as I won’t admit I feel.
“She okay?” Reese lifts his chipmunk face.
Can’t give him hope.
“No.” I push past to the sink so I can wash my hands for three or four hours.
“What do we do?” Reese turns to our leader.
“Feed our mate.” Jin works the cutting board as if a meal can fix the iron wall between us and the girl who has my ears perked, Doberman-sharp, catching every single floorboard creak from the vicinity of her room.
