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Four freckles.
One freckle for each alpha, on an S-curve I used to follow with my fingertip.
Time freezes, and I go light-headed with half my blood jailed in my cock.
I am the toolshed.
Why didn’t I notice sooner?
My mate stumbles out of the dugout in a sprint to escape that hammers my skull with panic.
Can’t lose her.
Not again!
Three long steps and I dive.
Mid-air, I pillow her with my body, curling to protect her from the fall I can’t feel.
Can’t feel anything but her heat, her breath, as dirt puffs around us and we skid toward first.
I roll onto my back, seeing nothing but blue-pink morning sky and wide, green eyes.
Another thing that’s blue?
The circles around her irises.
Contacts.
Sticky makeup can’t hide the long lashes I remember. Or that little dip between her nose and lip I never stopped wanting to kiss.
The point of her chin.
The way she squeezes my shoulder, thumb hooking under my collarbone—coming home to reclaim the spot where only she could ever belong.
Click.
Click.
Click.
All my missing pieces snap home. “Solly?”
He knows.
He knows.
Oh, shit.
He knows, but what does he know?
That I’m fake?
That I’m Marisol?
No. He can’t know that.
None of them ever knew that—not who I really am.
