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But Dutch drags me into the back seat, killing my chances of clear thought, let alone a coherent plan for what comes next.
Squeezed hip-to-shoulder between him and Reese, with Bishop taking the passenger seat, and Jin jumping behind the wheel, I’m warped back in time to those summer days coasting around town.
Now the car interior is custom leather instead of frayed cloth, and I have to pinch my knees to keep away from the full-grown alphas with scents as thick as syrup.
Jin guns the car up the hill.
When we hit the street, Bridget and crew are still standing in the middle of the field, huddled over their phones.
“They’re not going to let you go,” Jin says.
“No.” I hug my legs, trying to avoid the body heat radiating from enough bare chests to violate the fire code. “I need to leave the country. Somewhere the government can’t extradite. I have cash for a plane ticket.”
“You make it sound as if you’re going alone,” Bishop says, half deadpan, half amused—his go-to tone for calling out bullshit.
“That’s not how mates work.” Dutch’s fingers sneak toward my thigh. “We’re a team. Remember, Solly?”
Oh shiiit.
Jin swerves.
Without a seatbelt, I fly into Reese’s arms.
He catches me, eyes going so wide his chocolate pupils reflect my shell-shocked expression. “Did he just call you…?”
Who needs a plan?
We’re about to have a reckoning.
“Solomon?” Bish’s eyes rapid-flick as he mentally yanks my threads and catalogs my flaws.
Jin hops the sidewalk, screeching the brakes.
Before I can hop an alpha and bail into traffic, he hauls me between the seats. He lunges so fast, I should hit the shifter, maybe bang my head.
Jin would never.
He slides back his seat, squeezing out Reese so I fall smoothly cushioned on his welcoming lap.
A morning driver flies around us with a whoosh that mirrors the howl in my head.
Jin’s ragged breath hits my cheek.
He tastes like rain when he cups my face in both hands.
A warning jangles the base of my spine.
I’ll jump out of my skin if his touch slides south.
“It’s you.” His fingers shake.
The dark gaze I’ve dreamed about, his heat, his touch—they’d be fantasies if this weren’t the beginning of a nightmare.
I panic. “I’m not your mate.”
We’re so close, the air punched from his lungs blows back my lashes, but I have to tell a version of the truth.
I need the guys to cut me loose before they’re roped into my government-funded mess. Before I slip and hit them with my real pheromones.
