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“Fuck no,” Dutch adds. “She’s been ours since forever.”
“She’s lying. Again.” Bishop plays with his robe, but he has more sparkle than he did the first time Sol iced us out.
He wants to pick her apart.
I hand him the place to start. “It’s Solomon. Remember the time we tried to follow him home?”
“I just wanted to see where he was living,” Dutch grumbles. “Make sure his place was safe. Her place? Why didn’t she tell us she was a girl?”
“Think.” Bish flicks his forehead. “Would you want Dandelion running the Meadows alone in a skirt and a bow?”
Dutch scowls, covering the mark. “What’s the outfit have to do with anything? Boy or girl, our mate’s fucking adorable.”
“I get why she freaked and avoided us back then.” Reese stares through the wall. “But why in the fuck is she doing it now?”
“She’s always kept her secrets close,” I remind them. “We know who she is. We know everything she likes.” And this time, our thoughtful mate left the door wide open. Pretending to be ours? “Don’t rush her. She’ll come to us. She always does.”
Sol knows where she belongs.
If she claims she doesn’t?
Purring, I stroke the tracks she carved in my chest.
I’ll make her remember.
She kissed me first.
Everything is too much.
My gnawing pheromones.
Their gnawing pheromones, and the lingering heat of the full-body fantasy where I rubbed all over Jin and didn’t get chucked like a ripe sack of trash.
His touch tattooed my spine.
I almost bit his nipple, because it was hard and right there and it probably would’ve tasted like ocean-salted caramel.
I almost lost my shit and let Monster-Sol have her way because Kairo needs to die.
I’m definitely taking care of him for the pack.
After I figure out how to take care of myself.
The guys’ shower is the same as the one in the penthouse. It has glass panels instead of a modest curtain, surrounded by ceiling-height mirrors that display every angle of the body I don’t want to face right now.
I run the water for steam but can’t strip naked. Wearing three kinds of shirts, a knee-length coat, and double pants, heat steams me like a pork bun.
Against my long-term welfare, I cave, pushing up my sleeve to press Reese’s wristband to my nose.
I’m not a pork bun.
I’m a bacon bun, salty-sweet with cocoa, peach, and lightning spice.
Fuck.
Me.
When I lean against the marble vanity, my knee bangs their cabinet.
