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Her tone jangles some instinct, but she doesn’t throw sex pheromones. I’m not sure how to read her until Bishop slows at her desk.
“Have you been introduced to my mate?” Bishop palms my shoulder, showing me off. I’d like to say I’m faking when I preen, pushing back my shoulders. “This is Serafina Redfang.”
Oof.
I deflate like a stomped balloon.
“Redfang.” Capri snaps her mouth shut, falling down a few pegs with me. “How fortunate for you.”
“Isn’t she?” Bish pulls me from the omega’s sharpening gaze. “Best recount. You don’t have the votes to make a move.”
Jin chuckles.
I hide ruffled feathers on the way to the elevator. “That’s your secretary?”
“That’s a spy.” Bish hits the button. “With illusions of removing the last Barrington from The Barrington Hotel.”
I fiddle with a button on Jin’s coat. “Sounds like the wrong time for a vacation.”
“It’s the perfect time.” Jin plucks my sleeve, pulling me into the elevator.
“When their victory’s in sight, it’s the best time to strike.” Bishop flashes a murderous grin.
I pencil Capri’s name on the list of problems I need to take care of for the pack, but she’ll have to wait.
My personal shit list keeps getting longer.
Together, we step onto the lobby’s mosaic tile. Walking three across, the guys bookend me, playing both mates and high-end bodyguards.
Spotless in his luxe suit, Bish struts like a CEO frothing for a hostile takeover.
Jin doesn’t pretend to be civilized.
He wears fitted athletic pants, ready for the ring or a battlefield. His clawed chest is a primal threat.
Walking between them, I feel more confident in Dany’s purple socks than I ever did in my sister’s stilettos.
I know where I stand.
Always on their side.
And nowhere near the enforcers lowering the resale value of the hotel’s sitting area furniture.
These aren’t Kairo’s fancy helpers.
The men perched on velvet puffs look like the Redfangs I met in Brandon’s cells. White tanks, cobra tats, and greasy gazes that dart to my chest, heat-seeking my boobs through layers of fabric.
Jin’s growl rattles the chandeliers.
He and Bish shift to shield me.
I’m supposed to be their mate, so I don’t have to pretend I’m not enjoying their overprotection.
But the guys can’t block every angle.
My one-time partner and full-time nemesis, Silas Fissure, reads the newspaper from an armchair. Playing golf dad in a polo and khakis, he glares over the page as if I’m the one who twisted his arms three-hundred-sixty degrees.
Bishop cuts the sight-line without breaking stride. “Care to introduce your friend?”
