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Also yes.
Elyse splutters before remembering she’s a secret agent. Then she blasts us in toasted coconut and a pheromone-spiked request that isn’t a request. “Put down your weapons and get your asses up here.”
Her words can’t force me any more than her pheromones, but when Serafina goes puppet mode, I’m happy to follow on the same strings.
Piña colada obliterates the evidence that I stepped out of line and almost made a tragic mistake.
Not the murder part.
Just the getting caught.
I keep my head down and my mouth shut, quietly following to the closest black site where the SAS can secure their Very Important Prisoner.
Unlike the agents, Bridget doesn’t do a double-take when she sees me and Serafina all twinsy, but she carries a weird tension when she orders me to follow instead of banishing me to the potato-mobile where I belong.
Leaning against the wall of an interrogation cell, I try to make it look like I’m so exhausted I can’t stand, but I’m so keyed up, I’m clawing concrete.
How stupid can I be?
I should’ve insta-killed Serafina or let her go free.
Now I’m so looped in, I’m going to have to earn a golden statue to escape this tangled mess.
Commander Fissure steps up to the plate as soon as Serafina’s secured to the bolted-down chair. Her gamma perfume puffs out in a candy-sweet cloud.
It smells like the store brand to me.
Sucralose or dextrose or one of those other -osey plastic sugars that rot your brain and give you liquid shits.
I’ve never caught a whiff of fated mate from her manipulative scent.
Not that I would.
I’m too broken for mates. My only romantic fate has twelve speeds, realistic thrusting action, and a suction cup base.
The alphas aren’t as immune.
Their pupils yawn, and they shield the fronts of their bulging cargo pants, proving my mother’s poisonous charm.
Instead of worrying about their alphas being charmed, Dara and Elyse are busy ping-ponging looks.
They flick to Serafina, then to me, staring back and forth with silent comparisons that make me want to ooze down the drain in the center of the floor.
“Serafina Redfang.” Bridget thickens her throat-clogging syrup. “We were expecting your father. Where is he?”
Serafina locks her jaw.
Her pupils are blown, but minus the bedroom eyes and the hard nipples punching through her bustier, the girl could be kicked back at a coffee shop.
Unshakeable.
Can’t say the same of Bridget. A quaver vibrates her military-sharp tone when she’s forced to speak my father’s name. “Where is Nikolaj?”
I claw the wall.
Some fucking mission.
I bet Bridget only let me out to use as bait.
