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I want to lick her throat.
Need to.
A rumble stakes my chest, and the fact that I don’t believe in fate is fucking irrelevant when my future mate parts her lips.
She tugs a hotel robe across her chest like she’s tightening her armor. She’s sharp all over—cut cheekbones, tight ponytail, bladed eyeliner.
But when I’m drowning in cake batter, soft and sweet and made to drive me fucking insane, Serafina’s hard edges don’t mean shit.
She’s all fluff, trembling for me the same way my veins are roaring for her.
Fuck the long-term plan.
Fuck Jericho, Kairo, and everything Triad.
Serafina is mine.
Bishop yanks his tie, loosening the knot.
I’ve watched him bury a body in a buttoned vest. His pretentious ass only steps out of formalwear to shower.
Now his Adam’s apple bobs, throat working so hard, he pulls apart his collar, breaking his own rules for the heiress who just delivered our pack a double-tap to the chest.
Bang. Bang. Done.
She’s ours.
And fuck are we gonna have to fight to keep her.
“Mate,” I growl, so deep and darkly possessive, Serafina’s guards pull semi-automatics.
I forgot they were here.
Serafina flinches.
She should be diving into my arms, letting me rub her in my scent and mark her for our pack’s protection.
Instead, she tucks her neck.
She’s thrown.
I get it.
Me fucking too.
I soften my tone, not wanting to scare my omega. “Serafina.”
She flinches, hands creeping to shield her throat. “Don’t call me that.”
The defensive reaction makes no sense, unless the hallway grew a headwind that’s blocking her from tasting our scent.
We already belong to her.
She has to know. Has to sense gravity rearranging, dragging us to spin around her and no one else.
“Princess,” Bishop rasps, choking on his straining tie. “You feeling this?”
Ten guards with trigger fingers cocked are the only reason she’s not already in my arms.
