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That perfume.
Sharp, but subtly sweet.
A tickle torques my abs like I’m about to toss the pitch of my life.
It’s worse upstairs.
Worse with every step down the hall, because my feet start to move like I’m one of those dumb birds on a track around a clock, helplessly pulled toward the only possible ending.
Toward her.
Now that I’ve caught her scent, I’d find her across a continent.
Lemon donut.
Sugary and undeniable.
Horror grows with the gut-punch of recognition.
Because if she’s really mine…
There’s a lot of hardware between us and the exit.
Lot of shady fucking alphas who need to be choked out.
Breathing through waves, I debate wasting the alphas manning the door, but I can’t stop, can’t slow. I duck and knock the wood.
“Who is it?” A satin voice stun-darts my ass—not exactly sweet, but so fucking rich.
Lemon, sprinkled in gold leaf.
Way above my pay grade.
“Your drink,” I answer, trying to swallow an unholy purr/growl/snarl of rage. Because she’s my mate. Because I can’t let her breathe near those alphas downstairs.
And because fuck.
I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t slam the door in my face and reject me the same way she rejected the better half of my pack.
My panting gets caught on audio.
“See?” Bish whispers.
I see, Sherlock.
My fucking soul is vibrating, like my heart snagged on an out-of-control kite, and I don’t know if I’m gonna soar to heaven or crash in a dumpster of spent needles.
The girl who whips open the door has me soaring and burning.
Flying and falling and fucking terrified how close I am to dropping to my knees and begging for a chance to earn my spot at her side.
A blonde in a bathrobe.
Did I say I feel nothing?
Yeah.
Nothing but her.
