I can tell a creep when I see one. Ugh. I don’t know who tf Juniper Rose is (sorry), but she dodged a bullet,one reads.
Anyone else think he’s got serial killer vibes? The alpha’s got crazy eyes fr, another poster says.
A friend told me that another omega he was courting died under mysterious circumstances. Mysterious circumstances, my ass… That MF killed her,another comments.
Cassian Leclerc is WAY hotter, tho.
Okay, so that one makes me a little prickly, for all that her words are absolutely, irrefutably true.
A new clip surfaces from my search and I tap on my phone to watch it, slinking down lower into my nest.
It’s the same questions, the same responses, remixed for a new TV show, until the very end.
He looks contrite as he tells the reporter, “I was crushed when I heard the news. But Juniper and her mate deserve all the happiness in the world.” He looks at the camera with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Until death do they part.”
There’s no mistaking the sinister curl of his smile, the threat lurking beneath his kind words. A mating can be broken two ways: by the Ever Ember hex and through the death of a mate. Cassian’s death, not mine, because that’s how Rad could make me suffer the most.
“Sweet-tart,” Marcus says from the door to my nest.
I quickly shove my phone beneath my blankets.
He shakes his head and comes to crouch down beside me. “Juniper, you have to stop. You’re making yourself sick watching those interviews over and over.”
“I have to be prepared, Marcus,” I say, my voice shaking.
He sighs and sits beside me, opening his arms to me.
I go to him, even though I should be seeking comfort in the arms of my mate or one of my other men. Only there’s something in his soft, unassuming manner that I need, that I seek out when I’m trapped in the storm of my despair. In a tumultuous sea, he’s the rock I cling to, keeping me from drowning.
He pulls a blanket around me and holds me so close I can hear the slow, steady beat of his heart. Pine and crisp winter wind fill my senses and give me the courage to break.
“Too many good things have happened,” I force out around the knot of tears in my throat. “Marcus, I’m so fucking happy right now. Since Cassian mated me, it’s like it’s been a dream. Some luckier omega’s life. You heard Rad just now, and even if you hadn’t, it’s nothing he hasn’t told me before. He would kill those I care for without hesitation. Saints, he’d do it with pleasure. I’ve been happy for too long. It doesn’t feel right. I feel like electricity is buzzing under my skin. I’m sorestless.”
“Could it also be that you’ve been spending all your time on the couch, being as lazy as humanly possible, and eating mostly junk food?”
“Rude,” I mutter.
But he’s right. Downtime has always been difficult for me. My summer was a prime example of it. Left to my own devices, with only Willow’s rare company, I quickly spiraled into despair. I felt aimless and anxious. Now I have the perfect company, but I’m still agitated. As much as I enjoy epic movie marathons and books-and-cuddles sessions with my men, I need todosomething.
“Want to go punch stuff?”
Saints, this alpha always knows just what I need.
I change, lace up my running shoes and then join Marcus in the townhouse’s basement gym, where Marcus insisted Cassian hang a punching bag for me. Naturally, I dive straight into punching, but Marcus stops me and guides me through a warm-up and stretches.
I wail on the punching bag until my arms start to ache, but it feels so good to be moving, to be doing something.
“You want to be prepared for Andrew Radcliffe? We should start your self-defense training back up. Four times a week, and no using studying as an excuse to get out of it. Be glad it’s not an hour of training at 6 AM every morning.”
I grouch about it, but of course I appreciate Marcus’ help and instruction, and the time I get to spend with him.
He walks me through a new move to escape someone trying to grab my wrist, and I blunder my way through it until I finally get it. I’ll never be able to throw Marcus over my shoulder, but after a half an hour of practicing, I’m able to break out of his hold.
My progress and the pride in Marcus’ gray-green eyes only spurs me onward. I get cocky, I misstep, and I stumble—straight into his arms.
He catches me, like he always does, pulling me close in the process. By the time I’ve found my footing again, I’m pressed against his body, and we’re separated by only our sweat-soaked clothes.
I stare up at him, an apology on my lips, but I freeze, a fresh, heady rush of his cool, wintry-pine scent in my nose. I tell myself that his scent didn’t deepen because of our closeness, that it was our workout that made his scent spike. Nothing more. Marcus isn’t attracted to me. It’s a biological impossibility.
