They exchange a panicked glance.
Behind them, I see Mabeline lean to the side, angling her body so she can see past the wall of anxious Alpha blocking her view. Our eyes meet again, and I watch the calculation complete.
She's decided.
"Laurent." Her voice is clear, carrying a hint of that sharp wit I witnessed in the locker room. "I need help, please."
I need help, please.
Four words.
Four simple words, spoken with just enough emphasis to sound like a command dressed in a request.
They shoot straight down my spine and settle somewhere considerably lower.
Merde. Merde. Putain de merde.
I keep my face neutral through sheer force of will, refusing to let these idiots see how thoroughly she just undid me.
"Sure."
One word. Casual. Like my entire nervous system isn't currently on fire.
I step past Miguel and Tyler without giving them another glance, dismissing them from my attention as thoroughly as one dismisses furniture. They're already mumbling excuses, something about needing to be somewhere, practice, dinner, or anywhere that isn't here.
Their retreating footsteps echo down the hallway, and then they're gone.
Good riddance.
I stop in front of Mabeline, close enough to catch the full effect of her scent. It's even more intoxicating than I remember. Vanilla and roses and ice, with something warmer underneath that makes me want to bury my face in the curve of her neck and just breathe.
Focus. Focus. You're supposed to be helping, not fantasizing about scenting her like some desperate?—
I reach for her suitcase, and the handle wobbles ominously under my grip. A piece of duct tape peels away, revealing a crack in the plastic beneath.
"Didn't I say I'd buy you new luggage?"
The words are out before I can stop them, casual and teasing like we're old friends instead of virtual strangers with a complicated history.
What are you doing? You've exchanged maybe ten words with this woman. You can't just?—
She blinks at me, those hazel eyes widening slightly.
"I'm sorry?"
I gesture at the disaster of a suitcase, committing fully to whatever charade my mouth has decided to initiate without consulting my brain.
"This." I lift the handle, which responds by listing dramatically to the left like a drunk sailor. "Why did you use this one? I distinctly remember offering to replace it."
I don't know why I'm playing this game. Don't know why the words keep coming, building a fiction that never existed.
Could it be the way she looked at me like a lifeline when those Alphas were crowding her space? Or it's the relief I saw flash across her face when she realized she had an exit strategy.
Perhaps I just want her to stop looking at me like I'm one of the monsters from her past.
She studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. I can practically see the gears turning behind those beautiful eyes, weighing her options.
Play along with the stranger's bizarre fiction? Or call him out and deal with the awkwardness?
