The idea of getting back on that plane already has fire churning in my chest. A panic attack threatens at the edges of my awareness just at the thought of being strapped into a thin metal tube thousands of feet in the air.
The unfairness of it burns in my throat.
And then, like a match striking in a dark room, an idea flares to life. A terrible, perfect idea.
The practical medicine cabinet that Mason packs in his luggage has everything I could possibly need in a crisis and more. Everything from the anxiolytics for my panic attacks to pain medication that ranges from over-the-counter to only legal in certain countries, to the cocktail of supplements that Victoria insists will make us live forever.
Also…the heat inducers that I microdose to make filming sex scenes on set slightly less excruciating.
I might have a history of giving the tabloids a little too much material to work with, but this might be the most reckless thing I’ve ever considered.
It might also be my only way out.
SIXTEEN
MASON
“I’m sorry… what.”
It’s not even a question. Just a flat statement of disbelief as I stare at Phoenix across our shared hotel room. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, still wearing the clothes from our hospital visit, her copper hair falling in messy waves around her face. There’s a manic gleam in her amber eyes that I’ve come to recognize as the precursor to catastrophically bad decisions.
“We need to let the studio know that I’m going into heat,” she repeats, enunciating each word like she’s explaining something to a particularly dense child. “So I won’t be able to attend the press tour.”
“Your heats always come like clockwork,” I say, trying to keep my voice level despite the alarm bells clanging in my head. “Your next one isn’t for another two months.”
I probably know her cycle better than she does. I track it on my calendar with color-coded reminders for the pre-heat symptoms, the actual heat, and the recovery period. I’ve rescheduled press junkets, pushed back filming dates, and once bribed a location scout to “discover problems” with a venue justto ensure Phoenix wouldn’t be trapped anywhere uncomfortable during her most vulnerable time.
She doesn’t take enough suppressants to kill a lesser man like I do.
Phoenix shrugs, a deliberately casual gesture that doesn’t match the calculation in her eyes.”I’m already feeling pre-heat symptoms. Maybe the stress of the plane almost crashing triggered them.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, it’s happening,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Look, heats count as a medical issue that will excuse me from the press tour. I know that’s in my contract. We just need to let the studio know.”
I study her, really study her. The way her fingers tap restlessly against her knee. The slight flush high on her cheekbones that has nothing to do with actual pre-heat symptoms and everything to do with the adrenaline of hatching a scheme. The way she won’t quite meet my eyes.
“What did you do?” I ask quietly.
She bites her lower lip in that way that makes my chest tighten—a gesture so unconsciously seductive it should be illegal. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and drag my thumb across her lip, pulling it from between her teeth.
“Isn’t it better if you can maintain plausible deniability?” she asks, voice dropping to a coquettish whisper that she must hope will be distracting.
I already know that if I go into my medicine kit, I’m going to find exactly what I think is missing is actually missing. The bottle of heat inducers—prescribed by Dr. Winters at my insistence after I caught Phoenix buying black market ones from a PA on her last film—won’t be there. Or it will be there, but empty.
“How many did you take?” I ask, fighting to maintain my patience.
Phoenix winces. “Remind me. How many were left in the bottle?”
“Damn it, Phoenix!” The words explode out of me before I can stop them. I’m not a shouter. I’ve built my entire professional identity around being the calm in her storm. But right now, with the weight of everything—this town, Judah, the plane, Stephanie, all of it—pressing down on me, my control slips.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she insists, voice rising to match mine. “You heard what Atticus said. The studio will bury me if I try to back out. This is the only medical excuse that will work.”
Exasperation wars with amusement with a small side of wanting to shake some sense into her, as if that had any chance of actually working. I take a deep breath, trying to reclaim my professional demeanor.
“Let me get this straight. You would really rather spend an entire heat in this hotel room than get on a plane for a few hours?”
Her eyes widen with triumph, and she waves a small white business card under my nose like it’s a winning lottery ticket. “I won’t have to stay in the hotel room because I’ve already been offered a place to stay, under the roof of a very nice alpha who won’t even be a threat because he is already mated.”
