Presley's eyebrows went up and then down and then settled into something that was trying very hard not to be smug.
"Three Russian alphas."
"Russian."
"Very Russian. And Bratva. One of them threatens to take out the toaster."
"He threatens the toaster." She blinked.
"It burns his bread."
“Tel him to turn the temperature down.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Presley laughed. “Still wicked, Maeve.”
“Yep. I’ve still got it.”
Presley leaned closer to the camera. "Are you telling me you accidentally married three Russian mafia alphas?"
"It wasn't accidental. It was… intentional." I paused. "And I only married one. Technically. The other two come as part of the very lovely package deals."
“And they’re yours?”
I smiled so hard, my cheeks hurt. “Caramel, storm clouds and champagne.”
“You’re admitting you have a scent?”
“I went to kill my ex alpha and their pheromones put me into a heat. I hadn’t had one since my bond was dissolved. I thought I was fucked.”
Presley stared at me for a long moment. Then she threw her head back and laughed, the same bright, filthy laugh I remembered from the caravan park when I'd told her I'd never been drunk and she'd produced a bottle of corner-shop vodka and announced she was fixing that immediately.
"Only you," she said. "Only you would run from one alpha and trip over three more."
"It's a gift."
"Is it real?"
The question landed harder than I expected. I looked down at my hands. They were steady. They'd been steady for weeks now, and I still wasn't used to it.
"I'm scared it is," I said.
"That's how you know."
"That makes no sense."
"It makes all the sense. If it wasn't real, you'd just be pissed off. You're scared because it matters." She leaned back. "Do they smell like you?"
"They do." Tears stung my eyes. “They really are mine.”
"Then be theirs. Stop being scared and really be theirs."
"I married one of them. I am theirs."
"I know you Maeve. I remember how scared you were. I bet you’re holding back. Tell them. They already know, probably. But they need to hear it from you."
“Okay.”
