The actress—Christine Evansworth, I remember her name, at least—laughs, electric blue eyes twinkling. “Oh, you are down bad, Mor.” Then she looks to me. “Good job.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” asks Avery Quinn, the lawyer. Her auburn wolf cut frames her raised brow and sharp green eyes, and she wears another loose, effortless suit—it seems to be her signature look.
“Pretty sure,” I offer with a wry smile.
“You know why people call her ‘the Bulldog,’ right?”
I glance up at Morgan, remembering that Tobias called her that.
“The legacies at MIT liked to remind me that my father was a Yalie,” Morgan explains. The Yale mascot is a bulldog—I remember from my Wikipedia spree.
“That’s where it came from,” Gia says. “But that’s not why it stuck. See, when Mor sinks her teeth into something… sheneverlets go.”
A shiver rolls down my spine. The fantasy flashes to mind, of Morgan’s teeth sinking into my neck, of that claimingbite that’s mere hours away, the one I’ve been trying not to think about because every time I do my heat flares, and the last thing I need isMomscenting my arousal.
“Gia,” Morgan says, tone laced with warning.
Which is not helping the problem of my arousal one bit.
Gia laughs. “What? I just want him to beprepared. And if he smells so good when he’s hot and bothered…” She gives a light shrug. “Just a bonus.”
Morgan casts a glare across her friends, though there’s a hint of humor as she growls, “Keep your fucking hands to yourselves.” She loops a possessive arm around my shoulder and pulls me towards the bar.
The whole group fits around the same dining table—albeit a massive one. The chandelier is a long oval overflowing with live flowering vines.
And I try to keep focusing on that, taking in all the little details, because the longer I spend next to Morgan, the hotter my blood runs. Based on Gia’s calculations, I took my last dose of suppressants yesterday morning. That dose might have been the last I ever take. The thought gives me a little thrill, but Mom and Vance are here, and Mom’s sense of smell is just as sharp as mine, and I donotwant to think about her noticing…
So we toast and drink champagne. I take off my veil and we go dance to the live band.
Finally, as the sun dips low, Morgan sweeps me off my feet and clears her throat. The whole room looks towards us on instinct—whether alpha, beta, or omega, none can resist her air of command.
“Thank you for joining us this evening,” she says. “We’re leaving now. The band’ll stay and the bar is open as long as you want.”
One of the other female alphas whistles.
“Ask Eileen if you can’t find your room.”
And with that, she turns and carries me towards the front door.
“Where are we going?” I kind of assumed we’d also stay in the mansion. It’s big enough for every guest to have a room and for us to still have a wing to ourselves.
“You’ll see.”
We step out front, and I almost choke. “Holyshit, Mor.”
There’s a literal white horse-drawn carriage waiting for us.
“Since you were so impressed by the pony,” she murmurs in my ear.
Morgan carries me inside, and we ride further up the property. As we take a corner around a copse of trees, I see a gorgeous, normal-sized house. It’s Tudor style, with fresh white stucco and dark wooden beams that give a cozy, cottagey feel.
“We’re visiting your neighbor?”
“Jamie. Please. This is the guest house.”
“Oh. Whatdon’tyou own around here?”
