Page 16

She was stunning. She possessed the kind of beauty that made you feel like you had something stuck in your teeth: long, champagne-blonde hair that moved as if it had its own wind system, full lips glossed within an inch of their lives, an outfit that was somewhere between elegant brunch and mildly threatening boardroom energy. Her perfume hit me like a spell. Moonstone oil and vanilla. Expensive.

She paused in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips, and scanned the space with clinical precision.

“These weren’t here before,” she said, gesturing toward my stacks of books on the windowsill. “And that?” Her manicured finger jabbed toward my abstract painting above the couch. “That’s new.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s mine. I live here.”

Seraphina turned on me like I’d insulted her lineage. “How dare Roman move another woman into this apartment when he still loves me?”

I blinked.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you won’t be here long. Mark my words.”

I stared at her. I had literally no thoughts. Blank screen. Just the sound of my internal modem rebooting. Real people actually behaved this way?

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked.

Before she could launch into another monologue, Roman walked into the living room, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. Upon seeing her, he stopped in his tracks, his eyes going comically wide.

“Seraphina?” His voice cracked.

She lit up like a chandelier and sauntered over to him, placing one perfectly manicured hand on his chest. “I came to check on you,” she said sweetly, eyelashes batting like they had a quota to meet. “After that intense meeting yesterday, I figured you might need some comfort.”

Roman’s face went pale. Like, hospital-sheet pale. He shot a panicked glance at me, then quickly looked back at her. His mouth opened and closed twice before he settled on, “The… Uhm. Yeah. The weather’s been weird, huh?”

My eyebrows shot halfway up my forehead. Roman never stammered. He was usually controlled, calm, and sarcastic. Watching him scramble was like watching a cat trying to swim.

Seraphina’s eyes narrowed slightly. She took a slow step back, still watching him. “What does Maggie think about all of this?”

“All of what?” I asked. Apparently, I was the only one who had no clue what the hell was going on. Roman looked like he wanted to crawl into the couch cushions and die. Part of me wanted to grab popcorn. The other part felt weirdly protective.

Roman finally exhaled and crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “Seraphina, this isn’t your business. We’re not together. You don’t get to show up unannounced and interrogate me.”

She laughed—laughed—like she thought his boundaries were quaint. “I’m just saying, it’s cute that you think this is over. You’ll come crawling back to me as soon as you realize it will never work out with a human.”

She turned toward the door with a flounce that was probably choreographed. But before she walked out, she glanced at me over her shoulder, a wicked grin on her face as she looked me up and down.

“Oh, and I guess I’ll get to know you better at the next pack meeting, Maggie. Seeing as how you and Roman are betrothed.”

She was gone before I could process what she’d said. I stood in the middle of the room, mouth hanging open, as the door slammed behind her. Roman hadn’t moved. His hands were now covering his mouth, and his eyes were wide with horror.

“Roman?” I said slowly, because I had a million questions and also exactly one that mattered most. “Who the hell was that woman, and what the actual fuck was she talking about?”

I needed to sit.

I didn’t sit.

Roman’s jaw was locked, fists clenching and unclenching like he was trying to keep his skin on. The energy radiating off him was straight-up nuclear. He looked seconds away from bolting, and that made me feel seconds away from vomiting.

“Sit,” he finally said.

It wasn’t a command, but it landed like one. My knees bent before I could argue, and I dropped onto the couch.

Roman started pacing. He didn’t look at me, just stared down at the floor like he was hoping it would swallow him whole. The silence stretched. My brain spun every worst-case scenario it could conjure: secret wedding, magical debt, surprise murder charge. Maybe he was dying. Maybe I was dying.

Maybe I’d had a psychotic break. Maybe I was actually still asleep in Eric’s bed, drooling on his pillow and dreaming about wolf shifters and emotional support cuddles.

“I assume you have something to say?” I snapped, unable to take the tension another second.