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“Aspirations?” she echoed. “What, like affording rent and adopting a golden retriever?”

“More like whether you’re thinking long-term. About being with a shifter.”

She glanced at me, brows drawn. “Is that... weird? For a human and a shifter to be together?”

“Not unheard of,” I said. “But I’m not just any shifter. I’m Lucien’s cousin. I sit on the council. Being my mate comes with visibility and responsibility. He’ll want to make sure you’re not going to crumble under that.”

She twisted her hands together, fingers tightening around themselves. I reached over and rested mine on top of hers.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” I said quietly. “Just be yourself. Lucien will like you.”

Doubt flashed in her eyes. “From the sound of it, I can’t just be myself. I have to be... polished.”

I didn’t like the way she said that. Like being herself wasn’t enough.

“Hey,” I said. “You won’t have to pretend. And if you say anything that feels off to him, I’ll turn it into a joke. I’m good at redirecting. Lucien and I are close. If I tell him you’re the one I want to mate with, he won’t push unless there’s something blatant.”

Maggie huffed softly, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I’ll try not to be blatant.”

We pulled into the parking lot and made our way up to the apartment. I tossed the keys on the counter and flopped onto the couch dramatically, exhaling like I’d just finished running from the law.

She sat on the arm of the couch beside me. I looked down. Then froze.

Her shoes.

My eyes narrowed. “Mags,” I said slowly, “have you been wearing those the whole time we’ve been home?”

She blinked innocently. “What, these? Yeah.”

I placed a hand over my heart. “That’s a flagrant violation of Article Seven, and I’m too emotionally raw to forgive you.”

Then I executed the most dramatic couch flop in recent history, groaning into the cushion like I’d been mortally wounded. She laughed.

That sound made everything—tomorrow, Lucien, the whole act—worth it.

8

MAGGIE

I stared at my reflection and tried not to overthink it. Which, of course, meant I was absolutely overthinking it.

The new outfit—a fitted skirt in deep plum and a soft, eggshell-cream blouse—actually looked good. Like, good good. Polished but still me. My legs looked longer. My waist existed. Best of all, I didn’t feel like an imposter in someone else’s skin.

I’d pulled my hair into a top knot, because nothing screamed “semi-professional and slightly terrified” like a bun I tried way too hard to make look effortless. I’d kept the makeup light—just enough blush to look alive, a coat of mascara to make me look awake, and a sheer pink gloss that I told myself came across as approachable and emotionally stable but in reality was the only one I could find in my bag.

I stared at the mirror for another beat, resisting the urge to change everything. Then I turned off the light and stepped out into the living room.

Roman was standing near the window, checking something on his phone. He was wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeved button-up shirt that fit really well. The sleeves hugged his arms, and the top button was left undone, revealing just a hint of collarbone that my brain decided to notice without my consent.

He looked up and smiled. It wasn’t the usual smug smirk or mischievous glint. This smile was warm, steady, and a little too sincere.

“Shall we?” he asked.

My feet didn’t move at first. My brain glitched for a full two seconds. Why did he have to look like that? He wasn’t just pulling-it-together handsome. He was steal-your-breath, meet-my-parents, ruin-your-life handsome.

I somehow managed to nod, grab my bag, and follow him out.

We drove in comfortable silence, but occasionally, tension flared between us. I tried to focus on the scenery instead of the way Roman’s forearm brushed against the steering wheel or how the car smelled like cedar and his cologne.