Chapter 15
Fifteen
DARIA
I’m a nervous wreck by the time I get off work and head home, so much so that not even the angry grumbling of my stomach bothers me. I didn’t have any money to get lunch and nothing for a packed lunch, so I didn’t eat. But even if I had food, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to eat it without feeling sick with nerves.
As I push through the lobby door, the scene in the conference room plays over and over in my head. The way Malakai—Kai—had stumbled over his words. The look he and Lincoln shared when they realized what they were scenting.
I walk right past my landlord and don’t hear a thing he shouts in my direction. After all this time, how is it possible? I mean, I understand how, but at work? With them? Don’t get me wrong—they’re hot as hell for older men, but I always pictured myself with a pack my age.
And look at how well that’s worked out for you.
Maybe the age difference will be a good thing. And, regardless of that, we’re fated mates. Scent matches.
They invited me to dinner with their pack.
Bergamot and cinnamon.
They still cling to my skin. I can practically taste those scents on my tongue.
Sighing, I push through my apartment door, close it, and toss my keys onto the counter, pausing when I see something I didn’t leave there.
A collar.
No, not just any collar. The collar.
The one Vic took off me at After Dark. The one I’ve been thinking about, nonstop. I suck in a sharp breath, my pulse fluttering. How did it get here? That’s a dumb question, isn’t it? What did he say the other night?
I’ll find you soon, little doe.
Silly me for thinking he didn’t mean it. My heart beats against my rib cage as I take my first step toward it. He broke into my apartment. Heat swoops through me. He invaded my privacy. I stop in front of the counter, eyeing the pretty metal heart, a smile tugging at my lips. He stalked me.
He’s so sweet.
Wait. What? What the fuck is wrong with me? I should be freaking out.
I grab the collar, the leather soft in my hands, and a pleased giggle tumbles past my lips.
The reasonable voice inside my head roars to life.
Daria. This is wrong. The man literally broke into your apartment. What if he’s still here? Where is your sense of self-preservation? What if he’s really a murderer?
I mean...he murdered something the other night. My pussy. I’m talking about my pussy.
“Are you here?” I ask loudly, waiting for an answer, but I get none.
No. Of course Vic wouldn’t stay. This is a request—maybe a demand—to wear his collar. Put it on, and I’m his. Leave it off, the game is over.
Laughing again, giddy at the request, I clutch the collar to my chest and bite my lip. There are so many things wrong with this situation. Vic is my stepmom’s brother. He’s older than me. My scent matches invited me to dinner.
But even as I shower and get ready, my attention keeps straying to the collar and the beta who left it for me. My heart flutters every time I think about what he must have done to get in here. Vic, Kai , and Lincoln. Their faces go round and round in my mind.
Kai and Lincoln are introducing me to the rest of their pack. I was so shocked, I didn’t even ask how many more of them there were.
Except . . . what if I want to keep Vic?
Whatever is going on between us, I’m having too much fun to give it up. Vic commands too much of my attention for me to simply let him go. Going to dinner with my fated mates doesn’t mean I have to. If I agree to officially be courted, then I’ll make it clear I have someone I’d like to be included in the process.
And if those alphas don’t like it?
I can’t think about that right now .
Shaking my head, I pull on a sleeveless crimson dress that hugs my curves and hits mid-thigh. I dig out a pair of black strappy heels that have seen better days and slip them on. I use concealer to cover the hickeys Vic left on my throat before securing the collar and grinning at myself in the mirror.
The material of the dress ripples all along the front, an intentional scrunching of material that makes my curves appear more voluptuous. My curls are still in great shape, and the pale pink lip gloss glistens on my full lips. Though my winged eyeliner isn’t overdone, it adds just enough drama to send a surge of confidence through my system.
I look good.
Maybe they’ll like me for who I am. Maybe they won’t tell me to be quiet when I’m excited. Maybe they won’t cheat. Maybe they won’t criticize my clothes or body. Maybe.
Maybe.
That’s what I tell my quivering heart as I head out to the restaurant.
Maybe, this time, it’ll be good.