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“Yes, he needs another croissant for that,” Mrs. A says indulgently.
I take her words as permission to pilfer another one. She pours me a giant glass of milk to wash it down.
“What you really need is more protein. Is this all you’ve eaten today?” Mrs. A asks.
“I’m okay,” I mutter, downing the glass of milk. “Not hungry today.”
“You couldn’t sleep, and you’re not hungry.” My mom stops what she’s doing and puts her hands on her hips. “What do I need to know about this fight last week?”
“Nothing.” Fuck. I grab another croissant and stuff it in my mouth to avoid further discussion. I’m saved by the sound of a delivery truck pulling up in the back alley.
“There’s your Monday delivery.” I push open the back door and walk out to help.
It’s not like my mom and Mrs. A are wimps. They’re shifters, so they’re a lot stronger than human females their respective ages, but helping with heavy things is the chivalrous thing to do for the she-wolves in your life.
And these two she-wolves are the only people I’ve ever had in my corner.
Lotta
I splash cold water on my face before my last class. I’m barely functional today. I didn’t sleep last night. I’m starvingbut couldn’t eat breakfast or lunch because I’m nauseous as hell.
My fingers are trembly. I’m feverish.
I have that itchy feeling like I’m going to spontaneously shift again like I did the night of the full moon.
And now I’m terrified that the scent or sight of Asher in the next class will bring on something even worse. Some kind of shameful public spectacle that will lose me this job and forever shame me and my family.
I pick at the fabric of my T shirt at my sternum, pulling it out and in to fan myself and cool the sweat between my breasts.
The deep breath I draw to clear my head only makes me dizzy. And the worst part of all is the frantic thrum between my legs. The wetness there as I review over and over how it felt to be taken by the man who is my mate. The man who is barely a man.
The one who left me needy and wound up last night. And that neediness has now festered into a full fledged sickness.
I grab a paper towel and pat my face, staring at my bright eyes and flushed cheeks in the mirror.
That queasiness in the pit of my stomach churns as I think about seeing Asher. He did this on purpose. I thought it was a torture to male wolves to meet a mate and not claim her, but somehow, he’s turned the tables on me.
He’s gloating right now over what he did last night. Nipping and sucking up my inner thigh, putting his hot mouth directly over my core.
I clutch the sink as an orgasm runs through me. It’s completely unsatisfying though. The kind that only builds my need and heat.
Just get through sixth period. Then you can shift and run.
I push off from the sink and walk on shaky legs to the door. My spine stiffens as I march out of the faculty bathroom and into my classroom.
The bell rings, but Asher and his entourage don’t stop their goofing around in the back of my classroom.
“In your seats,”I snarl with more force than the situation calls for. The class goes silent, everyone staring at me curiously as those who hadn’t sat down now slide into their seats.
“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Asher mutters to his friends. They snicker in reply.
I bite my cheek so hard it bleeds. I make them all suffer in dead silence as I take attendance. Even after I’m done, I fix them with a stony stare for several long moments before I clip, “Work on your self-portraits.”
I disappear to the corner of the studio where I’ve set up two giant canvases as a partition for my privacy when I paint. I don’t usually go here during class—it’s unprofessional to leave the class unsupervised, but I need a moment. I kick off my heeled sandals. I’m too wobbly to navigate walking with them.
Get it together, Lotta. Don’t show weakness. Don’t let Asher think he’s won.
After drawing several deep breaths, I grab the mason jar, muddy with yesterday’s paint and brushes, and carry it back out in the classroom to the sink.
