Page 32

“We are so fucking screwed.”

The sun was doing that unfair thing where it made everything look like a dream and turned trees into silhouettes and gravel into gold. Even the alpha’s estate, ornate and intimidating and way too much, almost looked soft. Beyond the estate, the pack lands stretched on, their borders running right up against the edge of Muir Woods. I could see the towering redwoods in the distance, ancient and still, their tops catching the last of the light. The air even smelled different out here—cleaner, sharper, like moss and earth and history.

Roman led the way down a winding path behind the mansion, his hands shoved into his pockets like we weren’t in the middle of a lie big enough to bury us both. As if this was just a lazy stroll through the gardens with his girlfriend. His mate. I mean, what would the alpha of a very large, very prominent and prestigious wolf pack do to a human girl with hermit tendencies who was lying right to his face? I didn’t want to think about it.

I trailed half a step behind, arms crossed tight against my chest, every nerve still lit from the aftermath of our award-losing performance with Lucien. Roman had stiffened every time I so much as brushed his arm. His shoulders had gone tense with every side hug. The man looked like he’d rather be interrogated by feral cats than endure ten seconds of physical affection.

There was no way Lucien had bought it. Not with my robotic Barbie smile and Roman acting like touch was a weapon.

I kicked a loose stone on the path, watching it skitter into a bed of manicured lavender. “That was… awful.”

Roman slowed but didn’t stop. “You mean our Oscar-worthy romantic debut?”

I snorted. “I’ve seen high school productions with more sexual tension.”

He glanced back, one brow raised. His mouth twitched like he might smile, but he didn’t.

“We need practice.”

That got him to stop. He turned to face me, crossing his arms in a perfect imitation of mine. “Practice?”

“Yes.” I held his gaze. “If we’re going to convince your pack that I’m your doting, can’t-keep-my-hands-off-you mate, we need to actually get comfortable touching each other. Because right now, every time I graze your hand, you flinch like I’m giving you a prostate exam.”

Roman blinked. “Wow.”

“Too graphic?”

“Unexpectedly vivid.”

“Look,” I continued, trying to keep my voice steady, “if I’m going to pull this off, I need to stop feeling like I’m going to get electrocuted every time I touch you. And you need to stop acting like affection gives you hives when I initiate it.”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do.”

He sighed. “Fine.” He nodded toward a wrought-iron bench tucked between two rose bushes that smelled way too romantic for the context. “Let’s practice.”

Wait. What?

I hadn’t expected him to actually agree. Not without at least three sarcastic remarks and a short monologue about boundaries. But he walked to the bench and sat down like this was a perfectly normal way to spend the afternoon.

My heart stumbled.

Still, I followed. Because I wasn’t about to back down after pushing the issue. I forced my legs to move, tried to channel the confident woman I’d pretended to be earlier. I sat next to him, close but not touching, then let out a slow, shaky exhale.

Roman’s knee bounced. He didn’t look at me. Then, deliberately, he placed his hand on my thigh. It wasn’t suggestive, but it was there. Solid. Warm. Unapologetic.

I mirrored the gesture. I felt the muscle jump beneath my fingers. He still didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead like the trees were about to deliver life-altering advice.

“See?” I said, too softly. “This isn’t so bad.”

His gaze cut to mine. Sharp. Intense. “I’m not flinching now.”

“No,” I whispered. “You’re not.”

Suddenly, the air between us pulsed. His fingers shifted slightly, curling tighter. My hand did the same. The space between our bodies shrank by inches. Knees bumped, then stayed.

I looked up at him, and we locked eyes.