Page 9

"Then I will buy you something that means more."

Oh, this man has lost his entire mind.

"No. My fingers twist back and forth against my skirt. "I can't go."

He looks at his brothers, and the two of them start toward the door while he walks toward me. All three are hulking masses, dwarfing me, their shadows blocking the sunlight from the windows.

"Enough, Omega."

I take another step back. His voice—all alpha—does something to me that no other alpha ever has. My heart is galloping. My skin is on fire. Suddenly I'm so hot.

"Don't call me that."

His gaze sharpens. "You are an omega."

"I'm also a doctor, and I have a name."

"I know your name, Cienna." The way he says it sets the butterflies off again. He rolls the syllables through that thick Russian accent as if he's tasting them, and my cougar practically presses her nose against my ribs, begging for a closer sniff.

Traitor.

"Then use it," I tell him, although the words don't come out nearly as firmly as I'd intended.

His nostrils flare. His gaze moves over my face, then drops briefly to my throat before returning to my eyes.

"Enough," he says again, his voice dropping lower. My fingers stop pulling at my skirt and dig into my thighs. "We leave in an hour. No more arguing. You come now."

"I most certainly do not—"

And then he stoops—just low enough to catch me under the curve of my ass—and hauls me up over his shoulder.

My hands grip the bottom of his jacket. My mouth flies open. I'm so close to him I can breathe in his scent. Not cologne or soap, but his essence. His hand settles over my butt, holding me still—and I damn near sizzle on his shoulder.

My heat.

No. No, no, no. That is not possible.

I'm twenty-five years old. I know my body. I know my cycles, my hormones, the physiological changes that usher in my heat. And absolutely nothing about my morning suggested I'd be going into heat today. My reaction to his scent, to him, sweeps over me instantly. It's a chemical combustion I can't explain or deny.

But I'm not the only one. He stops walking. His fingers flex against my thigh, and his body stiffens. Then he whips his head and presses his face into my crotch.

My slick floods my panties, and I yelp at the sudden deluge.

Then he proves I haven't hit the most humiliating moment of my life yet, because he inhales. Deeply. Probably taking in the polyester cotton blend of my skirt.

Kill me now.

I'm going to die in my own office, draped over a Russian stranger's shoulder, with my assistant sitting ten feet away and my engagement ring still on my finger. They'll have to invent a new cause of death for the certificate. Acute embarrassment complicated by catastrophic hormonal failure.

His growl vibrates my thigh, quaking the core between them, as every nerve in my body answers.

"Mine."

"Alpha," I answer, standing straight up by bracing my hands on his shoulder.

Not Mr. Brusilov. Not, put me down, you giant lunatic. Just alpha.

Our eyes lock when he turns his head toward me. If anyone else is in the room, I swear I don't know it. If there is anything else in the room, I don't know that either.