I lied.
It was a mistake.
Now my mate hates me.
Can I blame him?
For readers:
*I will update as I please. Don't be rude about it. Thank you.
*I do my best to proofread before publishing, but some typos and errors will slip through. Feel free to poi...
All I feel is warmth—the kind of warmth that settles deep in your bones, and you know everything will work out okay in the end.
That's what I feel . . .
. . . Until I don't anymore.
I'm suddenly falling and land with a painful thump.
Ouch!
My eyes snap open. I'm staring at my bedroom ceiling with my back on the hard floor.
"What have you done?" a booming voice shouts from somewhere in my room, rattling me to my core. "What did you do?"
Footsteps stomp toward me, and I look, finding Rowan approaching me quickly. Fear builds in my chest, and I scramble into a seated position, spider-crawling backward until my back hits the dresser with a heavy thud.
Ouch again!
"R-Rowan, calm down," I insist. "I can explain."
"Explain what exactly? How you tricked me into coming here?"
Now wait a minute.
"I didn't do--"
But my words get stuck in my throat as my mate—my very intimidating and seething mate—crouches before me like an enraged lion ready to kill. A rage burns so brightly in his eyes that I know.
My eyes flick to his neck, where I find his veins, thick and pulsing. I swallow what feels like a lifetime's worth of saliva.
Oh, he's mad mad.
It would be sexy if I weren't the target of his hatred. A shiver runs down my spine. Part in fear of my impending death and part in exhilaration because the bond is excited at the closeness of its mate.
I need to think. I need to regain control. I need to do something . . .
. . . but nothing.
Nothing comes to this chaotic, worthless, anxious mind of mine.
When everything is normal and fine, my mind can't help but overthink every scenario in possible existence. My brain has this uncanny way of creating and recreating my death in every imaginable way possible. At this point, I've died in at least a hundred different ways in a hundred different places, yet I'm still here, alive and kicking.
But when I'm in the actual presence of death and need my brain to be present, to be focused, to be here, just like my Mama always said, it's . . .
. . . I have no idea. Floating in space, maybe?
What's the point of a brain that doesn't function when you need it to function?
Rowan's powerful arm reaches toward me. My breathing quickens as my body stiffens.
