Betrayed Forced Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #4)

“Any names picked out?”

“Well,” she says, eyes lighting up as she sets her martini glass filled with water on the bar. “Percy and I were thinking of naming her Zelie. After his grandmother.”

“That’s beautiful,” I murmur, my stomach twisting.

Without meaning to, I think of Byron. My brain instantly conjures images of his sharp jaw, the way he smiles when he turns back from his computer, how he had, briefly, mentioned the idea of me putting a computer in that room, too.

I’d wanted it so bad. Matching set-ups, mine pink and his blue, the ability to play games together or work on projects while close enough to touch.

But Byron changed his mind about me. Or maybe he’d never even wanted me to begin with. Maybe I was nothing more than a distraction for him.

Veronica may be scared about her pregnancy, and I am, too. I want nothing more than for her to be safe and healthy after her baby comes into this world.

But I also can’t deny that I’m so, so jealous of her.

As much fun as being out on these missions is, that feeling is dampened every time I see Percy and Veronica share a look, slide their hands together, or giggle when going into their room.

My body aches for my mate, aches for Byron, wants him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

But he doesn’t want me. He made that perfectly clear.

Beautiful ladies at the bar, a voice projects into our heads, and Veronica and I glance subtly over to where Percy is standing at the edge of the lobby with a large group of servers. Put on your game faces—the ball is about to start.

***

I’ve been in many beautiful places, but I did not expect to be blown away by a ballroom in Union Station. Growing up in California, I didn’t know much about the Midwest. I knew about New York, of course, and about places like Texas—Dallas and Houston—and famous cities like New Orleans, but the Midwest was always a sort of shapeless lump to me.

I imagined the entire region was just full of cornfields. Maybe horses and tractors. But now that I’ve lived in Minnesota for the past few years, and in Rosecreek specifically, I’ve realized that there’s a lot of beauty here.

When Bigby first showed up at our house in California, demanding that Rosa and Kaila go with him, I’d known it was the right choice for our safety. But it was still disheartening to leave behind the ocean and drive for hours to a town in the middle of nowhere.

That is until we settled in Rosecreek, and I fell in love with the lake and, the people and the natural beauty.

Now, I hold my champagne flute and gaze up at the vaulted ceiling, which is gorgeous shades of emerald and gold. Someone to my left whispers about the wedding that was held here just the day before, and I can see it—how elegant and grand it would be to have your wedding in a place like this.

I bite my lip, once again pushing away thoughts of Byron.

Soon after Rosa, Kaila, and I arrived in Rosecreek, there was a point that I thought Byron and I might get married. I’d pictured the whole thing—our colors, flowers, and how I’d have Kaila be the flower girl.

And now, I’m out here doing missions partly because I can’t stand coming home to an empty apartment every night.

Veronica floats past me on the other side of the room, working her magic, and I try to muster up the same courage. Having traveled all over, she has a certain handle on meeting new people and striking up conversations.

Rosa, Kaila, and I spent many, many years living in our little house, just the three of us. Rosa and I had always worried about how that would affect Kaila’s social abilities, but I never thought about how it affected me.

During those years, I learned how to be self-sufficient. How to comfort myself, be independent, not long for companionship. Of course, Rosa and I had each other, but there’s a distinct difference between the comfort of a friend and that of a partner.

“Good evening, miss,” an older man says, and I jump, putting my hand to my heart and turning to him. “Sorry,” he says, his face wrinkling as he gives me a soft grin. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, laughing, my eyes darting to Percy for just a moment.

Alexander Juarez, he sends. Investor and political advocate. One of our suspects.

“Beautiful ball,” he says, “miss…?”

“Oh,” I laugh, “Opal Ortega.”

“What a beautiful name,” he says, taking my hand and planting a kiss on it like we’re in the 1800s. “Opal, I’m Alexander Juarez, but you can call me Alex.”