Betrayed Forced Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #4)

“I just have an update for Aris,” I snap, then take a shaky breath. I can’t let him see how unsettled he makes me. “If he’s not in, then I’ll just—”

“I can take a message for him,” Byron says, smugly. I make a face at myself in the mirror, hating that he always has to make everything a game, a competition. Like I’m not struggling enough as it is, without also having him as my adversary.

“No, that’s okay—”

“If it’s important, he should know as soon as possible.”

“It’s for Aris’s ears only,” I say, thinking that sounds like a good enough reason not to tell Byron, until he coughs out a laugh.

“What, you don’t trust me with important information?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap again, moving to run a hand through my hair until I remember it’s a wig, and if I do that, I could pull it off.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he says, coolly, “except that, of the two of us, I’m a long-term member of the team who literally has access to all of the information in every database, all the cameras, every mic we’ve ever used. And you’re the newbie in the field on less than a month of training.”

“If you have a problem with your Alpha’s—”

“It’s no problem with Aris; I’m sure you did a great job of convincing him you’re ready.”

“Are you implying I lied to him?”

“You said it, not me,” he says, and I can hear that he’s breathing a little heavy, and I hate what that does to my stupid heart. I want to crawl through the phone, get my hands around his neck, throttle him until he stops being like this.

I want him to go back to the Byron who laughed and tussled with me in bed. Who took me out in the middle of the night, shifted with me, and showed me how to catch fish in the river. Who woke me up in the morning with pancakes. Who excitedly sat me down at his computer, placing his headset on my ears, insisting I had to try this “new, sick game,” then being endlessly impressed when I instantly climbed the leader boards.

“Fuck yeah!” I remember him saying, pumping the air behind me, and when I had turned toward him, watching him celebrating my wins, I realized I was in love with him.

It was much later that I realized he was mate, and shortly after, it all fell apart.

“You know what, Byron?”

“What?”

“Fuck you.”

I hang up on him, feeling a thrum of power and adrenaline course through my body. I am so done taking shit from him, dealing with his emotions because he doesn’t know what to do with them. Moving to stand in front of the mirror again, I admire how good I look in my dress, turning side to side, smiling, practicing my facial expressions.

So what if I have a bad feeling about tonight? I’m a professional. I’m a badass woman. I was able to keep Kaila alive for years, and then, when Bigby came, I was part of the reason Rosa and Kaila got out alive. I kept Rosa sane. I cracked case after case for the team before I was even a part of it.

I’m a whiz in front of the computer and a fucking weapon in the field.

After my little pep talk, I spritz on a little more perfume—a luxury brand I borrowed from Veronica—then turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

***

The event in Minneapolis is held in the Metropolitan Ball Room, and it’s just as stunning as the one in St. Louis. I note that, once again, the organizers have spared no expense in putting this together. It’s an open bar and high-end food stacked on each table, like lobster tail and gold-flaked desserts.

“Champagne, miss?”

I turn to see a pretty young woman in a server’s uniform holding out a tray of drinks to me, but my movement is so fast that I nearly knock them over.

“No, thank you,” I say, putting my hands out as she re-balances the drinks. “Seems I’ve had enough.”

“If you say so,” she smiles, and turns to go, but a short, older man to my left waves her down, taking a drink from the tray. I’m readying myself to move to the other side of the room when a microphone comes to life on the other side of the room, rousing everyone from their preoccupations.

“Good evening, everyone!” someone says, and I turn toward the front of the room to see a tall white man standing in the center of the stage, a glass raised. I wish Percy and Veronica were here—it’s lonely to be the only one taking part in the mission, and makes me feel like nobody is looking out for me.

I identify him as the mayor of Minneapolis, and he’s grinning ear-to-ear, dressed in an immaculate suit, his brown hair gelled to his head. He would be handsome, if there wasn’t something so artificially off-putting about him.