Page 28 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

The way he said it made it sound like she and the others Lizette had Turned enjoyed some kind of special status. Ha. More like “outsider” status. Or maybe “loser” status.

“Still,” he murmured, “that’s a long journey to commit yourself to a stranger.”

“I’m not committing myself to anyone. It’s not like I’m a mail order bride.”

“You’ve never even seen Benjamin Rupert.”

She lifted her chin. “That doesn’t matter.”

“No?” The skepticism in his voice thickened. “You don’t care what your future mate looks like?”

“I care about his personality. Whether he’s funny and kind.” Her voice was rising, but she didn’t care. He looked so smug and judgmental, like she was some kind of harlot willing to throw herself at any male with a pulse. “You know, positive character traits. Those aren’t things I can tell from a picture. Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’?”

As soon as she said it, she wanted to snatch the words from the air.

But it was too late, of course. The best she could do was sit in mortified silence.

One side of his mouth pulled upward—the closest he’d come to a smile since they met.

Only it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m familiar with the expression, yes.”

She squeezed her good hand over her injured one. Her bruised knuckles ached, but she ignored the discomfort. All that mattered was steering the conversation to safer waters. “Well, if you haven’t noticed, our species has a population problem. It’s not like I have a lot of options.”

The black eyebrow over his good eye went up. “The New York Territory accepts more trainee Hunters than any other territory in the country. There aren’t any eligible bachelors there?”

Heat entered her cheeks. “None that would give me a chance.”

“Why not?”

Her cheeks got hotter. She dropped her gaze to her lap.

He stayed quiet, but there was expectation in his silence.

Oh, what the hell. Her “secret” wasn’t really a secret. She forced her chin up. Forced herself to hold his stare. “I don’t have a Gift.”

He seemed to take a second to absorb her confession. Then he shifted in his chair. “It could come with time.”

“I don’t think so. Not for me.” She lifted a shoulder. “I’m twenty-one and I still don’t have one.”

A choking sound erupted from his throat, and he sat forward.

Alarm skittered down her spine. She half rose from her chair. “Are you okay?”

He waved her back, then coughed into his fist. “Fine. I’m fine.” He gave another deep cough. The ruddy mark over his cheek had gone pale.

“You sure you’re—”

“Fine.” He recovered, then fixed her with a stare. “You’re twenty-one years old?”

“Well, technically I’m twenty. My birthday is in two days. Are you positive you’re okay?”

“Just tired,” he said quickly. He pulled the laptop closer and tapped the keyboard a few times, the glow from the screen harsh against his scars. Almost under his breath, he said, “If we’re lucky, we can get you home in time for your birthday.”

“What? Why?”

He met her eyes over the screen. “I’m sending you home, Miss Michaels. As soon as possible. In the morning if I can manage it.”

“But . . . how will I meet the Ruperts?”

---