Page 43 of Seduced By the Werewolves

That’s one word for it. It’s an unexpected avalanche of expectations. I haven’t had a real boyfriend in years, and now I have three—who apparently all think I’m their... mate.

“It is,” I agree. “And I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

Leon can’t hide how my words take him down a few notches.

“We’re happy to give you time,” he says slowly. “We don’t expect anything from you, and we’re all here for the long haul. Whatever space you need.”

Space. It’s probably a good idea. I don’t want to lead them on, when I don’t know at all what I want.

“That would be good, I think.” My voice comes out small.

“All right,” Leon says, rising to his feet. Clearly he doesn’t like it, but he’s not going to argue his case anymore.

I look down at my hands. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to think right now.” My chest is tight and my heart is racing as I try to process it all. “This is a lot for one day.”

“I understand, Tiff.” With a sad smile, Leon heads for the door. “Let me know when you’re ready. If you’re ever ready.”

The way he says it makes my throat close, but before I can answer, he shuts the front door behind him.

Chapter Sixteen

I spend all of Sunday at home, mostly moping. Why didn’t I see this coming? All the signs were there. If I’d been paying attention with my brain instead of my vagina, maybe I would have seen it.

The howling. The smelling. The secrets.

Maybe they think they want commitment, but that’s just their hormones talking, whatever hormones werewolves have.

After obsessively cleaning my apartment all day, then ordering Chinese takeout, I stumble into bed thinking about Leon’s downtrodden face as he left my apartment. He might believe that I’m his “mate,” whatever that means, but I have no such certainty.

I don’t know if I can give him what he wants.

Going into work on Monday feels like walking to the gallows. The moment I sit down at my desk, I start obsessing over the numbers I had fudged so Mr. Bosley would get off my back. I bite my nails all day, thinking that surely someone from accounting is going to give me an earful, but it doesn’t happen. Clients and partners come and go, keeping both me and Mr. Bosley busy, and for once, I’m grateful for the distraction.

Around two in the afternoon, a familiar woman walks in the door. She’s dressed to kill, and honestly, her eyes could probably murder someone, too. But she stops when she sees me and the side of her mouth twitches in a smile.

“How’s it going with the two boyfriends?” she asks, pausing at my desk.

“Um…” I flounder for an answer. I’m not sure anymore after yesterday. “It’s not, I guess.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Already?” With a shrug she adds, “Too bad.” Then she strides into Mr. Bosley’s office and closes the door.

Briefly I wonder if they’re having an affair. Mr. Bosley’s married to an uptight woman who drives a Range Rover, and they don’t seem to like each other much. But I have a hard time believing Mrs. Smith would stoop that low.

Soon I can hear Mr. Bosley’s raised voice behind the door. Whatever she has to say, it upsets him. Just great. He’ll probably take it out on me later. But after Mrs. Smith leaves, he doesn’t emerge for the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, I have dinner with my mom scheduled for tonight. I definitely can’t tell her about Leon, Jace and Quinn. Not that it will matter, or last long enough to be necessary.

Something about that thought makes my heart sink. While it’s difficult to imagine a future where I share my life with not one, not two, but three people, I also don’t want to imagine one without them. I want to get to know them better, understand them better, maybe see if I can feel that deep connection they clearly feel with me.

At the end of the day, I find the black SUV in the parking lot again. I watch it carefully as I pull out onto the street, but this time, it remains where it is.

Nobody’s following me. It’s just my anxiety acting up, like always.

Back at my apartment, I pick out one of my “mom-appropriate” outfits: a flowy top that hides my belly and a pair of tummy-control slacks. I hate how I look in it, but it will give Mom fewer things to gripe about.

Dinner starts with the usual interrogation. Usually her niggling comments wash over me like water because I’ve grown so used to them. Tonight, though, it’s tugging at a deeper part of me. I remember Leon’s question: Have you ever told her how you feel?

The idea of actually letting my mother know how her words hurt me has always been far, far out of the question. All it would do is set her even more staunchly in her ways. My mom has always believed she’s without flaw, and pointing one out wouldn’t go well, I’m sure of it. She’s obsessed with how she appears to others, and suggesting that maybe she isn’t as good of a mother as she thinks she is would challenge everything she believes about herself.

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