Page 32 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

“Come here.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Because your energy is all over the place. You’re nervous. Come. Here.” He adds a touch of Alpha command to the last part, tilting his head to look at me over his reading glasses. Not quite a bark, but there’s enough resonance to straighten my spine. I feel it through the pack bond, and before I fully process what’s happening, I’m halfway across the cabin.

He swivels in his chair, still focused on the papers, and pats his leg. He wants me to sit on his lap? Well, this is new.Never let it be said that I turned down a lap.

I sit.

On Tomas’ lap.

His arm wraps around me like a seatbelt, and I lean into his touch. A purr rumbles in my chest despite my half-hearted attempts to suppress it. Is this sexual? It doesn’t feelnotsexual, but it also feels… calming. Grounding. Something I didn’t realize I was desperately needing.

“I can hear you overthinking. Relax.” His voice is low, almost a murmur, but it carries. I feel it resonate. My body responds almost involuntarily, the tension in my shoulders easing as I sink into his hold.

Ben wanders into the cabin, Mishka trailing sleepily behind him. Mijo is rubbing his eyes, looking every bit like a kid who stayed up past bedtime. Ben sees us and stops short. His head tilts to the side in a very canine way, his curiosity practically tangible. Then he shrugs and starts rummaging through a cabinet by the large center table.

Mijo, to his credit, has no reaction at all to me perched on our Alpha’s lap. He’s much too busy prying a window shade up and gazing out at the dark water below, a look of true disappointment etched across his face.

“Do you want to sit with Ben?” Tomas’ voice rolls over me, soft and close to my ear. My body reacts instantly, a flutter low in my stomach that I can’t quite deny is edging into the sexual ballpark.

He must feel it—or, knowing him, smell it—because his chest vibrates in silent laughter behind me. He leans in even closer, his breath warm against my neck. “Tell me what you want, X,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement. The tingling memory of his bite flares to life, and I realize with absolute certainty that he’s teasing me, and, that I’m getting hard.

“Nope.Nope. Not doing that,” I mutter, hopping up as if his lap had suddenly caught fire. “Uh, thank you.”

I toss him a half-hearted salute, desperate to cover up the flush creeping up my neck, and make a beeline for the other side of the cabin.

Sunday strolls in and stops short. Her eyes sweep the cabin, taking in the scene—Ben rummaging in the cabinets, Mishka with his nose practically pressed to the glass, and me frozen like a startled deer. Her lips curve into a smile. “And what exactly is going on in here?”

Ben starts to open his mouth, catches sight of Mishka, and wisely closes it again.Thank the Moon Goddess for small mercies.

I answer instead, striving for casual. “Nothing. Tomas is being boring, and I think we’re about to play a game.”

Mishka, the traitor, beams at me and cheerfully outs me to Sunday. “Xavier was sitting on Alpha Tomas’ lap and they were purring.”

“Oh.” Her brows lift, a spark of amusement lighting her eyes. “Were they now? Well, that’s… new.” She arches an eyebrow, her lips twitching like she’s barely holding back laughter.

Mortification floods down the bond from me to her, and she picks it up immediately. Her expression softens as she takes astep back, though the glimmer of humor never quite leaves her face.

She turns her attention to Tomas, a sly smile curving her lips. “When do we land, Big Daddy Wolf?”

Her eyes dart to me, gauging my reaction. I just know she’s going to be teasing me about stupid sexy Tomas for the next week, and the worst part is, she knows I know.

Tomas, unfazed, checks his watch. “We’re still over the Atlantic, but if the tailwind keeps up, we’ll be in Greenbriar before ten.”

Sunday pulls out her phone, smiling as she taps away. “I’ll update the troops immediately.”

As she types, her stomach growls loudly, an audible reminder of the hour. I glance over at Mishka, who’s starting to fidget and yawn. By the time we land, it’ll be really late for an eight-year-old to have dinner—and a hangry Sunday is not something I ever want to experience again.

“Be right back,” I say to no one in particular, rising from my seat. “I believe someone’s getting hungry.”

I head toward the galley, hoping Rurik’s people stocked this jet with more than just blood bags and caviar. Before I can get more than a few steps down the staircase, one of the flight crew intercepts me.

He’s a big, imposing wolf in a sharply tailored uniform. “Excuse me, sir,” he says in a clipped, overly formal tone that immediately grates on my nerves.

“Not a sir.” I wait a beat, letting him size me up. “My people are hungry, and they don’t like blood or fancy liquor—which is all you stocked in our cabin.”

He hesitates, clearly not prepared for this complaint. “I’ll have food sent right up. Does your party have any dietary restrictions?”

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