Page 1 of Bonds of Hate

Prologue

MAYA

Logan presses a chocolate-covered strawberry to my lips. “Open up, sweetling.”

I meet his eyes as I take a bite. The warmth of his gaze sends a tremor of awareness shivering up my spine. He hasn’t taken his attention off of me from the moment I walked through the door.

My cheeks flush as his smile widens and I feel like I might just melt into a puddle on the spot.

His voice is a low growl. “How does that taste?”

I can’t stop the hum that slips past my lips in response.

“That good, huh?” Logan chuckles as he holds a glass of champagne to my lips.

We’ve had three arranged and highly supervised meetings so far, culminating in this final one that is actually taking place at the royal palace. I’d be more excited about my first visit to a place I’ve only seen in pictures, but I’m too nervous. If the prince plans to offer me a mating contract, he’ll do it today.

Prince Logan Corellian, second-in-line to the throneand one of the most eligible bachelors in the country of Melilla, might choose me for his mate. It doesn’t hurt that he is probably the most attractive Alpha that I’ve ever seen.

The thought of being his is exhilarating.

And more than a little terrifying.

To distract myself, I let my attention wander to the impressive feast laid out on the wrought-iron table between us. You’d think the palace cooks assumed an army would attend this luncheon, not just Logan’s pack and my chaperone.

It’s a testament to how much I want this to work that I haven’t lunged past the prince to shove the nearest edible thing in my mouth. He doesn’t need to know that this strawberry is the first thing I’ve eaten since yesterday.

My mother, Charlotte, makes no secret of her watchful attention as she sits beside me. A casual observer might think she watches me so closely to ensure my virtue remains intact, but she wants this mating contract signed even more than I do. Today’s food restriction had been her idea. According to her, we couldn’t risk the chance I might not fit into the custom-made gown I’m wearing for the occasion.

Logan presses the champagne glass back to my lips, forcing my wandering attention back to him.

Charlotte squeezes my thigh hard under the table. She must notice my distraction and isn’t happy about it. To be fair, I’m not sure I’ve ever done anything to make her truly happy in my life.

But maybe the prince notices it, too. He tips the glass higher so I’m forced to swallow a larger mouthful. The bubbly alcohol is enough to send a burst of sparkling heatalong my senses. It obviously isn’t possible for a single sip to intoxicate me, but my head still swims as the handsome lines of Logan’s face briefly go in and out of focus.

Golden eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, are stark even against his tanned skin. The eyes of a predator with the beauty to entice even the most careful prey. Almost too beautiful to be real.

Logan’s bloodline can be traced all the way to the original rulers of Melilla, House Corellian, before it split into warring city-states only recently reunited under the rule of his father, King Leopold I. There are dozens of princes, born from the women in the royal harem who represent every region and former city-state in the country, but Corellian blood has always been one of the most highly prized. Whether it’s simply a long history of impeccable breeding or some medical interventions not available to those lower in the social order, Corellians have always been almost too lovely to behold.

Prince Logan is no exception. The refined perfection of his face is a startling counterpoint to the pure masculine energy rolling off of him in waves. Someone so pretty shouldn’t be so easily able to project an air of barely restrained violence. The combination is enough to drive all rational thoughts completely out of my head.

He strokes away an errant drop of champagne from the corner of my mouth with the pad of his thumb. My suddenly dry lips part on an involuntary sigh and I reflexively trace his flesh with my tongue.

The sharp tang of his skin burns through my tastebuds, chasing away any lingering flavor of champagne and strawberries.

I had already scented the subtle hint of clove on him, mostly hidden by the scent-masking soaps that are polite to use in mixed company. The elite of society don’t go around showcasing their musks for all and sundry to enjoy. Soaps and perfumes wouldn’t fool a true scent-match, anyway.

Now, his scent explodes across my senses.

Bitter clove and amber.

Earthy. Spicy. Sharply sweet.

The taste of him lingers on my tongue, his scent growing stronger with every inhale. Another involuntary sound escapes my throat. A purr, which would mortify me under any other circumstances.

Logan’s smile widens. “How responsive you are.”

I stare back at him with eyes gone wide. He shifts closer and the scent of clove swells in my throat.Heat clenches deep in my belly as an embarrassing wetness settles between my thighs.

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