Page 32 of Alpha's Hated Mate

Satisfied, she uncrosses her legs and puts on the other sock.

“When you put it like that, Alpha Vaultmore,” she says, “I guess I have to say yes, don’t I?”

Hearing her call me “Alpha Vaultmore” makes me want to pin her down and tear off her clothes, but I push down the urge. “Good. I’ll be by to pick you up at seven.”

I turn to leave, and she says, “Hey, wait a second.”

I turn back around and see her walking toward me. She puts her hands on my chest and stands on her tiptoes, her lips meeting mine. We kiss and it’s slow and sweet, her tongue dancing with mine, her scent heavy in my nose.

She pulls away, and I’m breathless for a moment. She smiles up at me and says, “Thank you for staying with me. You didn’t have to do that.”

I just smile back at her. It’s all I can do, really. Somehow, Saffron’s managed to get me wrapped around her finger. “See you tonight.”

“See you,” she says.

Shatterstone is decked out tonight. Golden lanterns hanging from the rafters, and the amber glow of candles on every table. White linen tablecloths and china plates with gold rims, a dance floor only a few feet away with a live band playing jazz music. It’s all so well laid out. They must have been planning this for at least the better part of the year.

As we walk in, we’re greeted with automatic smiles as the guests see me, which falter as soon as they look over at Saffron, of course. You’d think with Scarlets making up ten percent of thestudent body, they’d have seen one before. Otherwise, everyone who’s anyone important is here tonight—the dean and most of the faculty including Professor Robertson. I did my best not to meet her gaze when we walked in, but I’m sure she noticed me. I feel a little silly now pretending that I had a “friend” that was sleeping with a Scarlet.

For the moment, we’re both just standing here taking it all in. Saffron breaks the silence and says, “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party as nice as this.”

She shuffles her feet a little. She’s wearing a form-fitting silver gown that falls off the shoulder, displaying her elegant neckline. Her long red hair is down, cascading past her shoulders and spilling over her bare arms. She’s . . . captivating.

She looks up at me, catches my stare, and smiles. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say.

Of course, the first people we see are Dean Fowler and Professor Robertson. Fowler’s silvery hair is pulled back into a ponytail like it always is, but somehow, in this light, it shines more like the precious metal it’s colored for. He’s wearing a dark suit and tie with gold cufflinks. The man looks like money tonight.

Professor Robertson has on a long, loose-fitting gown with silver tassels on the sleeves and her messy blonde hair tied up into an elegant bun. She looks classy and yet still very much like herself.

“Mr. Vaultmore,” Dean Fowler says as the two of them walk up to us. “I’m so glad you could be in attendance tonight. I doubt Moonhelm would still be operating if not for your father’s generous contributions.”

Saffron’s arm tightens against mine. I rest my hand on it in silent reassurance. “Yes. My father was big on education. It was very important to him.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Saffron,” Professor Robertson says, her smile widening. “You look lovely, dear. I love that dress.”

“Oh, this old thing?” Saffron adds a nervous laugh. “This was just in the back of my closet.”

I stifle my own laugh. The dress is Yarra’s. When I called on her this evening, she was there helping Saffron into the dress and using pliers to pull up the zipper because she’s at least half a size bigger than Yarra. I’m not complaining. The dress clings to her body like paint.

“We should probably mingle a little,” I say.

“Right. Oh, and Aydan?” Professor Roberston looks at me with her eyebrows raised and leans in. “Do remind your friend for me about Lamedia Hall?”

I nod stiffly as my face flushes. Guess I should have just told her the truth in the first place. As we walk away, Saffron asks, “What was that about? Lamedia Hall?”

“Ancient history,” is all I say.

There’s a table with refreshments in the corner, so we wander over. As I dip the ladle in the punchbowl to serve Saffron a glass, she snickers, “No chance it’s spiked, huh?”

“Unfortunately not,” I say. “We’ll be lucky to get wine at dinner.”

I hand her the glass of punch. She takes a sip and looks around at the large portraits on the wall. Past professors and faculty lined up and displayed like artwork. I think there are few places on the entire campus where there’s not at least one of those photos somewhere.

“I promised my sister I’d stay for dinner,” I say to her as I glance around the room for Nadia.

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