Page 90 of Penny for Your Saints

I keep my eyes on the road, refusing to rise to his challenge.

Neither of us speaks again until we pull into the lot of the supermarket, eyes roving the overhang by the entrance for a sign of Sébastien.

Frank scans the radio. His hand patting the car door through the open window nervously.

Even though I already know the answer, I can't help but ask. “What's the matter, Frank?”

I'm waiting for him to tear into me, for him to go completely off the rails, to yell and scream about the bonding—about being shut out, the new hierarchy within the Saints now that we've bonded.

Even though we weren't packed up before, it was difficult to dispute that Frank was our alpha. Now… I'm not sure exactly what he is.

A soothing sensation—like cool water, the song of wind chimes in the breeze, or the heavy blanket of sleep falling over you as you drift to dreaming—eases my frayed nerves; my mates reaching out to me across our bond.

I don’t notice I’ve actually started quietly humming to myself, little waves of contentment breaking over me as ourfledgling connection grows—strengthening its resonance little by little.

Frank, radiating irritation, searches desperately for something in the shopping plaza to give him some relief. I notice his eyes catch on a liquor store at the end of the line of shops. I don't bother to reprimand him or to tell him to wait until Seb gets back, instead I let him pull his sunglasses from his breast pocket and unfold them, placing them over his red-rimmed eyes as if there's any question of his destination.

“You reek like a schoolboy getting ready for prom,” he growls unkindly, swinging the passenger side door open and hopping down onto the pavement, slamming the door behind him. “I'll be back, just grabbing some smokes,” Frank shouts as he stomps away from the van.

Fine, let him have his tantrum. Get it out of his system before we go back to the yacht.

If he's gonna punish everyone like this, our timeline for getting him bonded might be longer than I initially thought.

I watch Frank disappear inside the liquor store, kicking back in my seat as I wait for Sébastien, relieved to have a moment to myself.

The white puffy clouds passing in the blue sky overhead distract me for a few minutes as the wind drives the cottony bunches of water vapor high overhead. I'm not sure how long I've been watching them when the loud hollow knock of Sébastien's knuckle on the van's trunk nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

It's as if all three of my bonded mates lay their hands over my racing heart as I catch my breath. It's only Sébastien, after all.

I walk around the back of the van and unlock the trunk with the fob, helping Seb to unload the nondescript brown paper bags of groceries into the back.

“Where'sPapa?” he asks.

“Probably filling his pockets with shitty nips and picking up a carton.” I nod to the liquor store, hefting a gallon of milk into the trunk.

“Is he any less surly than this morning?” Sébastien purses his full lips provocatively.

“No, if anything, I'd say he's actually brooding even more than usual.”

“Great, this is going to be a very long boat ride,” Sébastien grumbles, unloading the last of the bags from the cart.

I'm about to offer to take it from him so that he might return the cart—but Sébastien's eyes flutter before rolling back into his head—the bag falling from his hands onto the pavement below; a cardboard package of eggs cracking loudly, a navel orange rolling away beneath one of the parked cars beside us.

I'm about to reach for him, when something curls its fingers around my heart and squeezes so hard my body threatens to simply pass out to save me from the sudden blinding pain as I’m forced to my knees.

Behind my eyelids—I see as if looking through Louise’s eyes; she’s emerged from her shower to find two unlikely visitors seated in the luxurious salon; Susan Lowry and Ed Compton sit across from one another on the white leather couch—glasses of chilled champagne pinched delicately in their fingers.

Focus sharpens my senses out of the haze of sleep, as I become aware of the strange sensation of Sébastien tenderly lapping at the crescent moon of teeth marks that wreaths the outside of my left wrist, the ring of raw flesh left by so many hours spent in handcuffs—angry, red, and flaking where the scabs have dried and begun to pull away from the healthy skin.

Even though the bite stings slightly, the tender sweeps of Seb’s tongue help to ease the pain.

I can feel the buzzing of approval along the mating bond that connects us even though Caz is still asleep.

I feel him, warm and resonant just beneath the surface—a glimmer of Quentin shining through like rays of sunlight.

Even though I've taken Frank's knot, we did not exchange bites. For this, he may never forgive me.

What I could not say, what Iwould notsay is that I wish I had bitten him—but I will not disrespect myself or any of the rest of my pack members by giving or taking his bite when his mind is on our lost mate—not the Saints, not me.

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