Page 34 of Savagely Mated

“When do you go off shift?”

“I don’t,” he says.

“When do you sleep?”

“Whenever I want,” he says. “I sleep in the chair. I stop breathing if I lie down in bed.”

I nod. “That’s kind of beautiful. Always on the job, not needing anything but…”

“That delivery is going to be late, and your main rating is going to drop,” he says.

“My main rating?”

“Clients can rate. That’s what you see on your app. The system also rates by quickness of pick up, delivery efficiency, and some other metrics that are unique to Delivery 2 Go.”

“Really? What’s my rating right now?”

“Thirty-two point four,” he says.

“Is that good?”

“It’s now thirty-one point two,” he says. “You want to stand around asking more questions, or do you want to raise that rating?”

I scoot out the door pretty damn quick. The idea of a rating system is pretty good incentive to a brain like mine. I like immediate feedback, and the system does it.

I check my arm band as I get on my bike. There’s a little number there that’s starting to go down pretty quick. If it goes all the way to zero, I lose rating. If I deliver before the timer runs out, I get a bonus.

I kick the bike into life and I hurtle across the city, thinking of absolutely nothing besides getting this delivery where it’s supposed to go.

The house I’m delivering to turns out to be more of an estate. There are big gates that open for me as I approach, and a longdriveway that goes up a sweeping curve and has fancy bushes and lights lining the way.

The house itself is massive. I knock on the door, because this package is signature required. The delivery won’t actually count until someone puts their name down for it. That sucks, because time is running out.

The door opens painfully slowly. I find myself looking at the lanky figure of an old-fashioned butler in a suit. That’s wild, for him to be dressed so formally so late at night. I’m quite curious as to what’s in the package, but it has already been impressed on me that you never, ever try to find out what is in the box.

“Come in,” the butler says.

“I’m supposed to leave the package with the signer and go.”

He nods, understanding. “Cook has an overflow of cupcakes,” he says. “And Master will sign for the package.”

My stomach is growling again. I must be growing. Or maybe working really does work up an appetite.

“Alright,” I say. “Just as long as I get that signature.”

I let the butler lead me into the house, which I feel very out of place in. This is how really rich people live. The academy is fancy, but it is bare bones in the interior, except for a few places. This place is what I’d call fully and excessively furnished.

“The kitchen is this way,” the butler directs me.

I follow him, intermittently checking my app. I really need a signature. We’ve been walking around this house for almost a minute already. I’m losing all the time I made up for by not stopping for red lights.

“Hello, Darcy.”

My name is drawled by a very sexy blond man lounging in a rustic kitchen with a flagstone floor, copper pans aplenty, and the sort of cooker that is made of cast iron.

“You!”

“Me,” Kirin says, smirking.

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