Chapter 7

It didn't go well.

Two days had passed since Michael's pronouncement, and he wasn't wrong. My sex drive had anchored itself to that fucking dire wolf, and no matter how I flirted, I couldn't muster up the enthusiasm to take anyone up on their offers of company.

Kennedy had been so preoccupied she hadn't called me to her bed, either. Not that I even wanted to go. Which was aggravating. Objectively, she was fine. And a hell of a lover. You think my dick cared?

Was that the way this mate thing worked? One blow job, and suddenly my body only wanted him? I didn't even believe in fated mates. I didn't. If I said it enough, I might even convince myself.

Every time I considered seeking Michael out to talk it through, I'd mutter "complication" and steel my resolve to keep the wall between us. Not that he made it easy. Each morning a new gift sat outside my door. The first morning a bejeweled raven figure with emerald eyes. Had to cost a pretty penny. And since ravens were worse than magpies at collecting shiny things, I loved it. Not that I'd tell him that. The next morning a string of sparkly lights to hang around my room, along with a fuzzy blanket and some fancy pillowcases, wrapped up with a giant gold bow. "To feather your nest," he said in the card.

I hated that he understood me so well.

He brought me coffee, gave me blinding smiles, and kept his distance. Or as much as Kennedy would allow us, anyway. We'd been going to a lot of meetings with her and often took up positions outside the door together.

I stubbornly stayed quiet. Michael didn't push, but his presence felt like sandpaper rubbing my nerves raw.

By the end of the second day, I could hardly wait for Kennedy to excuse us so I could rush back to my room and angrily jerk off to thoughts of that fucking wolf.

The third morning, when I walked into the breakfast room—after receiving the poem "The Raven" in a beautifully gilded frame—Michael grinned at me, his expression smug, as if he knew what I'd done the night before.

Led Zeppelin's "Since I've Been Loving You" played quietly over the din. Michael's favorite band. I'd learned that much in the last weeks we'd been thrown together. He was a little obsessed.

I scowled and ignored him, seeking out Linc. I'd barely sat down and said good morning, when a platter of waffles and bacon appeared in front of me, along with a steaming cup of black coffee. Gritting my teeth, I turned to say thank you. Grams didn't raise no ill-mannered child. But Michael had already moved away and was now surrounded by the other wolves, who refused to even look my way.

Why wouldn't he give up? I gave him zero encouragement. Yet, he seemed so sure I'd break.

Hated to admit he might be right.

Except I wouldn't be an anchor around his neck. Once this assignment was over, and we didn't have to spend most days together, I'd avoid him. Not the bravest approach, but I was a practical bird. The lust would fade. He'd move on, and that would be that.

"He's crushing hard on you, huh?" Linc propped his chin on his fist, dark circles ringing his eyes. "Heard from one of the wolves you two are mates. I think he's serenading you."

I rolled my eyes. "Led Zeppelin doesn't exactly scream romance. Besides, we aren't anything. I don't even like the guy."

Linc stared at me and raised an eyebrow.

"I'd be on that wolf like a kraken on coffee." Linc grimaced. "Speaking of which, did you hear Kennedy's coffee shipment didn't make it? Kraken attack."

I winced in sympathy. Kennedy had many business interests—even before becoming the Roger of Central—and since the federal government controlled the airspace and the outrageous tariffs, Kennedy opted to invest in a ship like some Christopher Columbus shit. I'd jokingly called it Little Nina, even though it held more than a thousand times the cargo capacity of the original ship. Told her she'd need two more, so we'd have the PetitePinta and the PequenaSanta Maria.

Problem with a ship, though, she'd had to gamble on a kraken not finding it. It's a big ocean, but they loved nothing more than coffee beans. Well, except cocaine. Many a ship filled with containers of coffee had limped into port after a run in with those overgrown squids.

"It take the whole ship down?" I asked.

"No, though its hull is badly damaged. Crew had to throw most of the beans overboard."

"The Baltimore Coffee Party." Even had a tariff involved.

Linc snickered. "Something like that."

Man, Kennedy would be in a terrible mood.