15. Some Stars Can Fly

Kalen was waiting outsidein one of the golf carts.

“We’re running late. Don’t have time to walk,” he explained as she slid into the passenger seat. “You okay?”

He cast her a few searching looks as he manoeuvred down Alpha Hill and sped toward the northern point of the campus.

Isobel only hummed in response, tilting her head to the cool breeze as she bit down on her lip and pressed her thighs together. The jostling of the cart was not helping her situation, and she felt out of breath when Kalen pulled up beside a small, white-painted, wooden boathouse. He helped her out of the cart but crowded her against the side of it before she could go anywhere.

His brows were narrowed, his hand hovering somewhere near her stomach. She could feel him pushing into her head, his consciousness brushing up against hers. He must have felt the burning, restless energy inside her body and was trying to locate the cause of it. His fingers flattened over the silk of her dress before abruptly pressing down, right over the spot where she burned the hottest. She could have sworn she felt the metal balls inside her shift as she clenched down on them, her torso muscles jumping beneath the insistent pressure of Kalen’s hand.

She tried not to react, but a low whine exploded out of her, and Kalen’s eyes snapped from her stomach to her face, his expression darkening.

“I see Mikel picked a highly inconvenient night to punish you,” he said, backing off her.

“He’s a real asshole,” she returned, because she was nervous and didn’t know what else to say.

Kalen grinned at her. “He was nice to you, princess. Let’s go.”

He strode toward the boathouse, and she hurried after him, wincing at the too-fast movement, which she suspected he had initiated deliberately.

The boathouse had a neat little keypad beside the plain white door, which Kalen entered a code into. The lock clicked, and he held the door open for her. She was shocked to come up against another door almost immediately. The space was so small that she had to step aside to let Kalen in behind her.

The door before them was heavy and black, a panel beside it blinking a red light. Kalen closed the first door and as soon as the lock clicked again, the light on the blinking panel turned green. He produced a slim black card, swiping it over the panel to open the second door, which led to a well-lit, marble staircase.

Once again, he motioned for Isobel to go ahead of him, and she clung to the curved iron banister as she descended. She was nervous and unsure, but Kalen’s presence helped. His rich, heady vanilla scent dug into her pores, his presence like a tangible blanket of power that wrapped around her tightly, steeling her spine. She could also feel him in her mind, brushing up against her conscience. He didn’t speak through their bond, but she felt the reassuring nudge of him with every step.

At the bottom of the stairs was another door, with another code to gain entry, and then they were in a lobby of some sort. The space was vast, with towering marble columns supporting the exposed, rough stone ceiling—which was lit up by strategic spotlights to play over the ragged edges, dips, and valleys. There were several chandeliers bolted into the stone ceiling, casting glittering light patterns across the gleaming, polished onyx underfoot. Huge bouquets of gold-brushed, ruby-red roses sprawled in large crystal vases on pillared posts along the sides of a carpeted pathway through the centre of the room, leading to a single desk at the other end, where a woman stood behind a computer.

“Welcome, Mr West, Miss Carter.” She smiled politely, her eyes lingering on Kalen for a moment too long before settling on Isobel. “Welcome to the Stone Dahlia. We are happy you accepted our invitation.”

Not that she had a choice.

“We just have a little bit of paperwork to get out of the way.” The woman reached over her desk for a stack of paper—several booklets, it seemed, clumped together and secured by gold clips.

She set the first one in front of Isobel. “A nondisclosure,” she said. “As nothing you see or hear or do after you step through that door is to be spoken about when you leave, under any circumstances, including under duress by the human government, the OGGB, or any other official or nonofficial person or governing body.” She added another stack. “This is to accept full liability for your own physical, mental, and emotional health. The Track Team cannot be held liable for anything that happens within the Stone Dahlia.” Another stack. “This is an agreement binding you as a limited, exclusive performer in Room 43 for a provisionary period of one month. This agreement can only be absolved by your sponsor or the Track Team. Your salary will be six hundred per room performance for the provisionary period.” She dropped the last booklet onto the stack. “And this is a copy of the rules, which are quite simple, since you are contracted to a private group performance room. You are not obliged to entertain our patrons in any other room or section. You are also not permitted to accept money for private interactions with our customers without signing an additional floater contract, though I have been told?—”

“She won’t be floating,” Kalen interrupted sternly.

“Of course,” the woman continued smoothly. Isobel realised she had never introduced herself. “Well then, as for the rest of the rules, you are to wear formal attire at all times. Including footwear.” She glanced down Isobel’s legs. “What is your shoe size?”

“Six.” Isobel glanced at Kalen, who rolled his eyes as soon as the woman turned her back, causing Isobel to smile. She had hidden away the grin by the time the woman returned with a pair of strappy black heels.

“Change, please,” the woman ordered. “Formalwear at all times, though appropriate performance attire will be accepted as long as there are no bodily fluids on your costumes.”

Isobel blinked at that one, but the woman barrelled on without pause.

“This is a club of the world’s most powerful, influential people”—sounds like Mei’s heaven, she thought—“so you must act accordingly. The following will result in a disciplinary strike against your membership: asking for charity; prying into private lives or asking to see identification; rude, unruly, or uncouth behaviour; flagrant disrespect of the dress code—” She paused, flicking her eyes down as Isobel hurried to change her shoes, before continuing, “Violence or aggression outside of contracted performative activities, penetrative sex with guests of the Stone Dahlia outside of contracted performative activities?—”

“That’s new,” Kalen interrupted without emotion.

“Indeed.” The woman looked at him. “Your contract was already amended. We don’t need you to sign, due to the clause allowing us to make appropriate changes at any time, for any reason.”

Kalen managed not to scoff, but Isobel was sure that he wanted to. Instead, he only nodded.

“And finally”—the woman tapped the top booklet—“you will get a disciplinary strike for denying private meetings or introductions.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to accept money for private interactions unless I’m a floater?” Isobel asked, growing confused with the restrictive list of rules.

“You cannot accept money for it, but if any of our esteemed guests would like to meet with you in private—accompanied by your sponsor during the provisionary period, of course—you are not permitted to refuse them the pleasure of an introduction. All of our Gifted are here to serve our guests. That is what you are here for.”

Isobel pressed her lips together, choosing to deliver a simple nod, like Kalen.

“Excellent.” The woman produced a pen, handing it to Isobel. “Please sign the last page of every contract. You will not be permitted entry to the Stone Dahlia without your signature on each one. Amendments—other than those the Track Team find necessary—are not permitted. Our rules are final.”

In other words, she could sign, or she could walk out and face the consequences of upsetting the Track Team.

Suddenly, their brutal warning the day before her first foray into the club didn’t seem so far-fetched. They wanted nothing short of complete control, and complete obedience. Isobel’s skin began to itch.

Better to just sign,Kalen whispered into her mind. If they think they don’t know enough to control you, they will look deeper. They’ll do more.

She sucked a breath in through her teeth, snatching up the pen and quickly scrawling her name onto the last page of every booklet.

“Fantastic!” the woman declared, gathering up the paperwork. “Here is your key card.” She handed a slim, glittering black card to Isobel and then suddenly gripped Isobel’s hair.

Kalen went tense beside her, a low warning growl rumbling through Isobel’s head. The woman frowned, running her fingers through Isobel’s hair, touching her like she was nothing more than a life-sized doll.

“These aren’t hair extensions?” the woman asked.

“No,” Isobel answered as the woman backed off, releasing her hair.

She knows my hair was cut off, Isobel sent the words to Kalen in a panic.

And she has no idea how bond magic works,he replied soothingly. None of them do. For all they know, everyone’s hair grows back after something like that is done.

“Interesting,” the woman said. “Your passcodes will be emailed to you at three minutes past midnight every three nights. There will be two. One for each door upstairs.” She shifted back behind her desk, already tapping away at her keyboard. “Enjoy your night.”

Kalen steered her past the desk and down another staircase. “It should be quieter tonight,” he said. “That’s why I chose to take you through on a Monday. The big-ticket fights are usually on a Friday and Saturday, after midnight. I also generally perform on a Friday or Saturday.”

The door at the bottom of the stairs opened automatically, and she was hit with a wall of ambient sound. She hadn’t realised how sterile and silent the upstairs foyer had been. The lighting was dim, bathing everything in a soft, hazy glow. The vaulted ceilings were the same rough rock, with tiny, pinpoint lights embedded into the stone to give it the appearance of a starry sky hewn with heavy, jagged clouds.

There was a stage in the middle of the room, a small orchestra corralled by a polished brass railing, their music a soft croon that crept through the open space like a mist. A fifth-year that Isobel immediately recognised was singing into a microphone, his voice twisting and winding about them in a seductive, low rhythm. The floor plan was intricate and almost chaotic, with walled-in booths, open booths, styled seating areas and strategically placed bars. There was even a long glass window on the other side of the hall where she could just barely make out several chefs lined up at their stations, plating food.

The decor was a mix of styles, with tall, twisted juniper trees in giant marble pots around the room and rich, heavy maple or cherry-wood furniture. There were polished copper and bronze brass accents, and the now-familiar marriage of marble, crystal, and wrought iron scattered about.

“I wanted to show you around properly, but we’re late and I start in ten minutes,” Kalen explained, leading the way around the outskirts of the hall and into a wide, echoing passageway lined with sinuous marble statues in spotlighted alcoves along the natural stone wall. “There are a few rules for Room 43,” he continued as they passed into another, smaller hall. “The first is absolute silence unless you are me or my partner for the night.”

The lights had dimmed further, and the second hall was divided into sections of comfortable velvet armchairs and chaises cuddling around smaller stages. Some of those stages had poles, and Isobel swallowed as she recognised another fifth-year boy performing very athletic stunts on his pole to the polite applause of the people strewn about in a circle around him. Another girl, a fourth-year that Isobel also recognised, was crawling across her short stage, pausing at the edge to dance seductively for one of her guests before twisting to her feet and delivering a wink over her shoulder.

They skirted the circular bar in the centre of the room, Kalen’s pace swift and punishing, since each step had Isobel’s insides clenching and rippling. She should have been too scared to feel any kind of desire, but the Alphas had done a good job of manipulating her mind and body before she stepped into the club, and her body had not yet forgotten.

It would take some time for her to forget the feel of a strong, unyielding grip cupping her with possession, or the image of Gabriel staring her down as he licked his finger, or Mikel’s bold claim of her mouth and his gravelled sound of appreciation.

She needed a break. To sit down, or something. Definitely to stop moving. The metal balls weren’t so hot anymore, but they were still a warm weight inside her, refusing to ease her back to a normal level of need after Gabriel and Mikel’s priming.

It seemed very calculated, in hindsight.

They passed into another passageway, and Kalen began to speak again once they were alone.

“The second rule is for my partner of the night. They must obey me at all times, without question or hesitation. The use of safe words is allowed, though I don’t usually observe the traffic light system. I’m not a yellow kind of man. My partner picks their safe word and unless they use it, I won’t stop anything I’m doing.”

They descended a short staircase into another hall that had a high mezzanine level. Here, he lowered his voice, since there were people scattered about.

“And finally, there’s you. You especially are to obey me at all times. I want your eyes on me from the moment we walk through that door until we leave again, understood?”

“Yeah,” she answered nervously. He stopped walking, turning to face her, his eyes flitting down to her stomach before snapping back up again.

“Now I know Mikel taught you better than that,” he drawled, a hint of reprimand in his voice.

She swallowed, her mind racing to figure out what she had done wrong. Kalen smiled at her, and while it was kind, it was also sharp as a blade.

“Sir,” he supplied. “In that room, it’s only Sir.”

She pointed out the obvious. “We’re not in the room.”

His grin sharpened, something she might have thought was impossible. “Indeed,” he purred, his eyes growing hot, his scent smouldering, his desire crashing through her mind, knocking over the wall she had erected as though it was made of matchsticks.

Her core clenched around the metal balls, making her wince as her thighs grew uncomfortably sticky.

“Don’t challenge me, Sigma.” He swept from her mind as easily as he had entered, his expression settling into calm neutrality as she stood there trembling. “You won’t win.”

Yikes.

“Understood, Sir.”

“We’re not in the room yet, but that was cute.” He bopped her on the nose and spun on his heel, striding toward the edge of the hall.

Asshole. She flung the word at the back of his head because she couldn’t be punished for her thoughts, right?

Kalen’s grin had turned wolfish, but it faded as he stopped before two doors. One said Room 43 - Staff. The other said Room 43 - Observer.

“Some people watch from above.” He pointed to the mezzanine. “And some from the ground level. Shibari can be especially beautiful observed from above, even more so when I elevate my partner.”

He pushed open the staff door and stood aside. By now, she knew the drill, and brushed past him to enter first, finding herself in a small dressing room.

“Where’s your partner?” Isobel asked, glancing around the empty space.

Kalen removed his coat, hanging it in a locker before he turned to face her.

“I’ve been avoiding this conversation,” he admitted, dragging his hands down his face before shaking his arms out. “Because the truth is … I don’t know what’s right, in this situation. Either I pick someone from the crowd and possibly wound the bond, or I choose you, and push you into something you aren’t prepared for.”

“I watched a few videos,” Isobel argued. “Last year, after you told me. I’d argue that it takes almost no skill to sit still while someone ties me up.”

He scoffed out a short laugh. “What would you prefer, Carter?”

“What do you suggest, Sir?”

He jolted forward a step and then froze, something sparking to life in his eyes. “We should have had this conversation outside. You don’t have to do what I want in this regard.”

“I know.” She lifted a shoulder. “But I trust you.”

He stalked toward her, pinching the thin strap of her dress. “What’s beneath this?”

“A satin bodysuit.”

He clenched his fingers into a fist, dropping his hand. “Who planned that?”

“Kilian.”

He shook his head and then gripped the hem of her dress. “Arms up.”

She raised her arms and he carefully pulled off her dress, spinning on his heel to hang it in one of the lockers. He paused there, still turned away from her, and seemed to take several measured breaths before facing her again.

His amber eyes flickered over the satin that clung to her, bunching and stretching in all the right places, and he let out a small groan. “You’re going to look stunning.”

“I’m nervous about the people,” she said softly, trying to disregard the burning in the pit of her stomach at complete odds with the delicate butterflies fluttering from her chest to her throat.

“Ignore them,” Kalen ordered. “They don’t exist. You can take the heels off.” He moved to another door, reaching for the handle as she removed her shoes. “If you can trust me and just let go, you might find some peace in this,” he said lowly. “Most people do.”

She nodded, moving close to him as he opened the door.

The room beyond was spacious but still cosy, ringed by polished brass railings on both levels, with shimmering black stone floors and the same rough stone ceiling as the first hall they had entered, with the pinprick lights that looked like stars. There were two wrought iron and crystal chandeliers, but the lights had been turned very low.

Kalen turned and held out his hand to her. She placed her hand into his much larger one, and he led her to the middle of the room where the black floors stepped up to a slightly raised platform before dropping her hand.

As soon as her eyes began to wander to the shifting shadows beyond the brass railing on the ground floor, he pinched her chin, turning her head back to his. His hands settled on her shoulders, pushing them back slightly, and then he moved behind her. She turned to keep him in her sight, and approval briefly flashed in his eyes before he stepped from the platform and drifted back to the door they had entered through, where there seemed to be a whole wall of props waiting.

He tapped away at the screen of a tablet until soft music spilled into the room, raising the hairs on her arms with the way it swelled and echoed around the otherwise silent space. He picked up a small, sturdy black table and carried it back to her, setting it into the middle of the platform, stepping back to make sure it was angled exactly how he wanted it, before he moved to her, slipping his hands under her arms and lifting her up.

Kneel, his voice whispered into her mind as he lifted her up to the table.

She did as she was told, resting on her knees as he lowered her.

We’ll start off small, he added as he began to arrange her. No suspension. His words were short and succinct. Perhaps he didn’t like to talk when he was focussing on this thing he did, so she didn’t respond past a slight nod. He gently brushed her cheek—an acknowledgement of sorts—and then he stepped back to survey her the same way he had stepped back to survey the table. He picked up her wrists and laid them over her thighs before returning to his prop area to fetch a claw clip and a pile of thin, soft-looking black rope. He deftly twisted her hair up and secured it with the clip, and then pulled her shoulders back again. He tapped the back of her neck and she suspected it was a warning to not slouch again.

He looped one end of the soft rope around her neck and took half a step back, surveying the fibre against her skin before removing it and switching out the black rope for a different rope. It was a pearl colour, washed with the slightest pink. She thought it matched the dusky rose of her bodysuit, and Kalen seemed to agree. He doubled up the rope and looped it around her neck again, creating a short lead, and then he stood back, wrapping the lead around his wrist and applying some pressure. She leaned forward. He released the pressure, and she eased back.

He was avoiding her eyes, which forced her to concentrate on the rope as she tried to anticipate what his next move would be. He walked around, disappearing behind her, applying pressure on the rope again as he pressed against the centre of her back, forcing her into a subtle arch that he released her from immediately. He came before her again, tilting the lead up so that it lifted her gaze, but he wasn’t trying to make her meet his eyes. He was too busy … examining her. Watching to see that she was responding the way he intended. After a few minutes of this, it became instinct to watch the rope instead of him, to respond to the pressure or lack of pressure around her neck.

Just when she felt like she had the game figured out, he removed the collar, reaching above him for a thicker rope that hung from wooden beams above them. He threaded the pale rope through the darker one before lifting her arms above her head, her wrists pressed together. He tied off her wrists, his movements rapid and distracted, like he was just trying to temporarily get her arms out of the way, and then he tipped up her face, forcing her to look at the ceiling. She let out a small breath, focussing on the little star-like lights as she felt rope cross over the top of her chest. Kalen was close enough that his scent soaked into her, his breath occasionally brushing her cheek or shoulder or the top of her head as he reached around her, passing the ropes from her back to her front. She could feel it crisscrossing, pulling tight over her chest, forming a cross between her breasts that hugged each soft swell, lifting them up as he circled her, beginning a much more complicated twist of patterns down her spine, pulling the harness along her front tighter and tighter until the rope was all she could focus on.

After a while, she began to drift off a little.

Maybe it was a combination of the soft music and Kalen’s sultry scent, but she lost focus, forgetting about their audience, her arms sagging. He didn’t reprimand or correct her. He merely reached up with one hand and released the bind on her wrists as rapidly as he had tied them, though he didn’t allow her arms to fall, holding onto her wrists with his other hand. He lowered them slowly, laying them back into her lap before cupping the back of her head and drawing it forward until she could rest it on his chest. He went back to work almost immediately, but whatever he was creating, it wasn’t attached to her as he spun something behind her back. She turned her face up, brushing her nose against his warm skin, and felt the slightest vibration in his chest.

He reached above her for a few moments, and then captured one of her wrists, pulling her upright again as he slipped her wrist into a thick, woven cuff of rope, which he tightened before straightening out her other arm. He dragged down a rope, and her arms pulled taut, stretching out her spine. He loosened it a fraction before tying off the end to one of the wooden posts above him.

Now that her arms were securely suspended, he returned to the pattern he had been creating down her spine, which crisscrossed up to her biceps, twisting and weaving to bind her arms together. At some point, she must have closed her eyes, lost in the sensations, every nerve ending focussed on Kalen’s fingers because he made sure to touch her. Often.

She was always straining toward the expected brush of his fingers as they passed over her skin. Eventually, the touches evolved from casual to insistent. He gripped her with the full span of his hands, tracing his designs, playing with the contrast of soft, pinched flesh and braided rope. When his hands dragged down over her breasts, it felt like he had struck a match and shoved it down her throat. Her eyelids were so heavy, her body felt like it weighed a tonne, but she couldn’t have possibly described the sensation as sleepy.

Not with her body on fire.

She didn’t remember lowering her walls, but at some point, she must have, and she wasn’t the only one. Kalen became a steady presence inside her head, his unguarded feelings twisting with her own. She could feel the calmness in him, the steady sway of power like a soft breeze rustling through an immovable tree. And she could feel the need in him, the shiver of an almost violent urge to claim her that wavered beneath the surface of his skin, held back by that wash of calm he seemed to wear so well.

She could feel his awe, and how it filled him with pride that she had given him her trust, and that she had meant it, because he could feel that she had given up all control, happy to let him do whatever he wanted with her.

She melted into their shared bond just like she was melting into his hands, allowing him to loosen and retie her, to arrange her and position her at will, her body becoming pliant as water, and yet somehow also taut as a bowstring.

The sudden sound of applause threatened to burst her bubble, and she blinked bleary eyes open to watch as Kalen began the slow and complicated process of untying her.

“We’re done?” she whispered huskily, forgetting that people could hear her.

He nodded, his gaze sinking into hers, warm and gold. He still didn’t speak, and she hissed in pain as all the blood rushed back into her unbound limbs. He left the ropes unspooled on the table, picking her up and carrying her into the changing room.

There was a couch in the room, and he sank into it, tucking her into his lap. He removed the clip from her hair and teased out the strands, spending a few minutes softly massaging her scalp.

She didn’t even know how long they had been in there. It seemed to pass in a bleary blink, and yet it also seemed to last an eternity. She was a little confused, still. It was like her mind had disengaged.

“You were stunning,” he whispered, running his hands gently down her arms like he knew they were starting to prickle with pins and needles.

She tipped her head back to rest on the soft arm of the couch, blinking up at him. “Do you always cuddle after?”

He smirked. “After a performance? No. I give them this couch, with pillows and blankets. There are snacks and drinks in the fridge if you want anything. Usually, they nap for a while or eat something. Shibari outside of a performance is … a little different. For me, anyway. But for a performance? The come-down isn’t so bad.”

She wanted to take the edge off her thrumming body, but Mikel had already put a stop to that.

“What do you usually do after a performance while they’re napping?” she slurred—why was she slurring?

“Because you’re still coming down,” he murmured, answering her inner thought and reminding her that he was still inside her head. “And after, I stick around until they feel better. That’s my chair.” He pointed to an armchair nearby, a book resting on it. “Subspace is just a mixture of adrenaline and endorphins, but it can put people into a vulnerable state. I won’t leave them alone and unguarded. Sometimes, people need their arms or legs massaged to help with their blood circulation.”

“M’kay.” She wiggled, trying to get more comfortable, seeking some sort of relief.

Kalen’s hand flattened to her ribcage, drifting down as she unfurled and stretched out her arms and legs, arching like a cat. His fingers drifted over her stomach, drawing absent, distracted patterns as he slowly extracted himself from her mind, putting the usual distance between them within the bond.

She winced at the sudden, cold, empty feeling.

He lowered his voice, roughening it with a subtle purr. “I’m still here, princess.”

“Mikel has to obey you,” she muttered, her eyelids too heavy to keep open as Kalen’s fingers continued driving her insane with those absent patterns drawn over the satin covering her stomach. “Make me come.”

He chuckled, the sound darkly amused. “You’re gonna regret saying that once you come back to yourself.”

“Can’t you lie down?” she whined, wriggling on his lap, and kicking her legs slightly. “This is so uncomfortable.”

Her legs didn’t feel good, almost like there were bugs itching beneath her skin.

He obliged her, stretching out and settling her on top of him, but the itching in her legs only grew worse, and after she began rubbing them together to try and ease the uncomfortable sensation, he finally sat her up over his hips, pulling her legs either side of his body. He began massaging them, rhythmically kneading the muscles, and she groaned, tilting sideways and relaxing into the back of the couch. He worked his way from her ankles to her calves, and then up her thighs until she forgot all about how relaxing it was and began to squirm again, painfully aware of how close his thumbs were to the heat between her legs.

“Isobel …” His rough voice dragged her eyes open again to focus on him. “Stop moving, baby.”

She was beginning to love when the Alphas started to purr and call her baby. She especially loved it at that moment because it was usually accompanied by an erection, which would be exceedingly welcome in her current situation. She shifted backward, immediately coming into contact with something hot and hard and huge. Something that throbbed as she ground down on it. A whimper hiccupped from her chest before rough hands stilled her movements and the big body beneath hers rose, tipping her back, and back … until she spooled onto the couch, her hair twisting into a chaotic cloud around her head.

Kalen loomed over her for a moment, his gold eyes darkened to a burnt amber, his heavy brows low, a muscle ticking in his squared jaw … but then quickly stood, shoving his hands through his short hair.

“Stay,” he warned, pointing at her. “I’m hanging on by a thread, Carter.”

She was slowly sinking back to earth, a heavy pout tugging at her lips as she realised how she had acted.

“No, no,” he said, returning to her, kneeling on the couch before her.

She was tearing up, she realised, as drops fell onto the backs of his hands. He kissed her forehead and then brushed several more kisses along her brow. “You didn’t do anything wrong, princess. You’re okay.” He kissed her cheeks, and then the side of her mouth, and then a groan caught in the base of his throat, and he eased back.

“Lie down,” he instructed. “I’ll grab a blanket. We can rest for a bit before we go home. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” she grumbled.

“Sir.” His soft tone almost tumbled into a growl.

“Fine, Sir.” She was pathetic. She was crying. Her lip was wobbling. What the hell was wrong with her? And why did Kalen look like her trembling lip was about to be his undoing?

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, his chest expanding with a deep breath. His exhale dragged over gravel. “Okay,” he said, as though reminding himself of what he was supposed to be doing. “Okay … we’ll rest for a bit.”