Page 121 of Rejected By My Shifter Billionaire
“Of course.” He stepped back, his expression unreadable behind the mask. “The car is waiting whenever you’re ready.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and walked toward the gardens on unsteady legs.
The night air was cool against my flushed skin, and I found a quiet corner behind a wall of night-blooming jasmine where I could finally breathe.
And think.
And face the truth I’d been running from since I was eighteen years old.
I was in love with Nicolo Celestini.
My stepbrother.
My tormentor.
My...whatever this was.
Not just attracted to him. Not just physically responsive to his touch.
In love.
Completely, hopelessly, devastatingly in love with my stepbrother.
The man who’d just made me fall apart in public and then walked away like it meant nothing.
The worst part? The worst, stupid, awful part?
As my body had trembled through a release I hadn’t chosen, that I hadn’t wanted to give him, that I had given him anyway, I’d known.
I was in love with this jerk.
And there wasn’t a darn thing I could do about it.
Chapter Eight
One week.
It had been one whole week since I’d publicly combusted in the arms of my stepbrother at the most exclusive supernatural event of the season, and what had he done since then?
Nothing.
Not a text. Not a call. Not even an interoffice memo with his usual condescending comments about my quarterly reports.
He hadn’t even come home.
Which meant I’d spent the past seven days tossing and turning in my bed, alternating between tears, caffeine, and pretending I didn’t exist just to survive the emotional minefield known as being ignored by the world’s most infuriating alpha.
“Maybe he’s finally realized that making me have a public orgasm was inappropriate stepbrother behavior,” I muttered, staring at my laptop screen without actually seeing any of the words on it.
“Or maybe,” Ada said carefully from her desk across the office, “he’s just processing?”
“Processing what? It was a compatibility test. That’s literally what we do here.”
She didn’t answer. Probably because I’d forbidden her from saying anything that might make me cry again, and unfortunately, logic had that effect lately.
I tried to focus on work, but everything reminded me of him. The scent dampeners we used for anonymous testing made me think of the ball. Client requests for alpha-specific compatibility protocols made my chest feel like someone was using it for kickboxing practice. Even the stupid flowers Ada kept on her desk were a painful reminder of passion vines glowing red in response to whatever had happened between us.
Whatever I’d apparently imagined was happening between us.
