Page 74 of Rejected By the Shifter King
Samira, on cue, rose to her feet.
“Miss Hondros, Alphonse Mercier and his brother, Hexius.”
The alpha inclined his head in greeting, but Hexius didn’t even glance her way, and the matchmaker could only clear her throat in discomfort. “If there is nothing else, then we shall—”
“Non.”
It was Hexius who spoke, and the matchmaker found herself shrinking under the leopard prince’s gaze, which seemed to see all the way to her less-than-pure soul.
She mustered the courage to make an appeal, mostly because her six-digit commission from the closure of this arrangement depended on it.“Monsieur—”
Hexius reached for the pen that had been set aside for his use, and the matchmaker’s eyes widened at what he wrote on the contract.
Rejetée.
Chaos erupted, with the representatives of Samira bursting into their feet in offended outrage while a red-faced Vaughn, the lieutenant who served as the alpha’s second-hand man, turned to Alphonse, saying furiously, “Such defiance is considered treasonous. You cannot—”
Alphonse raised a brow. “And what about you, Vaughn? Are you telling your alpha what he can or cannot do?” The words having effectively put the younger man in his place, Alphonse then turned to his brother, who appeared impervious to any of the havoc his actions created.
“What do you think you’re doing, Hexius?”
“Exactly what it implies.Rejetée.She is rejected.”
The alpha’s brother didn’t wait for a reply, having already risen to his feet as he spoke, and leaving everyone stunned as he walked away without a single backward glance.
“Sire!”Vaughn looked at Alphonse. “You cannot let him—” Realizing that he had once again made the same mistake, he switched his attention instead to Hexius’ retreating back, fists clenching at the way the other man kept disrespecting their alpha.
“Reviens ici immédiatement!”
The words seemed to fall on deaf ears, and a confused silence descended as the door automatically slid close behind him.
Chapter One
WHY OH WHY DID I LETmyself get into this again?
The timer on the table blinks red. Two minutes left with Bachelor Number Four. Or is it Five? They’re all starting to blur together in a parade of disappointment that would make my grandmother roll over in her grave. She’d arranged so many “meetings” for me back in Athens, and here I am in Hollywood, voluntarily subjecting myself to the modern American version of the same torture.
