Fated Mate Isn’t Me
As the “trophy.”
A carefully designed trap.
One that hit my stupid guilt and my protective instinct perfectly.
Drugged.
Plotted.
Impersonated.
Bastard pup.
Framed.
And because of a woman like that—
I doubted Ann, again and again.
I hurt her, again and again.
I forced her to apologize, to retreat, to bow her head, again and again.
Because of a bubble built entirely of lies—
I shoved the mate I’d finally begged back, the one I held on my heart, right out of my hands.