In Service of the Alpha
Johnathan calls the crew back in and they get to work, setting up portable lights, cameras, microphones.
My stomach starts to roil and my head is spinning.
All of a sudden, it’s all very real.
A middle-aged woman comes walking up to me, carrying a folder in her hands. "The script, your majesty.”
I read through the pages, my chest tightening. “I don’t talk like this.”
“Use your own words, Mara,” Johnathan says.
The writer gives Johnathan a deadly look. “Then why did I spend the afternoon-”
My mate growls at her, silencing her, then he takes the folder from me, his eyes flying over the words. “What is this? I told you we just need a brief description. I didn’t ask you to make up some bullshit
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