Rejecting the Heir, Fxxking the Alpha's Father
I arrived exactly on time, trading my hockey gear for a crisp white shirt, my hair pulled back, and my war-paint replaced by light, professional makeup.
Peter was already there. He stood by the arched stone entrance, wearing a matching white shirt that made his tanned skin and dark eyes look even more lethal. One hand was shoved deep into his pocket, his posture relaxed, though his scent was thick with a restless, possessive energy.
"You didn't run," Peter said, a predatory smile tugging at his lips as he closed the distance between us.
I had no idea that inside his pocket, the powerful hand of the Draven Alpha was actually trembling with a trace of nerves.
Bab Populer