Rejected by My Mate, Fated to the Lycan King
Arlo and Soren are annoyingly bending over me from behind to read over my shoulder, and Cerelia leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed, golden hair braided back and eyes sharp.
We’ve all read enough to be aggravated, but not enough to be satisfied.
The damn thing is hundreds of pages long, crammed with notes in Isadora Redgrave’s spidery, slanted hand.
“So far it’s mainly just logistics,” Cerelia mutters, flipping a page. “Smuggling routes, blackmail lists, names of judges she has in her pocket.”
“And extremely detailed notes on their mistresses, kinks and drug habits,” I add, pushing my hair back from my face. “Is she running a crime syndicate or gossip column?”
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