The Fake Mate(4)

Oh God. What if he asks me for sex? I’ve pegged him as some celibate sourpuss who gets by with angry masturbation on the weekends, but what if Noah is like every other horndog I’ve come across? That is absolutely the one thing that is completely off the table, and I will kick him in his stupidly large shins if he is dumb enough to suggest it. It’s not like he knows I’m an omega—there’s no way he could—so surely it isn’t going to be anything kinky he’s after.

I tense when Noah leans forward in his chair, his fingers lacing together as his hands rest on the table, and his piercing eyes meet mine with that blazing intensity that they never seem to lose when I am unlucky enough to cross paths with him. They don’t look like the eyes of someone who is about to ask me for sex, at least. Or maybe they do, given the context. I don’t know. It’s hard to think with him staring at me like he is. But as it turns out, Noah has no intention of asking me for any kind of sordid favors. What Noah proposes is much worse, and the craziest part is the way his expression absolutely doesn’t change, not even a tiny bit, when he says:

“I need a mate.”

Now it’s my turn to blink at him. Stupidly, if I had to guess. “You need . . . a mate?”

Noah nods, like it’s a perfectly reasonable thing he’s said. Like he didn’t just propose the shifter equivalent of marriage and the last thing I’m interested in to a veritable stranger who I don’t think he even likes (I’m not taking it personally or anything, he doesn’t seem to like anyone) over bad hospital-lounge coffee.

“And fast,” he adds.

Out of the fire, into the frying pan, I guess.





2





Noah





This is a terrible idea.

Even as I suggest it, I am expecting to regret it, but given that the proverbial answer to my problems has miraculously fallen into my lap, I am inclined to take the lifeline being offered. I’m aware of Dr. Carter—young, opinionated, a little too chatty for my tastes—not my first pick for a pretend mate, but with a disciplinary meeting with the board happening in barely an hour over some choice omissions on my part, I see few other options.

“You need . . . a mate?”

I can see the confusion etched in the set of her soft-looking mouth and her delicate brow, furrowed in thought above her bright amber eyes. I’m aware it’s not a simple request, what I’m asking her, but I am desperate and perhaps crazy enough to ask it, anyway. Especially given that there seems to be something in it for her as well.

“And fast,” I tell her, and am met with more puzzlement.

Dr. Carter places her hands on the edge of the break room table, her slim fingers tapping along the edge while I give her a second to try and compute what I’m saying. Time is not something I have the luxury of, but I’ve been told (repeatedly) throughout my life that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and if there was ever a time to test that theory, it would be now.

“Mate is . . . a pretty big upgrade from me asking you for a selfie.”

I nod. “Yes, but . . . think about it. A picture buys you, what? A week? Two, at most? My cooperation could buy you much longer than that. Months, even, if it suits you.”

“But I’m trying to snag a fake boyfriend to avoid mating,” she says with distaste. “Not exactly looking to saddle myself with the real-life personification of Oscar the Grouch to avoid more bad dates.” She has the good grace to look slightly apologetic. “Sorry. No offense.”

“None taken,” I tell her truthfully. “Trust me, I’m not interested in biting you.”

Her nose wrinkles as if she’s offended, which seems to contradict her earlier objection, or perhaps it is some general offense. I can’t be sure. “Well, me either,” she huffs. “From you or anyone else.”

“Then I think we stand to benefit each other well,” I tell her. “I don’t need to bite you to pull this off.” She still looks unsure, and I scrub a hand down my face, sighing. “There is . . . something about me that I have put a great deal of effort into keeping hidden. Something that would threaten my position here, and I find myself suddenly . . . exposed.”

“What, did you maul a hiker or something in a rut?”

I press my lips together in a frown. “Hardly. I am the picture of control.”

“Clearly,” she deadpans.

I think she might be poking fun at my expense, but I overlook it, given that her refusal could cost me my job. “There are . . . hindrances, for people like me. Ridiculous archaic notions that might have kept me from advancing to the position I hold now, and because of that . . . I might have failed to inform the board of my status when I was hired on.”

“What status? A shifter? There are plenty of shifters working here, me included.”

My nostrils flare, the idea of my carefully guarded secret crumbling to pieces making me all the more irritated. “Not like me.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m . . . an alpha.”

She narrows her eyes at me as if I might be teasing her, but then I see the suspicion fade as she seems to study me, no doubt looking for signs of the fabled Big Bad Wolf behavior that is so often associated with my designation. Alphas are rare, to be sure, and perhaps that is why there are so many outlandish notions associated with the status. In another time, it would mean that I was destined to lead a pack, to carry on a clan . . . but in our more modernized society, it simply means that I am a little stronger, a little faster, a little . . . more than the average shifter.