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I hated Connor Masters as much as it was possible to hate someone.
I hate the smiles he so seldom gives. The carefully uncareful swoop of his hair. The soft tone of voice he uses on the select few he cares about. The stretch of his shoulders beneath his shirts, broader every year.
I hate him because it makes loving him easier.
I hate him because he doesn’t know I’m his.
He should know. Even through the suppressants that give me horrible migraines, even beneath long sleeves and leggings that keep my irritated mating gland and injection bruises hidden. We’ve been drawn to each other since we were children. He should know.
But he barely looks at me these days.
He looks at her.
This is a standalone novel.
