Page 6

Desmond St. James… why the hell wouldanyonethink that I’d accept his Claim to me now?

I never attended the Claiming ceremony. I was gone the first week of August, and when no one followed me out of Harmony Heights, ready to drag me back to a future I no longer had any interest in, I thought they’d been happy to see the back of me.

Maybe they were. Or maybe they were just biding their time until they could arrange a wedding that I’ve been unceremoniously summoned to attend.

Mywedding.

Oh,fuckno.

There has to be a mistake. The last thing ‘King’ Jack Collins pronounced before I escaped was my demotion. After everythingthat happened, I wasn’t allowed to be an Offering anymore. I’d be shunted aside, left for the men in the Order to use as they wanted, a glorified hooker.

So why am I being promised to one of the Owed? EspeciallyDesmond?

My first instinct is to call Dad. Still holding the envelope, the rest of my untouched mail a scattered pile on the back of my couch, I search for my phone. When I’m not doing an on-site audit for my latest clients, I work from home. I’d taken a break from my spreadsheets and my laptop to go down to the lobby to get my mail, leaving my phone on my desk.

I grab it now. It might’ve been ages since I made my obligatory Christmas call—one of three times of year I allow myself to reach out to my Dad, along with Father’s Day and his birthday in October—but he’s one of my top contacts. I select his with a shaky thumb, nibbling on my bottom lip as it rings.

And rings.

Andrings?—

“Hello. You’ve reached Peter Dougherty. I’m sorry, but I can’t come to the phone right now. If you leave your name, number, and a short message after the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Great. Thanks. Go.”

Beep.

“Dad. It’s Loni.” Because, to him, I will always be Loni. “Hi. I…” Shit. Do I just tell him? What if he knows? What if he’s in on it, and now he’s screening his calls so that I don’t freak out before the Order gets its way? I shudder out a breath. “Look. Call me when you get this message, okay? I… yeah. I need to talk to you.”

I disconnect the call, tapping my fingers against the back of my phone case.

The envelope is still in my other hand. I flap it, growing more and more agitated as I begin to worry that this mightnotbe a mistake, and I glare at the address.

As far as Dad knows, I’m still living in Maplewood. I had only recently moved to this apartment last Thanksgiving, and it slipped my mind to mention it when I spoke to Dad at Christmas.

But someone knows. Joke or not, someone in the Order knows enough about me and my history to put my recent address on the outside of the envelope, plus Desmond’s name on the invitation on the inside…

Hang on.

My jaw goes tight. My fingers crumple the edge of the envelope.

My gaze darts to the left corner, then the right. Just in case, I flip it to the back, but there’s nothing written along the flap.

So no return address. I have no idea who sent it because they refused to add that to the envelope. And, considering I just noticed that there isn’t a stamp on it, or a postmark, it’s clear that my invitation didn’t come through the mail.

Oh, no. Someone hand-delivered it.

You can’t blame me for being so oblivious. I’ve been Marie Howard for so long that seeing Avalon Dougherty on the front threw me for a loop. It only got worse when I read the invite, but none of that matters now as realization hits me.

Someone brought this here. Got into my building, figured out a way to get this envelope inside of my mailbox, picking that one in particular out of the rows of others alongside it.

I don’t know when. I usually let my mail pile up for a few days before making the trip downstairs unless I have a reason to head out that way. It could’ve been this morning. Yesterday. Monday, even, since I’m pretty sure I cleaned out the small cubby after buying groceries Saturday morning.

But they were here, whoevertheyare. They could come back.

A part of me has always expected that the Order wouldn’t really let me get away from them that easily. I’ve been holding my breath, counting down the days until I hit thirty. I’m twenty-seven now, turning twenty-eight next month. I was so fucking close.

But they were here, and that means that the next time they return?

I can’t be.