Page 5 of Lady and the Butcher

Stephan was quiet for a long moment. Then: “And you … thought about it?”

I didn’t answer.

That was the answer.

He whistled low. “Damn.”

“I’m not going to do it,” I said quickly.

“You sure?”

“No,” I admitted.

And that was the truth. I wasn’t sure. Not about anything.

But especially not about what I wanted more—freedom or surrender. Wholeness or ruin.

Meaningful connection … or exactly the opposite.

“I wrote a letter,” I said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Stephan blinked. “Wait. What?”

“I wrote it,” I repeated, keeping my eyes on the stroller outside. “To Alpha Mail. I didn’t think I would, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About what it would feel like to not have to be anything. Just … taken.”

His mouth opened. Closed again. “Sim?—”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I know how it sounds.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You really think that’s a good idea? Letting some stranger show up and—what? Ruin you?”

“That’s kind of the point.”

“Jesus.”

“I don’t want to date,” I said. “I don’t want small talk or dinner or swiping left on men who think I’m intimidating. I want to not think. Not plan. Not be the one holding it all together for once.”

Stephan exhaled, like he was trying to exorcise every protective brother instinct from his body in one breath. “You could just come to my party and hook up with a decent guy.”

“Stephan.”

“I’m serious. One of my buddies from grad school is single, tall, smart, not secretly a felon …”

I gave him a look.

He raised both hands. “Fine. You want danger, dominance, whatever—I still don’t love the idea of you writing to some secret sex cartel in the middle of your quarter-life crisis.”

“I’m thirty-one.”

“Exactly. You need a real distraction. Not something that ends with a SWAT team and a moral reckoning.”

I snorted.

He looked at me sideways. “But you already sent the request.”

“I did.”

“And?”