Page 106 of Rejected By My Shifter Billionaire

I thought about the 98.7% compatibility score. About Nicolo’s hands on my skin and his voice saying “I like you.” About Prince Alexei’s penetrating stare and his talk of paradigm shifts.

“Fifteen,” I said. “We’re at about a fifteen.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Should I update my resume?”

“Not yet, Ada. But maybe keep it handy.”

Because something told me things were about to get much, much worse before they got better.

Chapter Five

Family dinners at the Celestini mansion were like a cross between a diplomatic summit and a really expensive therapy session where everyone secretly wanted to murder the therapist. All of us dressed in our nicest casual-but-not-too-casual clothes, spoke in carefully modulated tones, and pretended we weren’t all dancing around a conversational minefield disguised as small talk.

Tonight was no different, except for the part where I was internally combusting over my meeting with literal Atlantis royalty while trying to act like I’d spent the afternoon doing totally normal, non-life-altering things.

“Pass the asparagus, dear,” my mother said, her voice carrying that particular lilt she used when she was fishing for information. Maude Gray-Celestini had perfected the art of maternal interrogation during her forty-three years on this planet, and marrying into a shifter family had only sharpened her skills to near-preter levels.

I passed the asparagus and tried not to look at Nicolo, who was sitting across from me looking like a magazine ad for “Brooding Alpha Monthly.” He’d changed out of his work clothes into a simple black sweater that clung to his shoulders in ways that should have been illegal ever sinceThat Daywhen humans discovered just how dangerous preters could be. His dark hair was still slightly messed from running his hands through it.

Which he did when he was thinking.

Which he’d been doing a lot since I’d gotten home.

And that was never, ever a good sign.

“How was your day, Maryah?” Milano Celestini asked from the head of the table. Nicolo’s father was one of those men who commanded attention just by existing, like gravity had a special setting just for alphas. Retired from active pack leadership but still carrying himself like he could level a small city if properly motivated. His hair was silver now, but his eyes were the same penetrating green as his son’s.

“Fine,” I said, cutting my chicken into unnecessarily small pieces like I was performing an autopsy. “Just the usual business stuff. Meetings. Paperwork. You know.”

“Meetings?” Mom perked up with the enthusiasm of a bloodhound catching a scent. “What kind of meetings?”

Flip.

“Just, um, regulatory stuff,” I said, which was technically true if you counted being interrogated by a stallion shifter prince with the power to shut down my entire life as “regulatory stuff.” “Supernatural oversight. Really boring.”

“Supernatural oversight?” Milano’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds serious for such a new business.”

“It’s really not that big a deal,” I lied, taking a gulp of wine so large it was practically a swim. “Just standard compliance things. You know how it is.” I rolled my eyes like this was just another bureaucratic headache rather than the potential end of my career.

“Compliance with what?” Mom pressed. “And why didn’t you mention this before? You’ve been working on this agency for months.”

Because I didn’t know stallion shifter royalty kept tabs on mating algorithms until yesterday, and now they want to monitor my every move because I accidentally proved that your stepson and I are scientifically perfect for each other.

Also, he maybe threatened me.

But like, in a polite, royal way.

“It’s just...complicated,” I said weakly, my heart doing that thing where it tries to escape through my throat.

“Complicated how?” This from Nicolo, and his voice was perfectly pleasant, perfectly supportive. Like a caring big brother asking about his little sister’s day.

Except when I looked at him, his green eyes held all the warmth of a nuclear winter.

“I can’t really discuss the details?” I wanted to sound brisk and business-like, but every word came out uncertain and squeaky,ugh. “There’s, um, confidentiality involved.”

“That does sound complicated,” Nicolo agreed, his tone still pleasant. “You must have been so nervous—”

He was cutting into his steak while speaking, and I suddenly couldn’t help but imagine I was that morsel of meat he’d like to cut into pieces. Each precise slice seemed choreographed for maximum psychological torment.