Estrella

Breakfast feels like a dance I don’t know the steps to. My wolf sings inside of me, begging for the touch of my mate again. Only a table separates us. And she won’t listen to me when I remind her how he treated us. So we compromise. When he looks at his plate, I look at him. The way the towering windows pour sunshine over his fair hair, turning it golden instead of coldly pale. The elegant arch of his long fingers around his fork. The firm set of his shoulders in his fine ...