Patricia

　　Something is strange with Dior this morning. I can't put my finger on what is wrong with him, but those usual butterflies aren't there in my stomach when our gazes meet across the table. The mate-bond is strong and stirring, zapping between us like chemical electricity, but it's like my heart isn't entirely sold by Dior this morning.

　　I'm aware this isn't good. My emotions worry me. An hour ago, I was ready to consider completing the mating ritual with ...