3

Alonso

This was unquestionably a terrible idea.

I couldn't fathom what the alphas were thinking, likely up to something sinister when they paired me with Miley. My mission required careful discretion. Mating with her would not only violate the mission but disrespect a clear request from a close friend:

"Look alive. But don’t you dare marry my sister."

Was Leon involved? It seemed impossible; he would have informed me. He would have prepared me, preventing any offense to his sister. The look on Miley's face upon my exit spoke volumes.

It revealed how she could be hurt by the rejection of someone she didn't even care about.

I already knew Miley's habits—her morning cycling and shower singing—and her disinterest in romance. Unless she shared those secrets with Amy. I double-checked my mental log, walking rigidly to the other side of the path, hidden by trees.

Every evening mirrored this routine. I napped until the alarm sounded, then watched Miley walk home. I maintained a distance, relying on my heightened hearing for updates. Usually, nothing changed. She often walked with Amy, and today wouldn't differ after Blake's spectacular announcement.

Leon hadn't signed off on this. While not possessive, he was protective. When Berna showed interest, Leon drew a firm line in the sand. This couldn't be different. It wasn't part of the plan.

I pulled out my burner phone, longing for a sleek smartphone. Security concerns ruled out social media and emails. Yet, that didn't matter now. I wanted Leon's opinion on this reckless idea from alphas I entrusted with my life—and my best friend's sister's life.

Was this their interpretation of fulfilling my mission?

"That was just plain rude," a high-pitched voice complained.

I stopped behind a massive magnolia. The girls were walking up pretty early by my watch, but we had just walked out of a meeting—or, more accurately, I had walked out of a meeting. The rest probably followed a few minutes later since the drama hadn't given them much to discuss.

Blake likely thought he saved the best for last, assuming it was a good idea.

Nope. It was a terrible idea. I had been saying that all day, but no one seemed to want to listen. Miley wasn't my mate. Even if I wanted her to be—which I definitely didn't—she wouldn't see me as attractive or appealing. She had never shown signs of it growing up. Besides, Leon would have stamped it out faster than a flamenco dancer trying to stomp out a fire.

Their footsteps grew louder on the dirt path. One of them kicked a rock, and it skittered off into a flower bed. My focus remained on Miley, who was more than just a prize, with her aggravatingly positive outlook and sunny disposition. She was like a galaxy of giant suns.

Her tan resembled autumn brown, and her reddish-auburn hair fell straight against her face, stopping at her chin. The bob moved with every turn of her head. Short bangs framed her face, enhancing the hazel-brown of her eyes. Trim brows appeared darker than her hair, and her face was expertly contoured with makeup.

How she avoided breaking a sweat through her foundation after jogging was amazing. Miley had a talent for that—sporting a hot smoky eye while spotting enemies through her sniper scope. Not that I was checking her out or anything.

And who could be so upbeat all the time? Especially given her experiences. It baffled me. Yet, some people who left black ops became the most Zen individuals, even taking vows of silence for world peace.

All horseshit to me. I didn't believe silence accomplished much, especially for the world's injustices, which were too numerous to count. Sure, we all had coping mechanisms—I had my greenhouse and sweet Oscar—but I had no interest in turning my nightmares into snake-oil peddling.

“He’s just… he’s so…” Miley talked about me, perhaps the first time since my arrival. “I don’t know.”

Amy rubbed her friend's shoulder. “Do you know him at all?”

“Not really.”

More lies. I rubbed my neck and avoided a bumblebee. After putting my burner phone into my back pocket, I moved beside the bushes, keeping my distance while maintaining sight of the two women.

Look alive.

But play dead.

Amy beamed. “Then it’s not much of a loss, right?”

Why did they have to be this way? If the rejection hurt, they should say so. I had expected Miley to leave in tears, considering how soft she truly could be on the inside. No amount of Krav Maga could hide the hurt in her delicate heart.

I reminded myself that I should know better—I've seen what she's seen. But how could I know better when all she did was spew those disgustingly positive mantras? They weren't even mantras; they were cultish phrases that made her sound like a robot. In my mind, I preferred feeling the hurt and fear, not ignoring it.

People like Miley didn't make sense to me. It was a good thing we weren't actually real mates; I'd grow tired of that quickly.

"He's kind of handsome," Amy added. "Pale, though."

I snorted and rolled my eyes. Every woman seemed to want a tall, dark, and handsome guy without even considering if he could protect her.

Miley shrugged. "I don't mind."

My eyes couldn't have rolled any harder. "Gee, thanks."

Amy tapped her chin. "And the tattoos?"

"Who doesn't have tattoos these days?"

Despite disliking her attitude, she had a nice way of defending me—even after I rejected her. Maybe she wasn't half bad.

Amy wrinkled her nose. "The hair..."

"It's just white hair, Amy. What do you want? To marry him?"

Amy let out a loud nasty laugh.

Not one bit of that sound pierced my heart. I was a steel fortress, and women like them wouldn't ever get to me. Never.

Amy skipped forward a few feet, turning around and jogging backward to match Miley's pace. "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying maybe it's not that big of a deal."

"Ginny got him a place here. He must be important to her."

"Then she should mate with him."

Miley shook her head. "Ginny already has a mate, remember? Slater." She sighed. "Alonso doesn't seem bad. He just seems grumpy."

Wow, what a vote of confidence. While I didn't exude positivity, I didn't think I was that dark. I maintained a realistic view of the world—acknowledging its horrifying aspects.

"Yeah, he seems kind of..." Amy trailed off, pointing to her right temple. "You know, maybe there are some screws loose up there."

I growled, shuffling behind a tree and pausing for a second. Loose screws? Seriously?

Miley stopped and turned around. "Amy, did you hear something?"