Bro and the Beast 4 (The Wolf's Mate, #4)

by L.C. Davis

"I don't care what destiny says. I choose Brad." My gaze finds his, and the warmth in his eyes chases away the chill trying to settle in my bones. "I'll choose Brad in this universe, and every other."

Steve frowns, eyeing Catalina with open skepticism. "You never told us you had any cousins. You know we share all our cousins. It's like, frat policy, bro."

But this is his den, and these strange fools are his pack. A pack he's clearly the alpha of, so I'm not going to challenge him openly in front of the others.

A smile flickers across Brad's lips. "You really meant all that shit about choosing me in every universe, huh?" "Of course I meant it," I say. "I don't care whether my entire world really was some fantasy concocted by that strange woman, or if this is all just a dream. As long as I have you, it doesn't matter to me."

I imprinted on you, Brad. I love you. Nothing—and no one—is ever going to change that."

Brad looks up at me, more vulnerability in his eyes than I've ever seen before. "They're not just… people in a book anymore. They're people I care about. People I love. And you... you're my world now." He looks away, his face turning red. "God, I'm starting to sound like you." I chuckle, reaching down to tilt his chin toward me. "You're my world, too, Brad. And I love you. More than anything."

"You should know us better than that. We're bros, man, and bros accept each other no matter what. Even if they're getting boned by a gay werewolf." "Especially then," Steve says in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Guys," I say, taking a deep breath, since I decide it's time to officially introduce them. "This is Raul. He's my, uh..." "Mate," Raul offers proudly. I gulp. "Yeah. Mate."

Brad shoots him a glare, cheeks puffed out around his snack. He swallows dramatically. "Stop yucking my yum, bro."

"That's my omega," he growls, lifting me up the rest of the way to carry me into the room and the adjacent shower like he's carrying back a prize.

"You're mine," he says, low and possessive.

"Yours," I agree softly. "For the record, you're mine, too." "Always," he says, his breath rustling my damp hair against my neck.