grunts and protests. Misery, who’s taking to being an Alpha’s mate a little too well, commands me to “come to bed in the Southwest right now. Without dinner.” “Wrong meal, Misery. Also, I don’t take orders from the chick who once gave me toenail fungus.” “Shut up. Acknowledge me as your Alpha!” “Love, we’ve been over this,” Lowe murmurs, patting her knee. “It’s not how it works.”
