The Heir Apparent's Rejected Mate (Five Packs, #2)

by Cate C. Wells

Scavengers, by nature, treasure small things. A bottle cap. A word. An act of common decency.

expectation is reality.

I inhale and try to nail the scent down. It’s a combination—fresh cut pine shavings, tree bark after a few days of rain, old bookshelves in the library that have soaked in sun.

I’m clammy and irritated and unsettled. I want to unzip my skin.

“Fuck.” She wraps an arm around my waist. Even though it’s hot as hell, I don’t shrug her off. “Damn it all to hell,” I groan. “Son of a bitch,” she agrees. “Motherfucker,” Bevan pipes in. “What are we cursing about? Or who? Whatever, I’m down. Fuck ’em all.”

I have no desire to dwell on shit I cannot change.

It feels like I took a kick to the gut. Well, wasn’t I cocky? Of course, words can knock you down.

He tastes like the forest, not like dirt or plants, but like the wide openness of it, the sunshine, the earthiness. Kissing him feels like summer afternoons, like thawed ground in spring, like the first snow of winter.

“I hope what you’re looking for is in there,” Abertha says. The words are a blessing and a lie—we both know that what I’m looking for can’t be found. And we both know the powerful hold of the things we’ve lost.

It’s the better of two bad choices. Kind of my life. No good or right choice, only a decision between which shit sandwich I’d prefer today.

I can do this. I have to, so I can.

a Pandora’s box of shitty feelings that I can’t open—I can only smack it with a metaphorical stick every time it rattles around in my brain.

My thoughts chase themselves like squirrels up and down tree trunks until all the sleepless nights overcome me,

We can make promises, and mean them with all our hearts, but when it comes down to it, we can’t keep them. That’s life.