I sit in the passenger seat of his absurdly expensive sports car, staring out the window at the city blurring past. Daylight glints off steel and glass, but the view feels flat, meaningless.
My face is a mask of bored irritation. Beside me, Moon Arden drives with an infuriating calm, his eyes fixed on the road.
I don't get it.
I really don't get it.
What is his problem with Angel?
Weren't they written in the stars?
Destined for a love so epic it defined the novel?
Instead, they're avoiding each other like the plague, reacting to each other's presence with the chilly politeness of silent enemies.
It's all wrong.
Moon glances over at me, his perfect brow arching slightly.
"Can't you at least try to look like you're enjoying this? You're sitting there like I kidnapped you."
My gaze slides slowly to him, deadpan.
I agree with you, I think, the words bitter and silent in my mind.
You prideful Alpha.
