*Polly*
For a long time, I don’t move, my muscles frozen, my eyes shut. The bitterness in my stomach threatens to rise into my throat.
Fighting for control, I don’t even notice at first when a pair of boots moves directly into my line of vision.
Standing up and meeting my mate’s eyes takes every bit of backbone I have. But stand I do, and I meet his eyes, too. And I see exactly what I expect: shame. That answers my last, lingering question. He had never wanted to marry me.
So I steel myself. “I hope you enjoyed that,” I say finally. “As I’m sure you have guessed, it’s the very last time your mate will service you.”
“Poppy.”
“Must I spell it out?”
“Don’t leave me,” he says, choking out the words.
I retreat behind a thick ice wall, where I feel utterly calm. And my brain is working w
