Logan

Brie keeps toying with her coffee mug. It’s like a nervous tick. Like she needs to do something with her hands at all times.

If I were in a different state of mind, I’d probably be thinking about what those hands would feel like braced against my chest. I would again be questioning why I rejected her, ignoring and damn near forgetting why I needed to in the first place.

But right now, I’m blinded by absolute, stunning rage.

“Brie–”

“Not many,” she says under her breath. “Maybe… ten Alphas.”

I close my eyes, trying to pull myself together. Of course, I’ve seen the headlines, which are normally dominated...