CHAPTER 35: GAME PLAN

Chapter 35

(Ronan POV)

It’s a little hard to make moves on your grandmother’s apprentice when your best friend is sex-starved, emotionally unstable, and parked in your bed like a possessed cat.

"Just because you’ve had no action doesn’t mean you have to interrupt my attempts at getting action," I say, delivering a swift kick to her butt as she sprawls dramatically across my duvet.

Lenora rolls over with a mournful groan. "Let’s be sexless together."

I groan louder. "Don’t jinx me."

I swear, I’m not going anywhere with Simone until Lenora vacates my space and my life.

I sigh and lean against the doorframe, arms folded like a long-suffering martyr. "Okay, what do you suggest we do then?"

She rolls again, turning to face the ceiling like it personally betrayed her. "I don’t know. Make him want me."

I squint at her. "I could whip up an aphrodisiac."

"Noo...." She refuses.

"I need a plan," Lenora groans. "I can’t go another day with him doing absolutely nothing. My mate is a brick wall. A gorgeous, emotionally grounded, sexy-as-hell brick wall."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," I say, falling back onto the bed beside her.

"It is when all I want is for him to bend me over the nearest surface," she replies.

"Charming."

"Honest."

I sit up. "Alright, what do you want me to do about it? I’ve already offered to brew an aphrodisiac."

"I’m not drugging my mate, Ronan!" she says, sitting up indignantly.

"It’s herbal stimulation," I say with a shrug. "Not a war crime."

"Fine," I mutter, raising my hands. "What do you suggest then, O Wolf of Endless Thirst?"

"I don’t knoooooowwwww," she whines, voice muffled in my pillow.

And then—like a divine answer to my prayers—the goddess incarnate strolls into my room. Simone. She knocks lightly first, but doesn’t wait for an invitation. She never does.

I swear the goddess herself molded her from moonlight and sin. The beads around her waist are the devil’s handiwork. Do they come off? Do they stay on during sex? These are the theological questions I need answered.

She catches me staring and arches an amused brow, hand resting on her hip like some kind of waist-beaded siren sent to destroy my focus.

"You’re supposed to be helping me look at herbs in the forest," she says, voice lazy and laced with sass.

I scramble upright like a schoolboy caught ogling the teacher. "Right. Yes. Herbs. Very important. Love herbs."

Then, with absolutely no remorse, I throw Lenora under the bus. "Quick question: is your boss not attracted to my best friend here?"

Simone tilts her head, curious. "Impossible. He had wet dreams about a beautiful white-haired woman for months."

Lenora bolts upright in my bed. "Really?! Then why won’t he touch me?"

Simone shrugs. "Don’t know. But I do know he won’t resist if you try."

Lenora goes suspiciously quiet. The plotting kind of quiet. I watch the gears turn in her head like she’s planning a siege.

A moment later, she hops off my bed with renewed purpose. "Thanks. That just helped me clear my mind."

She storms off, wild-eyed and possibly dangerous.

Simone raises a hand. "Oh, Lenora—if Ronan ever takes you to the crystal pond and says something about showing you something at the bottom, he just wants to fuck you, by the way."

Then she turns and leaves after her, smirking like the chaos fairy she is.

I stare at the door. "That bitch."

***

(Lenora POV)

What I’ve taken from that conversation is this—why am I waiting for Cameron to make the first move?

I’m his mate. He’s mine. The bond is already there, simmering, thick in the air between us every time we so much as glance at each other. I can feel it—his yearning, his restraint. And yeah, I respect it. If he doesn’t want to act on it, I’ll honor that.

But I’ll be damned if I sit here and just pine like some tragic maiden in a romance novel waiting to be chosen.

If he won’t make the first move, fine.

I will.

Respectfully. Sensually. Strategically.

And if he still doesn’t take the bait?

Then I’ll try harder.

I get home, head through my clothes, and find what I’m looking for. When I pull them out of the drawer, I snicker—an honest-to-goddess evil little laugh.

He’s not ready for this.

In my hands are two very interesting pieces of clothing. Both dresses. Except the first is a nightdress from my early teens—cotton, short, and clinging in all the wrong places. It barely covers my ass now and gives the illusion of innocence while doing absolutely nothing to conceal my grown-woman curves.

The second is a shirt dress. A cute, simple, absolutely normal dress you’d wear on a first date to brunch. Except I have my mother’s body. And unfortunately—or in this case very fortunately—it makes even the most innocent clothing look like I’m auditioning for a role in someone’s wet dream.

I hold both up to the light and tilt my head.

"What message am I sending?" I murmur to myself. "The ’oops, I didn’t know I was hot’ or the ’I definitely knew and good luck surviving it’?"

Honestly, I’m here complaining about Cameron not touching me, but I’ve been spending every day in baggy t-shirts, oversized sweatshirts, and shorts that scream "camp counselor" not "come get it." It’s no wonder the poor man thinks I’m trying to preserve his virtue.

Well I’m not.

It’s time to show that.

Let him cling to his noble intentions if he wants—I’ll be the storm that washes them away.

And if this still doesn’t work, I have Plan B.

Which is: ditch all clothing entirely.

And Goddess help him if we get to Plan C—because that’s where I start chanting breed me and lock the door from the inside.

Let’s start with a little chaos.

I peel off my clothes and tug the nightdress over my head. It rides up on the sides, the neckline a little lower than I remember. I glance in the mirror. My nipples are clearly visible under the thin fabric.

Goddess.

Perfect

Game on, Mr. Anderson.