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24
Royal Alpha Roar. “Hand on her waist.” “Bosom on the Royal Alpha’s chest.” Madam Cornelius’s voice is stupid and she enforces her words by pushing Serayah to me until I can feel her softness. Serayah is the only one that gasps. I, on the other hand react to by jamming my teeth together. This—this damn proximity—drags me back to the time where my hand was around her freckled swell, when I fought to ignore what she looked like, what she felt like. “Your hand on his shoulder. You’re quite short, Luna. Next time, wear heels,” Cornelius remarks then signals for the music to begin. Serayah’s hand anchors itself on my shoulder. It’s tentative, unsure, unlike my grip on her waist, which I know is firm. While she lacks the confidence to meet my gaze, I don’t shy from studying her. Her face—ti
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