Chosen as the Cursed Alpha's Seventh Bride

Sebastian’s POV

She was challenging my boundaries, wasn’t she? Absolutely.

I stood up and walked away without a backward glance. Let her sit there with her beer. See if I cared.

My footsteps echoed on the pavement as I headed toward the car. The night air had turned sharp. I fished the key from my pocket, the metal cold against my palm.

"You’re really going to leave her there? " Ryder’s voice rumbled through my mind, disapproving.

"She made her choice," I muttered.

"She’s drunk."

I stood there, key in hand, staring at the car door. Just open it. Get in. Drive away. Prove the point.

Except my hand wouldn’t move.

Ryder reminded me quietly. "She said you’re the same. That’s why you came looking for her tonight, isn’t it? Because for one goddamn moment, you felt less alone."

I squeezed my eyes shut. "I must have lost my mind."

"Maybe. But you’re still standing here."

"Fuck." I shoved the key back in my pocket and turned around.

When I got back to the food court, my blood pressure spiked immediately.

Emilia had face-planted on the table, asleep. And some asshole in a leather jacket was leaning over her, one hand reaching for her shoulder.

I crossed the distance in seconds, my growl low and lethal. "Touch her and you’ll lose that hand."

The guy jerked back, eyes wide. "Whoa, man, I was just—"

"Leaving." I bared my teeth slightly, letting just enough of Ryder’s presence bleed through. "Now."

He bolted.

I looked down at Emilia. Her face was smashed against her arms, mouth slightly open, hair falling across her cheek. Completely vulnerable. Completely unaware of the danger she’d just been in.

Something twisted in my chest—hot and possessive and unwelcome.

I shrugged off my blazer and draped it over her shoulders. Then I hooked one of her arms around my neck and hauled her up. She mumbled something incoherent against my shoulder, her breath warm through my shirt.

"Come on, lightweight," I muttered. "Let’s get you home."

Getting her into the car was an exercise in patience. She kept trying to "help" by flailing her limbs randomly.

"Stop moving," I growled, finally managing to dump her into the passenger seat.

I went around to the driver’s side, slid in, and reached across to fasten her seatbelt.

"Why are you so close to me?" Her voice was drowsy, eyes half-lidded.

"Don’t move," I repeated, clicking the buckle into place.

I started to pull back—and her arms locked around my neck.

I froze.

We were inches apart. Her clear blue eyes, usually so guarded, stared into mine with hazy openness. I could feel every exhale against my lips.

"You know," she said seriously, "you don’t have a good temper. But you’re still good-looking."

Before I could respond, her hand came up to trace my jaw. My cheekbone. The bridge of my nose. Exploring my face like I was some fascinating sculpture.

I should have pushed her away. Should have snapped at her for the invasion of space.

I didn’t move.

Her touch was feather-light, curious. No one had touched me like that—gentle, almost reverent—since...

Then Emilia leaned her head against my shoulder, and my entire body went rigid.

"Alright, that’s enough." I shoved her back and rolled down the window. Cold air hit my face like a slap.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I started the engine and peeled out of there, tires squealing.

Halfway home, her voice drifted through the dark interior of the car, soft and slurred.

"Don’t fall in love with me... please don’t... I won’t fall in love with you either..."

I snorted. "Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You’re not exactly the world’s most irresistible woman."

She didn’t hear me. Already half-asleep again, head lolling against the window.

But something about those words dug under my skin and stayed there.

The house was still lit up when we arrived. Of course it was. My family had probably been camped out in the living room, waiting to interrogate us.

I helped Emilia out of the car and we stumbled through the front door.

"Oh my God, what’s going on?" My mother rushed forward, eyes wide. Then her nose wrinkled. "Did she drink?"

"Yes." I kept moving toward the stairs.

"Did you both drink together? Why didn’t either of you answer our calls?"

I ignored her, focusing on getting Emilia up the steps without dropping her.

Behind me, I heard Tiffany’s sly voice. "Mom, something is going on..."

I deposited Emilia onto her bed, and she flopped onto the mattress like a ragdoll as I straightened up, rolling my shoulders.

"Brother!" Tiffany appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of water. "You must be exhausted. Have a drink."

I took it without thinking. I was thirsty. And tired. And confused about why the hell I’d just spent the evening at a food court and then carried a drunk woman home instead of leaving her there to learn a lesson about listening to me.

I raised the glass to my lips—

Emilia shot upright and lunged.

"Give it to me!" She snatched the glass from my hand. "I’m thirsty..."

"Hey, you can’t drink—" Tiffany yelped, reaching out.

The glass hit the floor and shattered into a spray of water and fragments.

The three of us stared at the mess.

"Did you add poison to the water?" I asked flatly, looking at my sister.

"No! No, of course not!" Tiffany’s voice went up.

"Then why can’t she drink it?"

"It’s for you! My dear brother. How can I let Emilia drink it..." She trailed off.

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Aren’t you usually on her side? Since when do you care about me?"

Tiffany swallowed hard. "I’m always on your side, brother! I’m... I’m going to sleep now. Good night!"

She practically sprinted from the room.

I looked down at the broken glass. Then at the door where my sister had just fled. Then I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples.

My mom and Tiffany probably put something in the water. Probably some imported aphrodisiac nonsense my mother had bought.

Just like the fertility soup. Just like every not-so-subtle hint about grandchildren.

And if Emilia hadn’t grabbed it...

I let out a long, incredulous breath. Then, despite everything, I started to laugh.

I couldn’t help it. The absurdity of it all—my family scheming to spike my drink, my drunk wife saving me from sexual enhancement drugs.

"My family," I muttered, shaking my head. "My family is so obsessed with playing matchmaker."