Page 7 of Played By Design

“No, you weren’t.”

“I was.”

“You shoved it in your pocket. That’s the opposite of putting it on.”

“I was going to put it on after Stackers.”

My excuse gets me nowhere. “As long as you’re unmated, you need to wear it whenever we go out. That’s the rule.”

“I know the rule.”

“Then follow it.”

I take the nape guard, lift it to my neck, and settle it into place.

At least it isn’t the cheap plastic one from when we lived off Kain’s side jobs and whatever my streams brought in while he put himself through programming school. I made enough to help, but not enough to replace my shitty computer when the lag started costing me competitions. Kain did that. Dropped more money than we could afford on a gaming setup fast enough that when I lost, I couldn’t blame the equipment anymore.

He called it an investment.

Turns out he was right.

I hook a finger beneath the nape guard and tug it away from my skin. The leather is an upgrade. Having something wrapped around my neck isn’t.

For one hot, stupid second, a thought forms, the words almost audible.

Just ask him to Mark you.

Then this argument stops, the guard becomes unnecessary, and the next time a stranger gets too close, Kain’s claim will already be there, settled into my skin.

The thought lasts until Kain turns toward me, and I see my lifelong friend. The guy who helped me through my first Heat in the apartment we shared because I asked him to, and he said yes. Who’s kept helping me ever since, because Kain always helps me, and I help him.

We’re friends.

Roommates.

Friends with benefits, if you want to get technical.

We’re not mates and never will be.

2

Stackers glows bright in the dark, the red-and-yellow letters arranged in their signature stagger above the parking lot. Kain pulls into a space near the front. I have my hand on the door handle before the headlights shut off.

Between listening to Kain play in his band tonight and my precious Sweet Stack within reach, I’m vibrating with anticipation.

“Reef.”

I turn back to him. “What?”

His nostrils flare, and his attention shifts from me to the outdoor service window for to-go orders. “You’re too excited to get out of the car.”

I let go of the handle and lift the collar of my sweatshirt to sniff. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Trust me, you’re leaking.” He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a can of pheromone blockers. “Hold still.”

I rear back. “No.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Bunny.”