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My lips twist into a smirk at the stupid joke, but it helps somewhat to push me onward.
My lungs are heaving with exertion by the time I make it into the side yard. Their voices are louder, closer, but there’s an edge to them that makes my omega shiver in anticipation. A possessive hint that makes the slick between my legs flow unchecked. Close. So fucking close.
I need to move faster, need to get to them. So I edge closer to the house and use it to drag myself to standing. It’s nearly impossible, but I draw on my years of living with RMD to force my muscles to move, my legs to lock, to support my weight, and then I lean on the siding and slide closer to the sounds of my alphas.
I reach the corner and peek around just as a sharp female whine breaks through the night. It makes my possessive omega stand up, ready to fight for her alphas, but I’m also confused.
My blurry gaze focuses and I draw in a quick gasping breath before my lungs shut down entirely, squeezed by the sight that greets me.
No. No, not again. Not a-fucking-gain.
My chest feels too tight. Just like it did seven years ago. I can’t look away. They’re standing too close. All of them are standing too fucking close to her. To this new omega. What the hell is happening?
I watch as she smiles up at Jackson, a dimple popping up on her cheek. Her hand skates down his chest, lingers for the slightest moment over the buckle of his belt. He purrs—fucking purrs—for her.
My mouth goes dry. I sway, my feet trip over themselves and I catch myself on the wall. Well, not catch so much as crash into it. My vision goes blurry from lack of oxygen and tears.
I need to breathe. Need air. So I lean against the wall and make myself inhale, suck air into my lungs only to choke. Lust is thick in the air, so much so that it coats my tongue and my throat, my lungs.
Not for me. Never for me.
My heart is pounding too hard in my chest, too fast. Like I’ve run a fucking marathon. I’m pretty sure it’s going to explode.
This is how I die, folks. Betrayed yet again by my fated mates. Rejected in the middle of a violent synthetic heat.
Yeah, I’m definitely going to fucking die.
My blurry vision spikes from black to red and back again.
My knees give out and I slump to the ground. My chin hits my chest, while my hazy brain tries to scramble for a reason for this to be happening. But all I can see is the five of them, surrounding Yasmin overlaid by the five of them around this nameless omega.
You aren’t enough, Vee. You’re never enough.
They’re the last words I think before darkness takes me.
Rule 28: Your instincts aren’t always right
Something is wrong. There’s a drum banging at the back of my head, telling me that this entire situation isn’t right. But the omega in front of me smells so damn good, honeyed nectarines. Her pheromones are thick in the air, making my cock hard and heavy between my legs.
She’s on the verge of a heat. I can smell it. We all can. It’s putting me on the edge of a rut. My alpha pushing me to fuck, to bite, to claim. God, the smell is so fucking good. Like home. Like the place where I belong, and yet, somewhere in my hazy fucking brain, there’s an alarm blaring that. This. Isn’t. Right.
Sylvie. The name comes to me like a flash and I jolt. My gaze runs over the omega. Her white blond hair with dark roots, the piercing in her nose. She looks like Sylvie, but not. She smells like my mate, but not. What the hell is going on?
I grit my teeth and try to focus, to battle back my hindbrain enough to figure out why I have such conflicting emotions. It’s damn hard when my knot is throbbing, desperate for release, desperate to lock into my omega and spill my seed into her repeatedly, to bite her, to breed her.
“Alpha?” The omega in front of me all but whines, and I both feel the need to soothe her and get as far from her as possible. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Her hand drifts down my chest as Ford moves in on her side, his hand gripping her hair and tilting her head to run his nose along her neck. She tenses for the briefest of moments, a flicker of fear scents the air, sulfuric and acrid.
A purr rumbles in my chest, even though I’m still trying to figure out why that burst of fear is wrong. But in the next moment, the omega pushes onto her toes, her arms wind around my neck as she pushes her lush little body into my hands, against my erection, and then she pulls my face down to hers.
Her lips meet mine, hungry, claiming. She moans, and I fist her hair, tilting her head just right to thrust my tongue into her mouth. She tastes… wrong. The kiss should taste like honey and nectarines, like the scent on the air around us. But she tastes like bitter hazelnut and dark chocolate.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
It’s not my mate.
The voice in my head thunders.
