I guess my bite could be infected. It might even be slowly killing me.
And honestly, I think I’m okay with that.
The first few nights here, I thought being rejected by my alpha would kill me. At least that’s what they taught mein primary school—but apparently, it’s sepsis that’ll actually finish me off.
I hope it doesn’t take too long.
I’m tired of this place.
Tired of the cold.
Tired of the drugs, the silence, the maddening loops of grief, rage, guilt, and hunger—cycling through me like poison, again and again.
At night, I pass the time by thinking about Brayden. I hope he regrets getting rid of me. That he’s out there now, crushed by the weight of what he did. Other times, I picture Martin finding out how Brayden tossed me away. I fantasize about him ripping Brayden’s throat out, shredding his flesh like paper.
I like to imagine the pack alpha’s severed head hitting the floor with a wet thud.
But then guilt for thinking such awful things creeps in.
Followed by hunger.
And grief.
And then I cry myself back to sleep.
Who knew dying was so boring?
Commotion at the far end of the warehouse pulls me from my thoughts. I straighten as much as I can, peering through the bars.
A crack of light slices through the dark as a heavy door swings open, slamming shut behind someone. The guards stiffen, standing a little taller.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” a woman calls, voice smooth and cutting like a blade.
Click. Click. Click.
The overhead lights buzz and pop, then blaze to life, flooding the space with sharp fluorescent glare. My eyes burn. I squeeze them shut, then blink hard against thesudden brightness. Groans echo around me as the others squint and hiss, trying to adjust.
When my vision clears, I can finally see around me. There are at least two dozen cages—maybe more—and each one holds an obviously frightened omega. They all have vacant eyes, matted hair, and tear-streaked faces.
I’m sure I look just as sad.
“Good morning, Angelica,” a guard says, passing my cage. His boots hit heavy against the concrete. “We weren’t expecting you for another hour.”
“Hopefully, you’re ready for me,” the woman replies. Her voice has the unmistakable authority of an alpha. Fear tightens in my belly at the thought of her being anywhere near me.
All the guards here are betas. It’s the only mercy we have. They don’t scent us or stare like we’re prey. They will snap if we make too much noise. But alphas….
I don’t think I can handle being near one right now. Maybe ever.
“Here’s the list of everyone,” the guard says.
I hear the she-alpha’s heels clack—sharp and deliberate—as she walks toward the cages. Then she finally steps into view. She’s tall, fierce, and terrifying. Long black hair falls down her back. Her lips are fire-red, and her eyes are icy blue. Her pencil skirt is so tight I wonder how she can move, but somehow she does, gliding between the cages like she owns the world.
“How many omegas in total?” she asks, scanning the list in her hand.
“Twenty-two,” the guard replies.
Angelica pauses, then frowns as her gaze passes over every cage. “I count twenty-three.” She gives him a cold, pointed look.
