What they like.
What they hate.
How they want to be spoken to.
How they want to be touched—if they even want me touching them at all.
I’ll have to learn their rhythms, their moods, how they take their coffee and what sets them off. I’ll have to figure out who snaps when they’re tired and who goes silent when they’re angry.
Why couldn’t I have been one of the lucky omegas that died when rejected?
“Tadeo,” Knox says. “Grab your stuff, then you and Alex need to head down to the river.”
Tadeo?
I don’t remember that name. It’s so strange.
I latch onto it, let it swirl around in my head a few times. The syllables feel soft and out of place as I repeat them again and again in my head.
“Here we are.” Knox tightens his hold on me, crushing me against his firm chest, as he ducks and steps inside the small tent.
I tense—at least, I try to—but my muscles don’t respond right away. There’s a delay, like my body’s confused about what I want it to do. My head tips against his shoulder without meaning to. I hate how helpless I must look, and how heavy I feel.
Inside the tent, it’s warm and quiet. Dim golden light glows from a lantern hanging in the corner, casting soft shadows against the rough walls. It smells like earth and trees and this new, strange pack. It should make my skin prickle, but my head is full of too much fog.
Knox moves slowly, lowering me onto a pile of blankets. “There you go.” He lifts my feet, placing them under a rough, patchwork quilt.
I sink into the warmth without meaning to, my fingers curling into something fleece. I don’t even realize I’m clinging to the material until my knuckles ache. It’s soft in a way I haven’t felt in so long, I almost want to cry.
Crouching nearby, Knox watches me touch the pile of mismatched blankets. They’re all different textures and colors, arranged in a messy nest of sorts. Some of the blankets look scratchy, worn out. Some look thick and utilitarian. But the one on top is so soft. Thick. Clean.
“Is it comfortable?” Knox asks. His long black hair falls forward, and he tucks it behind his ear. He looks so wild. Like a warrior or a mountain man. “Skyla?” His brow furrows, waiting for me to say something.
I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue’s too dry and my thoughts stumble over each other. So instead, I drop my gaze and listen—to the wind in the trees, the quiet shuffle of footsteps outside the tent, to low voices fading into the distance.
They’re all waiting out there for their pack alpha to fuck me.
That’s how it goes: the pack alpha first. The rest of the alphas next, and then the beta last.I’ve been through this before.
I draw in a trembling breath, and my hands shake a little, but not from cold.
There’s no point in putting this off.
I ease my shoulders out of Knox’s flannel, making the shirt slip off. I fold it the way I’ve been taught. Neat and respectful. Then I pull the pink nightie over my head, careful not to fall over or sway too much, even though the ground shifts a little under me. I set the nightie beside the flannel. Folded. Like a good omega.
Bare and exposed, I settle back down on the soft blankets, legs stretched out before me.
My heart is racing, beating so hard against my breastbone, I can even feel it in my ears. My hands rest in my lap because I don’t know where else to put them. My skin feels too tight, and my head is too full and too empty at once.
I pull in a deep breath, bracing myself, then I look up.
But Knox isn’t looking at me.
He’s staring at the scratchy floor of the tent, jaw tense, fists loose at his sides. Not relaxed. Not interested. Just… still. Like he’s trying very hard not to move.
Not to look.
I blink, confused, as a million questions barrel throughme. Did I do something wrong? Did I move too slow? Is this some kind of test?
