I know I should let go.
But some contrary part of me—the part that spent too many years in chains and learned to want things I couldn't have—doesn't want to.
So instead, I let my lips curve into a smile.
Not the friendly kind.
The kind that promises mischief, chaos, and the understanding that nothing about this interaction is normal or safe.
"Sweet," I murmur.
I don't specify what I mean.
Let her wonder.
Finally—reluctantly—I release her wrist.
She stumbles back, putting distance between us that does nothing to diminish the way her scent has already infiltrated my system. Cotton candy in my lungs. Sugar in my bloodstream. Sweetness coating every thought I try to form.
Something falls.
I hear it hit the floor—the soft whisper of paper on linoleum—but I'm too focused on watching her to look down. She's fascinating in motion, all nervous energy and barely contained chaos. Her fingers tap against her thigh in that counting pattern. Her toe twitches inside the blood-stained ballet shoe.
Then she crouches.
Picks something up.
And my heart stops.
"You dropped this," she says, straightening.
She's holding an envelope.
Myenvelope.
The letter I was here to send—the one I've been writing for weeks, filled with careful words and half-truths and the desperation of someone trying to maintain a connection they probably shouldn't have.
My pen pal.
S.E.
The mysterious girl who's been writing to me for five years, sealing each letter with pink wax and drops of blood that I've never asked about but always noticed. The one person outside my pack who knows anything real about me, even if she doesn't know my name.
Even if I don't know hers.
"The post office isn't taking letters anymore," she continues, and her voice has that bright, broken quality that tells me she'sforcing cheerfulness she doesn't feel. "Packless Omegas can't use the postal services, so if you were planning to?—"
She stops.
I watch the realization cross her face—the understanding that whatever rule prevents her from sending letters doesn't apply to me.
"Oh." The syllable falls flat. "Nevermind. That doesn't apply to you."
I raise an eyebrow.
Just one.
It's a question I don't verbalize:Why doesn't it apply? What makes you different?
