A hand slaps against the window, and I see dark brown eyes.
Cliff.
His black hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. Blood is smeared across his cheekbone, and his chest is heaving as he runs alongside the van.
"Open the fucking door!" His voice is raw, shredded, barely recognizable through the glass.
Adam slams on the brakes. Perrin reaches back and wrenches the sliding door open, and Raff shifts me in his arms, sliding to one side of the bench seat to make room.
Cliff throws himself inside.
He hits the bench hard, his weight rocking the van. He's barely in before Adam floors it again, the tires shrieking on the asphalt, and the door slides shut from the momentum.
And the first thing I see is blood.
Cliff’s knuckles are split and swelling. There's a gash above his left eyebrow that's dripping blood down the side of his face. And his left arm is wet with red. It’s dark and soaking through the torn sleeve of his shirt, running down his bicep in a thin river.
This is all my fault.
"Come, omega." Cliff reaches for me, his right hand extended, palm up and fingers open.
My body leans toward him, but Raff's grip tightens on my hips. His fingers dig in and I feel the alpha’s chest expand in one slow, measured breath. Then his hands loosen. He lifts me by the waist and shifts me off his lap.
Cliff's arms close around me before the air between us has time to cool.
The second his body touches mine, something inside me releases.
A tension I didn't know I was carrying unravels all atonce. My bones and muscles and nerves all sag with relief the moment Cliff’s arms lock around me and his scent fills my lungs. The mating bite on my neck throbs, warm and steady, recognizing him.
Safe. Mate. Home.
My stomach aches and slick pushes from my body in a slow, humiliating wave. And I can’t help it anymore. I cry.
An ugly sob tears out of my chest in uncontrollable, shuddering gasps.
The dam breaks, and everything behind it comes flooding out. Fear, pain, guilt, followed by the bone-deep shame of what I've done today.
"I'm s-sorry." The words come out broken and wet, pressed into Cliff’s chest. "I'm so sorry. I can't—I can't stop it. I can't stop my b-body. I tried and I—I can't and I'm s-sorry."
His hand cups the back of my head. His lips press against my temple.
"It's okay." His voice is rough, his chest still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. "You're safe, omega. We're taking you home."
Home.
I don't have a home. I haven't had one in three years.
Another cramp rolls through me, deep and savage, clenching my abdomen so hard my vision whites out. But this time I don't grind down. I don't roll my hips or chase the pressure or beg for relief.
I sit in Cliff’s lap and let the pain burn through me, my forehead pressed against his collarbone, my tears soaking into his torn shirt.
I deserve this.
Every wave of it. Every cramp and throb and humiliating gush of slick. I deserve it because I assaulted a man Ididn't know in a storage tent. Because I put my hands on someone else's mate. Because I lost control so completely that four strangers had to fight their way out of a black market to save me.
On top of that, the cover I spent three years building has been completely blown. Everything I’ve been through…the loneliness and chemical suppression and the fear that ate me from the inside out…it was all for nothing.
And not to mention my notebooks.
