Page 143 of Traded

I can’t get out.

Finally, I let my hand drop and roll over. The ceiling blurs in and out.

He took my phone. My fucking phone. I can’t call for help, and a small sob ripples out into the empty apartment.

We must have a spare phone somewhere.

A tablet. Anything. The air around me feels like it’s warping as I drag myself upright by sheer force of will, stumblingoff furniture and walls as I slowly push myself through the apartment, searching for anything I can use.

But there’s nothing aside from an old tablet Carter dropped, the screen cracked beyond repair. I sink down to the floor in the kitchen, almost knocking myself out on the edge of a drawer as a wave of heat flashes over my skin, sweat beading across my forehead.

My abdomen cramps in a sudden, clenchingtug.

“No,” I breathe.

No, no, no.

But it happens again. And again, and again, over and over until I’m doubled over, my head pressed to the tiled floor in an attempt to force it away.

My heat isn’t due for another two months.

But my body clearly hasn’t got that memo, because it’s telling me in no uncertain terms that my heat is happening right now, whether I like it or not.

Small whimpers fall from my mouth as I drag myself to the window. My hands bang against the reinforced glass in a plea that I already know is pointless, because nobody is paying any attention to the twentieth floor.

Another cramp curls my spine in a brutal contortion, and a flash of fear seeps in amongst the agony.

I need an alpha. My alpha. I need Carter, but he’s not here.

This could be bad.Really fucking bad.

My hands shake as I press them to my face, trying to think through the haze.

This is how it starts. The temperature. The cramps. The pain.

And from there, it will only get worse, unless I can stop it. Biting down on my cheek so heavily I can taste my own blood, I make for Carter’s bedroom.

It’s upside down. Pushing aside the clothes and shit he tossed around earlier, I start digging through the drawers of his dresser for painkillers. Aspirin. Anything.

Pain management. Temperature control. Hydration. My mouth shapes them on repeat, as if I might be able to hold off the coming avalanche by sheer mental fortitude.

I yank open the last drawer, ripping it from its hinges, and try to make sense of what greets me.

So many bottles and packets and crumpled, scribbled prescriptions that I couldn’t possibly hold them in both hands. I pick one up, and then another. There must be dozens of them, dating all the way back to the end of last season.

But every single one is empty.

An orange pill bottle cracks in my hand.

I need—

Knot.

My head twists violently as if I could shake the thought off. But it pushes in, insistent claws digging into my skull as I stumble back.

Knot.

Another whine. Low and desperate as my body tugs and pulls and demands andneeds.My hands bury in softness as I drag them to my nose, inhaling deeply.