Page 136 of Savage Surrender

“Only condoms?” Clara’s eyes widen, and a nervous laugh slips out before she presses her lips together. “Sorry. I—once your heat pulls them into rut, stopping long enough to open one and put it on correctly every single time is going to be hard. I’m trying not to be crass.”

“You can be crass with me.”

Clara rubs two fingers between her eyebrows. “Rut brain, sweaty hands, a condom torn and unnoticed in the rush... That’s what worries me.”

“We’ll be careful,” Freddie says. “If it isn’t on, we stop.”

“I believe you, Freddie,” Clara says. “But I also don’t want that to be the only thing standing between her and a pregnancy.”

“A prescription puts my name and location into a system. Someone was blocking the suppressants.”

“Let me call Ben.” Clara glances toward Winston. “I need to ask what we can access and whether there’s anything that works fast enough.”

After Clara promises to call Ben, Winston shows us to our room. A twin bed sits against each wall. Megan throws her bag on one, and I mentally do the math on whether Freddie and I will both fit on the other.

Winston looks at me pointedly. “Do not leave this house without telling me.”

“Okay.”

He nods once and limps out with Clara, leaving the door open behind them.

Megan collects our phones and arranges them across the nightstand with the volume turned all the way up. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. If someone calls and needs help, I want to have a clearer head.”

“Good idea. Me too.”

Freddie sits on the edge of the bed and pulls the chair from the small desk in front of him. He sets a brush and hair ties beside him. “Your hair is a mess, baby. Let me brush it and braid it for you before bed.”

I drop into the chair between his knees and let him work his fingers through the knots. I haven’t brushed it since before my rendezvous with Mother Nature, and apparently she’s vindictive. My shirt drags over my breasts when I breathe, and even that is beginning to become unbearable.

I sigh. “My nipples really hurt.”

Megan rolls onto her side and looks at us. “If you two are planning to start bumping uglies soon, I’m gonna go sleep on the couch.”

The retort is sitting on my tongue when Winston knocks against the open doorframe, but something is wrong. His face is slack, and his eyes are wide.

“Montgomery is dead.”

He’s dead? Like... dead dead? My heart lodges in my throat.

“Ben was working when they brought him in,” Winston says. “He was already in cardiac arrest after an anaphylactic reaction. They worked him, but he was pronounced dead. Mom was taken in for questioning.”

29

WELLER

Burnt Amber. Blackcurrant. Herbs.

Cold concrete against my face.

I try to open my eyes, but it hurts. Harsh white light has me squeezing them shut again.

I blink through the pain. Inches from my face, polished shoes shine beneath tailored dress pants, and above them, one hand is clenched hard enough to bleach the knuckles.

My father stands over me. “On your knees.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, but the alpha command snaps through me, and my body tries to obey before the rest of me catches up. I brace one shoulder against the concrete and drag a knee beneath me, but my bound ankles pull together, and pain tears up my bad leg.

Two guards seize me under the arms and haul me the rest of the way. I barely have time to get my balance before my father’s fist catches me across the mouth. They release me, and I land on my shoulder with my cheek against the concrete again.