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Numb, I sprawl in the center of my bed wearing nothing but Evan’s stained green hoodie. Of course, I haven’t taken off the diamond hoop earrings and pendant that my pack gave me as a bonding gift. They saved up for years to afford them. I will never take them off again.

Compulsively, I stroke over the hoodie’s sleeve. I hold Beau’s faded leather jacket to my nose, breathing in its scent.

I chase after the phantom scent of wildflower, black coffee, and tattoo ink.

Sophie, my sister, insists that the scents must have faded by now.

But if they have…then I will have lost my pack for a second time.

I can still smell them.

I can.

I clutch the jacket tighter to my chest.

My muscles ache. My limbs feel too heavy.

When my stomach rumbles, I ignore it.

What do I need to get up for anyway?

It’s not like I have any guests staying at the inn or anything to do.

Here’s to another day of lying in bed, safe and alone.

A fly buzzes, landing on my stomach, but I can’t be bothered to wave it away. It is the first touch that I have had in weeks.

I stare at the torn-up ivory blankets and pillows that lie in a feathery massacre on the walnut floor of my dusty bedroom, among the dirty mugs and plates.

My nest was shattered along with my bond.

Every time that I try to build myself a nest, it feels too cold and empty.

In the first months after…what happened…I followed Beau and Evan’s last commands like it would bring them back to me, after my sister had found me in heat, suffering from Shattered Bond Syndrome, and brought me to Oak Hollow Community Hospital.

After that instinct passed, and my pack didn’t return, I destroyed my nest instead.

Sunlight struggles to break around the corners of my bedroom’s shutters.

I avoid looking at the piles of foreclosure letters, which litter the floor underneath the window, most unopened.

I can’t think about the letters now.

I also haven’t been able to face the bank for months. I have been barely able to dress myself, let alone deal with demands for money that I don’t have.

How can I, when Beau’s business closed, I was stuck in the hospital, then returned home in grief unable to open my inn?

Most of all, I avoid the equally large pile of scarlet love letters, each reeking of Devlin’s rotting-peach scent. Though dressed up as courtship, the almost-daily letters read more like business proposals.

Devlin will pay off my debts and save my dream inn. But only if I become his Omega and start a new life on his ranch.

My lips twist up in a snarl.

Does Devlin reckon that it’s a good offer?

I have not replied to a single letter.

I would rather burn this place to the ground like he threatened than trade myself like property to save it.