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I count ten rooms, not including the gym, along with twelve bathrooms.
Who needs twelve bathrooms?
Before Dylan and Killian stayed here, it must have been incredibly lonely, and my heart aches at the thought.
But I wouldn’t be surprised if Brock is like me and throws himself into his work, leaving little time for loneliness to creep in.
And now that I haven’t been working, everything is creeping in.
Dylan brings me delicious meals every day, merely dropping it off outside my bedroom door. I mutter a
‘thank you’ every time he brings me a plate, and he gives me a shy smile before leaving.
Even Killian respects my boundaries, but still tries to push the limit.
They leave packages outside my door every morning, like a twisted peace offering.
Sometimes clothes, the softest sweatshirts and leggings I’ve ever worn.
And occasionally, racy lingerie, with lace-up black corsets and delicate silk garters.
I know who those are from—they practically reek of Killian.
My bag sits on the nightstand next to my bed—someone placed it there when I went to explore the house the other day.
But as I swallow my suppressant, a troubling thought brews in my mind.
Warily, I shake out the pills, counting them in my hand.
Three.
There’s three left.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Oh, God.”
What happens when I run out?
I already know the answer, and my Omega screams in excitement.
First it will be withdrawals, my body crying out for something it needs.
Then…
Well, it’ll be a fucking orgy in here.
I should be disgusted.
But the thought turns me on, and I bite my lip in frustration.
I could have all three of them. They could take turns…
“What the fuck,” I hiss to myself. “This is fucking Stockholm Syndrome.”
No. I need suppressants, and soon.
I don’t have time to think about Killian’s eyes, Brock’s hands, Dylan’s smile…
Stop!
I can’t get attached. Iwon’t.
So, as much as I can, I shove the attraction aside, and seek out the one person in the house that may be up for illegal activities.
