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I take a deep breath, as deep as I can while my body steams like a sauna.
I’ve been fighting every day of my life.
Now I’m fighting legit thugs instead of hormonal teen omegas, but even though this heat is wrecking me, making me want to curl up like a cooked shrimp, I have a powerful new weapon.
My perfume.
These balls-for-brains were so busy sniffing, they didn’t bother patting me down. Or maybe they just assumed a tiny, heat-drunk omega wouldn’t be carrying.
Either way. I lost Finn’s knife in Craig’s ribs, but I still have my trusty toothbrush shiv tucked in my panties.
The driver turns off the Wyverns’ long driveway, onto the country road that heads into the city and my personal future hell.
I can’t waste time hesitating.
I whimper, channeling every fucking drama class the OCC ever forced me to take.
The guy in the passenger seat shifts to look. He swallows and stares like I’m already stripped, inviting him with spread legs.
I’m not taking this act that far, but his dumbass, puss-merized look is perfect. I whimper again, clasping my lower belly. “Hurts.”
“I’ll make you feel so good, Baby.” He reaches back, stroking down my hip with hot dog fingers, and I hope he reads my shudder as a needy shiver.
“Please, Alpha. It hurts so bad.” I spread my thighs and hide my disgust by biting my lower lip.
The second he catches the scent of my slick, his muscles cord, a vein popping in his neck.
His growl rips through the car.
“Rut, fuck, have to have her,” voice low and guttural, he unbuckles his seatbelt.
“Shit. Seriously?” The driver swerves as his buddy starts to climb into the backseat.
“Hurts,” I whine and sneak my bound hands toward the shiv. “Please, Alpha, please.”
Begging would hurt my pride if I had any.
All I have left are psycho hormones and the burning desire to stab this shithead through the eye socket.
He tries to wedge his linebacker shoulders between the seats, pinning himself like a beetle on a board. I lift onto my knees, lips parted like I’m going in for a kiss, and the idiot leans into me, leading with his fat, sloppy tongue.
I slip out the shiv, lift it high, and drive it into his throat.
Hot blood sprays my face.
He roars and gurgles, thrashing so hard he hits the driver.
The car swerves.
“Bitch!” the driver shouts. “You’re fucking dead.”
He brakes while his buddy drowns in his own blood. I’m shaking, sweating, but the only thing I’m upset about is the way the guy I just stabbed grips my shiv, blocking me from grabbing it back or jamming it in harder.
The car slows.
My panic rises. If he parks, I’m screwed. I can’t overpower him, and he won’t fall for the same trick.
As the dying man struggles, his jacket rucks up, flashing his gun. I pull it, flick the safety, and don’t let myself even think what I’m about to do.
