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Orion. If I hurt him—
Fire in my belly, I stumble to the car.
Orion sits belted in the passenger seat. His chin rests against his chest, his breathing shallow. His long, blond-tipped eyelashes flutter at the pace of my speeding heart.
I duck inside, and it’s like cliff-diving into an ocean of applesauce, his heat turning the car into an orchard.
My belly flutters and cramps. I need an alpha to stop the pain, but my body wants Orion just as badly as a thick knot.
I grind my teeth, biting back the hurt and mind-melting hormones.
“Orion?” I feel his forehead.
His skin is scalding, the same temperature as mine.
He doesn’t make a noise. Doesn’t twitch as he keeps breathing the same shallow breaths.
But subtly, so subtly maybe I’m projecting my fever dreams, I swear he nuzzles my palm.
My organs turn to liquid.
I slash his zip-tied hands free, struggling not to breathe him in because his scent sets me off so hard.
Alone, I’m a hot mess.
With him, I’m spinning into full-on meltdown.
“Nnn—” he murmurs. “Nesss.”
“Nest?” Sliding one hand to cup his cheek, I use the other to check his pulse.
It’s slow. Like coma slow.
He’s sedated, for now.
It won’t keep him down through his heat—that takes an IV and a round-the-clock anesthesiologist. I check over his golden skin. He’s a little dirty, the collar of his T-shirt stretched, and a few tender red spots that are slowly blooming into bruises, but none of his shallow scrapes need a hospital.
Letting out a breath, I carefully shut his door, then waddle around to the driver’s side, bracing myself against the hood.
When I test the gas, the car still runs.
I buckle up and do a three-point turn that’s more like fifteen points, but there’s no one to witness my heat-drunk driving.
Half praying for, half dreading when the Wyverns catching up to us, I speed back to the pack house and gun down the driveway.
Everything past the first gate is carnage.
Bodies scatter the lawn—some Redfangs in their Ken doll mafia suits and tattoos, some in black Wyvern House camo. I want to throw up.
So much death.
And for what?
This is so far beyond a jealous beta. Maybe Craig was the Trojan donkey, tricked into opening the gates, but this is war.
I ease down the driveway, swallowing the urge to hit the gas, but I don’t want to bounce Orion, so all I can do is look ahead, trying to ignore the twisted shapes and blood.
I park at the front door, skirting Craig’s body where it lies soaking up moonlight.
