AllFreeNovel
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I swear my nipples are perked because of the cold, not because of him. The curl of warmth in my belly is harder to explain away.
Shitballs.
Even the Wyvern pack’s omega is torturing my hormones. The more I scent them, the more I’m around them, the closer my awakening creeps.
I crush laps until I can barely keep my head above the water. Then I finally claw back to shore. When I tossed Orion’s hoodie, it landed on my pile of clothes. Everything’s soaked in apple cider, and shrugging into my sweats feels like doing a shot of sweetness.
Laundry just became the goal of my life.
I run to the house while trying to hold my breath, but crisp apple creeps into my throat.
I’m more careful when I’m on the property, stopping behind a tree to make sure no one’s around. I tiptoe into the basement and press my ear against the gym door before picking the lock again.
Even bracing for it, I choke on a whiff of Hunter’s rich smoke. His leftover sweat and pheromones are thrown down like a sex gauntlet.
All five of the guys have clothes piled around the washer and dryer, all filthy with their scents in the way that shouldn’t be so fucking good. Atlas’s leather, Hunter’s mezcal, Finn’s spicy orange, and Jett’s deep, mysterious cedar, all cut through with Orion’s apple-like-an-orgasm.
I strip down, not giving a shit about anything while I’m fighting those scents and the butterflies in my stomach.
Fuckers need their wings hacked off.
Tossing my stuff into the washed-but-not-dried clothes already in the machine, I pour a ridiculous amount of de-scenting solution in with the soap and start the load.
Once it’s rumbling, I dart back to my room for a shower—this time without Hunter’s damned body wash that’s destined for the trash.
In clean sweats, I finally key in the Wi-Fi password that Orion scrawled on my hand. It feels like he branded me, and I’ll need ten more showers before I can escape his touch.
Sweet, sweet internet finally connects on my tablet.
I do a happy dance, wiggling my ass, then flee to the garden. The Wi-Fi reaches the gazebo, which isn’t my favorite place, but I relax as soon as I’m out of the house, away from the cameras and scents and never-ending feeling that I’m being watched, judged, and found wanting by the men my body insists are meant to be mine.
I don’t need men. I need money. Which, unfortunately, means I need work.
Thanks to my goal of failing every class at the OCC, I’ve taken a million-and-one subjects. Most were for grooming pretty, happy omegas who know how to thrive in a pack. Subjects like nail care, fitness, and nutrition.
After dance, my favorite class by far was pack management. It taught budgeting for girls graduating to manor homes and million-dollar checkbooks, so we spent weeks on finance.
Who knew? I love money math.
I couldn’t get an official accounting certification before, but now the only thing stopping me is the cost of the program. If I can cover that, I’ll be in business. In the meantime, I’ll take any bookkeeping work the internet can deliver.
I spend the next few hours posting resumes and responding to ads on job boards. I’m desperate enough to take anything.
By twilight, I’m shivering and near starving.
I dread going back in the house. I dread smelling a single one of those alphas, feeling their eyes on me, let alone Craig and the surveillance cams.
But as much as I want to avoid everything, I do not camp.
The basement steps feel like the walkway where beef cows get lined up for their electric shock.
Inside, I pause to listen. Thankfully, the house is silent. I turn over my laundry and give in to the urge to tidy, holding my breath as I start another load of their clothes.
If their scents are poison, their dirty jeans and T-shirts are radioactive. I want them de-scented and gone. While my stuff tumbles dry, my eyes wander the gym.
Thick workout mats cover the floor. The gym’s stocked with weight benches and cardio machines as nice as the ones at the OCC. Punching bags take up a whole corner, and I’d spend hours working out my frustration if I could stomach swimming in Hunter’s scent.
The far wall cupboard is stacked with protein bars like the pack’s preparing for a siege, so I don’t feel guilty stealing from their stash. I nibble at a cardboard-tasting bar and squeeze into the space between the washer and dryer, where I finally feel less exposed. The warmth and rumble take the edge off. The closest thing I’ll ever have to an alpha’s comforting purr.
