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ONE
LILAH
I’m wrapped in weighted blankets, wallowing in home shows and hospital pudding when a knock rattles my self-enforced solitude. “Lilah? It’s Doctor Sorensen. There’s been another incident.”
My pheromones flare in a panicked burst of super-powered sugar, heart beating like I’m taking cover in a trench instead of curled up in my hospital bed.
Because my life is a war-zone.
It’s been one week since I woke up at the Wyvern Clinic blind, broken, covered in chemical burns, and scorned by my so-called mates.
One week, three kidnapping attempts, two armed break-ins, and a smoke bomb smuggled in through the laundry.
“We need to move you to a new room. Can I come in?”
“Can you?” My pheromones are a billboard flashing BREED ME NOW in screaming neon.
All unmated staff are banned from my floor while my allure’s stuck on steal-your-soul levels of temptation that won’t turn off thanks to constant threats on my life and hormones possibly permanently screwed because I spent my first heat marinating in a barrel of chemicals.
I’m awakened.
A fully mature omega.
Fucking fertile.
And my body’s taking revenge for all the years I spent starving, exhausting, and denying myself.
“I’ll risk it.” Doctor Sorensen cracks the door.
I peek out from my blanket sanctuary even though my instincts scream to nest, hide, call my alphas to protect me.
The reality?
I’m on my own.
I don’t have alphas.
And I need to know the latest threat now, so that when the next attack comes, I can protect myself. “What happened this time?”
“A nurse tampered with your meds. She was planning to sedate you and smuggle you out.” He starts to rub his head but can’t, decked out in plague-doctor PPE that reveals nothing but a pair of guilty brown eyes.
The gear smothers his scent, which is the only reason I can handle having a beta in my room when all I want to do is barricade the door and rig a crossbow trap so that no one else can hurt me.
But this isn’t my room.
And nowhere’s safe when the Redfang Cartel wants me dead or made into their sociopath leader’s sex slave.
So, I’m panicky and putting off pheromones strong enough to warp steel, but I force myself to tuck and roll off the bed. Wrapped in a burrito of ten-pound blankets, I shed snack crumbs like a toddler.
And with a stolen scalpel at each hip, I’m ready for whoever comes at me next. “Where to?”
“Room 820.” Doctor Sorensen steps back, giving me plenty of space, but the way he braces against the wall, pupils flaring behind his face shield, it couldn’t be clearer that my scent is taking prisoners.
Not prisoners I want.
The armed guards that pack the hallway jolt when I make my shuffling appearance. One chokes, fingers shaking as he grips his throat.
I tense.
