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I’ve been at the edges of too many tea parties, casino nights, and awkward social situations where I get more leers than greetings, and all I want to do is steal some lunch and get the fuck away from the shady-ass alphas staring with too many teeth.
But, I’m hoping I can be happy in rotation.
I’ll have a sleek condo instead of living my cottagecore dreams, but I can get my accounting certification, build a business, and do whatever the fuck I want in between the unavoidable heats. I’ll build a life for myself, all by myself, and all the while, I’ll be safe in the heat suites’ housing tower instead of tossed out as gang bait.
I’m just hoping the “buffet” she’s pitching actually shows and I’m not knot-blocked and stuck with a hot line full of Wyvern kebabs.
With plenty of brochures and visual aids, Catherine walks me through the upcoming on-campus events. I agree to an ice cream social, a brunch, and a speed-dating event, not because any of those sound fun (except for the ice cream) but because they’re the soonest.
Clock’s ticking.
Heat’s coming.
I want contracts and consent forms signed and a pack of vetted, well-hung alphas waiting for me with their pants down.
“There’s a mixer tonight,” Catherine admits. “I can put your name on the guest list last-minute, but we missed the window to hype your attendance the way we should’ve.”
“I’ll go.” Without the hype.
“Fantastic.” She claps, businesslike. “The dress code is cocktail attire.”
“Fantastic,” I echo.
We spend a while filling my calendar before Catherine has to rush to another appointment. After locking the door behind her, I fall onto the sofa, smacked in the face with the leftover piles of glossy brochures.
I want to crawl under the coffee table and sleep for twelve hours, but I resist the siren call of coma sleep and stumble to find the shower.
Old Lilah would hide.
New Lilah goes to the party.
But Lilah past, present, and forever always packs her knives.
SEVEN
LILAH
Wrapped in a post-shower towel, I stumble into my latest problem.
The only outfit I have to change into is the OCC tracksuit that came in my bungalow’s closet.
It’s grape soda purple and says OMEGA across the ass.
I think fucking not.
If this were a normal social, I could cope long enough to steal a plate of mini quiche and bounce before anyone noticed.
But this is my debut.
My desperate, only grab at landing a decent pack for my heat.
So, I make the move of pure desperation.
Changing back into my hospital pajamas, I hug my arms against the chill and the guards’ stares and head across campus.
I could contact Wyvern Pack and ask them to return my shit. But my tablet’s still in their basement, so I have no way to call, even if I wanted to.
I’d rather wear the tracksuit.
