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But Brandon doesn’t want me dead.
He wants me desperate.
Desperate enough to snap.
Then he can justify keeping me forever.
We’ve been playing this game for years—him pushing, me fighting—and today is not the day I lose.
“Enter.”
The door buzzes.
I tighten every muscle. Jaw. Neck. Both sets of cheeks.
Need to stay tight. Need to fight but not kill—even if I have to eat an ass-kicking to win.
“Enter,” Brandon repeats. This time, my ankle monitors chirp, warning me to stop stalling.
Motherfuck.
Before Brandon can make me sizzle, I slip inside the cell. I try to prop the door, but it sucks back into the frame with that evil buzz.
Four alphas unfold from the corner.
Not cuffed or bound.
Pulse in my ears, I keep my back to the wall, adjusting to the dimness of the cell and desperately biting back the superpowered pheromones that want to erase years of my perfect lies.
No ventilation here.
The cell is so stained with old fear, I can’t pick up their scents until the biggest guy steps forward.
He smells like black licorice, spiked with alpha anger, and his trash-can-lid hands are webbed in prison tats.
“Who the fuck are you?” The packleader puffs out his chest. “Omega?”
He takes another step, heavy with threat.
Keeping him alive is like trying to stop a rocket with the unraveling cord of my control.
You have to be a special kind of evil to end up in the SAS prison, but I don’t care what these guys did.
I’m not playing executioner.
Control.
Shit on a biscuit.
Reel it in, Sol.
I’d give anything to go back in time, to be back at the OCC where my brawls were with omegas afraid to chip their nails, and my go-to weapon was a softball bat.
Where at least one person always had my back.
Now instead of proving you shouldn’t mess with my textbooks, I have to prove I’m not a killer.
Only, I am a killer.
