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I shouldn’t push my luck.
Shouldn’t hint I’m anything but perfectly behaved.
But I was running before dawn, knocked on my ass, electrocuted, and sneered at by my hateful birth-giver.
Plus, I never got my goddamned egg and cheese sandwich.
Good Sol can’t come to the phone.
I choke the alphas until their lips foam.
They won’t die.
Just pass out a little.
And if I blew their senses just right, then they’ll never be tempted by another omega’s pheromones, ever again.
I’m practically a hero.
When they’re glazed and drooling, totally down and out, I wipe my hands on my pants and smile extra polite for the cams.
See, doc? Perfect control.
“Next cell,” Brandon grumbles.
Leaving the alphas on the ground, I move to the next room.
And the next.
And the next.
The more the drug fades, the better my act.
Alphas go down and my secret smirk grows.
Hope my message is loud enough to hear at headquarters.
I’m not a tool.
I will not be used.
* * *
The better my act, the harder Brandon pushes my limits.
After a week of daily tests, weird drugs, and melee fights, I’m flipping exhausted.
But I can’t sleep.
The rattling RRRRRRRRRRRR of the ventilation system keeps me up all night. Plus, chemical dry mouth, the jitters, and other random side-effects of Brandon’s pheromone steroids.
Not that I ever really rest.
I’m too paranoid I’ll leak night pheromones, because you know Brandon has scent monitors hidden in the cell where I’m grounded.
I survive on catnaps and enough paper-cup coffee to turn a normal omega into a permanent jackhammer.
It’s freaking miserable.
