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When I was clear-headed enough to look back, I figured I’d lost time between the trauma and trying to rip out my throat.
The SAS couldn’t have been waiting for me to fuck up.
They couldn’t have been watching me all along.
Sitting back, letting me be kidnapped, auctioned, forced to bond.
Bile climbs my throat.
I never felt the bond snap.
If anything, I snapped those next few days and weeks, clawing my neck until I hit glands and arteries and almost bled myself out.
Instead of explaining where I was or what was happening, Doctor Brandon bound my wrists and put me to sleep.
Maybe some part of me knew the mate bond was still inside, poisoning my body. Maybe trauma made it scar and stick instead of healing.
Kind of lost my chance to follow up.
I was busy dealing with gamma shit and going out of my fucking mind in military prison.
Meanwhile, the SAS recovered the Orlovs’ still-breathing bodies.
My mother kept my mates alive.
No.
What mother?
What mates?
Commander Fissure rescued my attackers and fed me lies.
She called me a murderer so I couldn’t run.
She let me believe I’m a freak who can’t go into heat, let me be hated, let me think I’d never be able to mate, and that I’m too dangerous to live unsupervised.
So I’d never escape her control.
My scars pulse like zombified flesh.
I was never a bond widow.
I was bonded.
That’s why the creepy-crawlies choked my throat and shut me down every time I thought too hard about an alpha’s teeth.
That’s why I could only go so far with Bish and Jin and Dutch and Reese.
Because my body thought I was cheating.
On my “real,” half-barbequed mates.
The Orlov claim seeps down my throat, thick as liquid shit.
The cage inside me rips off its hinges.
But behind those bars?
