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I was wasting time, pretzeling myself to be someone I’m not.
Nothing I do will satisfy this bitch.
I’ll always be wrong and bad and evil.
Nice try.
She’s the one who needs to look in the mirror.
Bruised and barefoot, surrounded by bodies, I lift my gun. My arms don’t shake like hers. I can barely see through the haze of heat and drugs, but no part of me wavers.
“Whose pheromones do you think are stronger?” I pop open Brandon’s suit. Without the air filter, his wheeze becomes a gurgling, wet choke.
Not dead. Yet.
Bridget trembles. “Don’t—!”
“Look at me,” I bark.
Crisp as a slap, her eyes are forced to snap to mine.
It’s so good. “Nikolaj Redfang was an evil shit-stain, but at least he didn’t pretend to be pure. I’d claim him as blood before I ever claimed you.”
I don’t need either of them
Got a pack waiting for me.
Somewhere.
A cramp folds me in half.
Have to get to them.
I square up.
Bridget Fissure trains with alphas she brain-rapes into adoring her.
I popped my street-fighting cherry when I was twelve. After the neighborhood boys tried to steal my lunch made by Jin.
While Bridget’s been basking in the sun, fun-fucking and sparring with alphas who wouldn’t ruffle her lashes, I’ve been soloing military prisoners in the unforgiving darkness of her mate’s underground prison.
We are not the same.
Maybe an ass-kicking will fix her self-awareness.
Or not.
I’ll have fun either way.
Puffing out sugar with her snarl, Bridget fires a tranq.
I dodge.
Her dart scrapes my shoulder but doesn’t stick. Ignoring the scratch, I charge and catch her off-balance, knocking away her gun before she can squeeze off a second shot. She twists to avoid me, but the motion shifts her bulletproof vest.
I aim for flashing skin.
Three darts hit Bridget’s belly.
