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Can’t give him proof I’m the monster he wants me to be.
“We’ll run a full assessment,” Brandon says. “No grounds access until you demonstrate that you’re not a danger to our personnel. I know I’ll have your full cooperation.”
Acid surges from my stomach, possibly dissolving a chunk of my tongue. Doctor Brandon watches me through the plastic protection of his gas mask.
He doesn’t have to say a thing.
He knows I don’t have a choice.
Can’t escape.
Can’t say no.
I grip my high collar, forever loyal to the lies that are the only way I’ll ever escape this shithole. “I’ll cooperate.”
“I’ll prepare the test subjects. Change and get ready for testing.” Brandon swishes away, leaving me with a guard detail of alpha enforcers armed for a rabid were-bear. Thad drops a pile of dry clothes like he’s tossing beef shanks into the raptor cage.
Welcome to lab rat life.
I’m back to full-time observation, fun times with my besties, the military prisoners, and daily pin-cushioning with Brandon’s experimental drugs.
The treatment isn’t because I bumped into the wrong guy and accidentally dented his central nervous system.
It’s because Brandon dives on any flimsy excuse to drag me back under his microscope.
I’ll beat his test.
I’ll beat all his tests and prove I’m ready to be free.
But I want to groan over the bundled tracksuit.
In a lot of ways, I’m not an omega.
The instincts don’t ride me the way they should, and I haven’t smelled an alpha who didn’t make me itch, cringe, or want to hurl since I was fifteen.
I tried to be an omega.
I wanted it so hard during the OCC years. Four years of being bullied and learning to fight back, and they were the best of my life because I finally had hope.
I had a vision board with the pack and the nest and four names doodled with pink hearts.
That was a few lifetimes and upheavals ago—a version of myself who feels so distant, I think that Sol was some other girl.
One who had cute little dreams.
Now my dreams are pure practicality.
I want skin for my ankles, my own washing machine, and a job working with kids. Maybe run my own daycare. Be a teacher or a softball coach.
What I don’t want?
Alphas.
Because there’s no attraction.
No spark.
All I’ve got is a killer scent that puts them on the ground.
