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Orion frowns, his nostrils flaring.
I strain to keep rigid.
Please go. Please leave me alone.
I’m a breath away from throwing myself into his arms and begging him to let me stay. But if he catches my scent… There’ll be no more movie nights or breakfast meets. I’ll be packed in a blacked-out van headed straight to whatever pack picks me up on clearance.
“Good night,” he says, walking off into the night.
I sigh, leaning back on the bench.
That’s when a new message pings my inbox.
I frown because no one has this email address. I only use it for my black market dealings.
The sender’s handle is a long chain of letters and numbers.
Subject: Pack Your Shit
Be in the garage at midnight.
-CW
I snort.
If the C is for Craig and the W is for Wyvern, the chauffeur is getting even more delusional. He’ll never be a Wyvern.
Not that I should be smug.
I’ll never be one either.
I hurry back into the house, all-too-aware that my scent is only spiking higher.
A swim won’t fix it. Neither will starving myself.
I’m past the point of no return.
Pre-awakening, on my way to my first full heat.
I can’t stay here when a near-empty bottle of lotion is the last flimsy piece of spiderweb holding together my web of lies.
I shove the lotion into my duffle with my other shit, including the hoodies and T-shirts that belong to the guys.
They’re my trophies, and I’m keeping them.
I spend the last hour booking bus tickets and a hotel a few states away. I’m trusting Craig to give me a ride off the property, but that’s far enough. Once I’m past the gates and cameras, I’ll tuck and roll out of the car if that’s what it takes to make my own way.
The house is dead when I sneak upstairs. Orion must’ve gone to sleep and the guys aren’t back yet, with two parking slots empty in the hangar of a garage.
I stay in the shadows, crouching, waiting, and dreading what comes next, even though I should be happy.
This is what I’ve always wanted.
The chance to go out on my own. The chance to stand on my own and make my life whatever I want it to be.
Only now, when I picture my witchy cabin in the woods, it has a lot of alphas out back, chopping firewood in unbuttoned flannels that show off their abs. A giraffe of an omega hugs me from behind in the kitchen, nuzzling my neck while I pile up way more sandwiches than I’ll ever eat as a girl on my own.
My heart aches at the vision.
