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But yesterday’s mistakes are all mine.
It’s a toss-up what hurts more. My head, my feet, or my crushed fucking pride.
What was I thinking, dancing with Finn? Letting him stroke my throat like I’m wearing his collar?
Am I the kind of girl who rolls over and begs just because a sexy as fuck alpha smiles and feeds her cheese fries?
Damnit.
I’m totally that girl.
But the fries were good and he was better.
Holy shit could Finn dance.
The way he ground against me, feeling the music. His hard body and his warm hands. Blood orange so sweet in my nose. I’m not sure if I was drunk off him or my first taste of liquor.
And Hunter. Gruff but gentle Hunter, tending my feet and protecting me like the mate he’ll never be to me.
I’m still huddled in his hoodie, drowning in smoky mezcal that makes my mouth water and my heart feel too big for my rib cage.
I get that the Wyverns are going to be tempting—my body thinks we’re meant-to-be.
Doesn’t matter.
They can love me, they can hate me. I’m not staying, and I need to keep my ass on the path that gets me out of this contract with my heart, dreams, and limbs uncrushed.
I slide off the bed and test my weight. My feet ache, but I want to explore my new cage.
I creep around, exploring the bedroom. It’s low-ceilinged and almost what a nest should be. Windowless with dim lights that set me at ease and a huge bed that could fit my whole pack if I had one.
But the heavy bank vault door is just for show. It doesn’t lock.
My shoulders hunch. I can’t believe I slept here when any of them could’ve walked in and done whatever they wanted to me.
No lock means no privacy means no rest ever again.
I can’t relax here.
Creeping outside, I peek around the basement. The main room is teeny tiny, with a kitchenette, and so many doors it gives bus station vibes.
One open door leads to a teensy bathroom with a kiddie-sized shower, but it does lock, so this may be my new sleeping digs for as long as I’m stuck in McMansion hell.
Another door opens to a cleaning closet with shelves of supplies, including two barrels of chemical de-scenter big enough to hide a body.
It’s meant for use on surfaces and clothes because the shit burns your nose, let alone your skin, but it’s the only way to scrub off pheromones.
I don’t need the heavy-duty chemicals yet, but good to know they’re here.
If my perfume betrays me again, I’ll kill it with fire.
I find a spray bottle of the diluted formula and grab it, bringing it back to the kitchen, where the cabinets and mini-fridge are all empty except for an ancient box of baking soda.
Food can wait. I ate so much last night, there’s time before I have to brave going upstairs to see my personal hell pack.
There are two more locked doors that I should leave alone, but I can’t relax not knowing who could come in and out of my space. My inner omega is all about the territorial anxiety.
I luck out, finding a few old paperclips in the kitchenette’s junk drawer, and quickly pick the locks.
