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Finn bites my neck.
He doesn’t break skin—just breaks my ability to think anything but Finn. Teeth. Bite.
Fuck.
“Know you can fight. Star only has to bask.” Finn nips my ear.
I go limp, maybe dead.
Panties fucking soaked.
When my head lolls, I catch sight of the Sorensens, gaping from the table where we left them.
Call the police.
What a weird, normal response that’d get me worse than killed.
“Move!” Atlas roars.
The last few alphas dumb enough to be in our way fall back, clobbered by his overwhelming dominance.
Jett reaches the doors first, pulling out the metal rod that had them barricaded. Then, agents in black Wyvern House camo pour into the reception hall, running down every single alpha who made a move.
I’d relax now that the danger’s mostly past, but I’m busy clenching my thighs. I can barely resist humping Finn to stop the growing, empty ache.
Please be a spike.
“Keys!” Hunter shouts as we hit open air.
An agent tosses him a set for the SUV idling on the curb with its doors open. Finn hoists me into the back seat, the guys pile in, and then we’re hauling ass.
“Hospital,” I grit.
“Spike or heat?” Orion climbs over the middle seat to get to me.
“Spike.”
I hope.
Please, please be a spike.
Otherwise, I won’t survive the ride without earning some binding new jewelry—a full collar of their bites.
TWENTY-TWO
LILAH
I’m being cooked.
Suffocated in a Wyvern hotbox.
With shaking fingers, I push the window button, but night air can’t cure the toxic pheromones that beg me to beg them.
Wyvern Pack could ease me into oblivion.
If I ask, if I whine, if I so much as make heavy eye contact, I’m afraid that’s the end.
Oranges and apples clog my throat with Finn and Orion crowding me in the third-row seat.
