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They’re decked in Wyvern House’s black camo, all mated betas who’re supposedly assigned to keep me safe.
But to me, they’re just another threat.
It’s a beta’s fault I’m here.
Fucking Craig.
The doctors think he injected me with some dodgy black market hormone cocktail. I was already so close to my first heat that the chemicals dumped water on a grease fire, and now I’m living the explosion.
If not for him handing the Redfangs the keys to Wyvern Pack’s castle, I could’ve escaped.
Faded away to a new life and kept my hormones stomped down forever.
Even when I first woke up, I thought I had a chance. That I could break free, sneak away, maybe shimmy down the laundry chute, cling to a bumper and get dragged across the border somewhere with no Wyvern Pack and no record that I ever existed.
Those were the drugs talking.
Now that I’m weaning off the painkillers and sedatives, the truth is, escape is a dead dream.
I’m awakened.
Which means I need alphas.
My body craves them, needs them to survive my heat, and I’m not stupid or suicidal enough to hang up that call a second time.
That pain.
That emptiness.
I can’t.
Never-ever-ever-ever again.
Thank all the gods and goddesses, I have a few months to plan. The grace period is the last thread of spun sugar holding together the quivering lobes of my crazed omega brain. I’m going to need every blessed second to find a pack that can give me what I want.
Lotsa knots, no attachments.
When I shuffle down the hall, flanked by big, tall bodies, my instincts won’t stop screaming.
Hide, alphas, safety, pack, mates, NEED—
I breathe through the hyped-up panic.
Girl.
Nobody’s coming to save us.
My new room smells alcohol sterile, and it’s just as ridiculous as the first four suites I’ve used this week.
I double-checked at the desk.
Wyvern Pack is footing the bill, so I don’t say no to the luxury. The least my never-mates owe me is a private room.
The suite has a wide, pillow-strewn hospital bed, no windows, and a dimmer switch already dialed down to primordial cave.
First insane priority, I smooth, shift, and stack the sheets and pillows like perfectly arranged linens will save the day. But nesting calms the crazy stream-of-consciousness thoughts hijacking my brain, so I lean into the urge, mushing and moving blankets.
Doctor Sorensen hovers at the doorway, only now he’s holding a pink bakery box.
