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I nope my ass in a circle, slam the door, and try the kitchen instead.
It’s locked from the inside. The staff must’ve fled.
“I’m picking the lock. One more minute,” Bishop promises.
While the door rattles, my head spins.
The flames take care of my rogue pheromones, but they need more time to toast the dead alphas.
I cough, eyes stinging.
Metal clicks. Bishop curses.
I have to glue together the exploded fragments of my mask.
If only I could fake a personality where I’m not a dishrag for these men. Then I could move forward, unbothered by their horrified disgust.
Good luck with that.
Coughing more and more, I grab a coffee table that hasn’t caught fire and flip it over the biggest pile of bodies. I do the same with the sofas and armchairs, but the enforcers are too big to hide.
I need refrigerator boxes to do the job right.
“Almost,” Bishop grits.
Biting the bullet feels more like sticking my fingers in a chainsaw, but my choices are burn to death or embrace the revolving blades.
Before the click that steals my last initiative, I throw open the lock.
Bishop jumps, dropping his pick. Between surprise and the billow of smoke that follows, I don’t give them a chance to peep beyond the crack.
I shut them out and hold back my scent.
Before I remember who I’m meant to be, Jin yanks me to his chest.
Then I can’t think.
“You’re okay.” He hugs me to his rapid-beating heart.
One of us trembles.
Not sure who.
His rainstorm clears my senses, blitzing away the smoke and panic and leftover alpha filth.
Jin tastes like salt and soul-cleansing storms.
He feels like coming home.
My skin crackles like the old days—lightning and despair.
When Jin drags a ragged breath at my hair, I close my eyes and sink into his arms, stealing the moment before the warning sirens blare.
For one deep breath, I let myself pretend that Su-Jin Moon is mine.
That I’m not an outcast, a freak, or a full-on murderer.
I’m not Serafina, Solomon, or even Gamma Twenty-Six.
