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I ignore the alphas stalking me across the grounds, not even glancing back to enjoy the smoke.
Who am I?
Where am I?
When we hit the edge of the property, Reese scales the fence like a leopard, perching between iron barbs to offer me a hand up. “This way.”
Sure.
Pretending this is normal, that anyone wants to touch me or that I can tolerate being touched, I climb to take his solid grip. Bishop and Jin sneak underneath, supporting my feet, and easy as a dream, I’m over the other side.
Like a feather with sweaty palms.
When the gamma squad runs the SAS obstacle course, I climb the wall alone while Elyse’s mates take turns kicking mud.
My heart sours.
Serafina doesn’t deserve these alphas.
The guys stashed their getaway car behind a row of hedges. My head swivels, ears perking for sirens.
“We’re running a satellite jammer,” Bishop says. “We won’t be followed.”
That’s exactly what I’m worried about until Jin opens the door.
Then my problems go fuzzy.
Bishop’s car is peach on wheels.
His scent sinks so deep in the custom upholstery, it’s harder to hold back my drool than my poison perfume.
The guys jump in and crank the torture.
Between Reese’s body heat upping the temp in the back seat and Jin tilting his mirror to kill me with eye contact, I’m zapped to the past when the guys let me tag along on errands. Bishop muttering to himself. Reese stripping off his waiter’s coat the same way he used to strip off sweat-stained T-shirts after long days at the field.
Just shave my head and toss me a baseball cap.
We could take one of those cute re-creation photos if Dutch were here, trying to lure me onto his lap.
Shit.
I’d climb on board and risk ruining myself to erase the stain of alpha hands still creeping up and down my thighs like phantom paws.
I grip the safety bar when Jin guns the car through the mansion’s unmanned gate.
The sole of a sideways boot peeks from under a bush, and the only sight that’s sweeter is the steady-growing plume of smoke rising from the roof.
How’s that for a distraction?
Commander Fissure will be slammed sifting through corpses, and with luck, she’ll write me off as gamma barbeque.
Not that I ever bank on luck.
I bank on faking my way forward.
That means womaning-up and facing the alphas I need to ghost.
I swallow the lump of Himalayan-sized salt clogging my throat.
