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Always aware of my audience, I lift a spoonful of potato salad, and force myself to chew.
It eats like drywall mud.
Thick.
Pasty.
I fight to keep my face smooth.
Look at me.
Just like a real omega, having a totally normal meal with my dream pack.
Never mind the burbling pool of lava-vomit.
I force my gag reflex to obey, the same way I clench my pheromones.
Just sweatier.
Maybe a little shakier.
My hard swallow echoes for the crowd.
Bishop snags my wrist. “Don’t force yourself.”
I shake his grip, and stubbornly—stupidly—reload my spoon. With the confidence of a thousand lies, I force another gluey bite.
Chew.
Swallow.
“If you’re not feeling well—” Jin starts.
“I’m eating. Now you—” Blerg. “Now you can all—”
Vomit speed-bags my throat ball.
SHIT.
Need to run.
To the bathroom.
To the ocean.
Anywhere.
As long as the pack doesn’t witness my fall.
But when I lunge to escape, I tangle in Dutch’s legs.
My swan-dive dies in Bishop’s chest, and the chin-jarring impact shatters my seal.
My control.
My precious lies.
Everything shatters when I spray Bishop in stomach acid and second-hand potato salad.
