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Have to mash him myself.
I’m really, really tempted when Simon slides his thumb toward the red button. “Move away from the door.”
I scoot forward and grab my knees, bracing for a jolt. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“And you’d better not try.” Fondling the remote, Simon turns back to his monitors, pretending to be some slick secret agent.
Meanwhile, his neck hair prickles horizontal.
His instincts know he’s not my match.
I could lay Simon out before he hit the juice. Bet I could even sprint a few blocks and duck the SAS satellites long enough to find a chop shop and hack away my cuffs.
But I can’t outrun four counts of pack murder.
The SAS will call in cops, bounty hunters, and all the other feds to hunt me down, and if they don’t find me fast enough, the Orlov pack’s allies won’t leave me time—or body parts—to worry about facing justice.
Rance, Tommy, Forbes, and Ilya Orlov.
They’re dead.
I should never have to think their names, let alone feel their ghostly teeth in my throat, but their hooks never seem to fade.
Their touch reaches beyond the grave.
A flesh-crawling shudder rocks my ruined neck so hard I almost ventilate Simon’s nervous system.
Past stays in the past in the past in the past.
I’m betting the only thing worse than being an omega with an asterisk is being an omega with an asterisk in federal prison.
So I don’t run and I don’t complain.
I wait for my chance to escape, putting my hands in my pockets and clinging to the moral high ground, watching the mystery mission unfold on screen like the good girl I’m not.
Incognito agents infiltrate a swanky reception hall, joining a cocktail party raging under gaudy chandeliers while they wait for the auction to start.
The alphas who came to bid are tatted in gang colors from their knuckles to their tree-trunk necks, and there’s not one female in sight.
Tells you who’s for sale.
My stomach roils.
Backstage, the strike team rushes to shut the shitshow down before it starts.
The gammas are machines.
Bridget and Elyse charm and manipulate the auction guards, freezing them under a dual-pheromone assault. While black-clothed agents zip-tie hostiles, Dara blows open the next door.
It’s all perfectly coordinated, because while I’m training my mental muscles alone, getting shot up with Brandon’s original torture recipes, they’re drilling together as a unit.
I never get picked for the team, whether it’s baseball or black-ops, but lately I’m happy being the outcast. I could never keep my distance or my act if anyone expected me to be part of the group.
Eventually, Dara bulls through the barred door to the nightmare scene I knew was coming.
Women in cages.
Their long, white gowns glow eerily green in night-vision. When the team moves into the cell block, a throat pang sets my scars on fire.
