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The lead agent flicks his eyes to the room across the hall. “She…”
My mind blanks.
Not breathing, I rush into the suite.
A blood-stained sheet drapes the body on the bed.
The room is torn apart. Ripped out cabinets. Broken machines smoking.
Blood everywhere.
Something rattles.
Maybe it’s my lungs.
But I must be breathing after all, because perfume blasts my brain stem.
Acid lemon.
Familiar but strange.
It can’t be her.
It can’t be.
Before I can gather the balls to lift the sheet, a voice slurs. “That better be my coconut water. Your room service is fucking atrocious.”
I leap a tipped crash cart, following that sound.
Pack at my heels, I kick the bathroom door.
A blonde omega slumps handcuffed under the sink.
Also familiar.
Also strange.
“You must be Fuckboy’s fake brother.” Missing teeth, the girl sprays blood on her F’s. Her eye is swollen shut, but she grins through bruises and gore.
Omega stress pheromones fume like lemon vodka.
I see the resemblance.
The cheekbones. The sharp eyes.
I snort, clearing out lemon that tastes nothing like my tomcat’s cakey sweetness.
There’s no pull. No resonance.
My blood doesn’t hum for the girl on the floor.
Not mine.
I growl. “Serafina.”
“I’d shake your hand, but…” Her cuffs rattle the pipes. “Get me the key, a morphine drip, and a plastic surgery consult. Then we’ll talk.”
“Reese. Find a key.” I breathe through my burning throat. “Where’s Marisol?”
