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When we turn the corner, Bishop flashes his master key, yanking me into a vacant nesting suite.
Past the foyer is the windowless den where I can already picture her spread between our bodies on a mattress big enough for five.
Rubbed in our scents.
Taking our bites.
Finally patching the ragged hole left by the beta we lost.
“Fucking disaster.” Bishop touches his buttons one-by-one, rubbing up and down the row on his suit jacket. “Need a shower. No. Fuck. Shower in vodka.”
“You need her.”
“Yeah? She’s not interested.” Bish goes rigid, no way to let loose when he can’t wrinkle his clothes without triggering a flashback.
“She will be.” I palm his skull and rub, destroying his style until he squawks.
“Ass.” He yanks a comb from his pocket, shouldering past me to the bathroom mirror. As soon as he has something to make neat, the logic I need from him clicks back online. “We’re not going to lose her.”
“Exactly. We’re going to win.”
Serafina Redfang has to be ours.
Not because she’s the prize, but because it’s written in the stars.
See? She already has me simping like Dutch.
Before we can bring her home, I have to make her safe.
“We’re advancing our bug-out plan.” My temples throb at our exploding list of enemies. The Triad. The Redfangs. Every alpha who ever looked at our mate crooked. “Call Dutch and Reese. We need the whole team if we’re going to get her out before the auction.”
Bishop grabs his phone. “Everything just got so much more fucking complicated.”
I lick my lips, tasting lemon dust that adds a buzz to the utter fucking terror of the truth.
I’ve never come out on top against the Triad.
But cheat, steal, kill—whatever it takes.
Our pack is done playing dead.
We’re going to fight.
We’re going to win.
And we’re going to fucking pray that Serafina Redfang can look beyond our shitty families and imagine the pack we’ll build together after we bulldoze all this gang bullshit.
I hyperventilate.
Rasping, I claw at my throat.
Itchy. Aching. Swallowing globs of red-hot lead.
I sprint to the shower, wanting to scrub off the nightmare lemon that just forced me to say good night to my last sweet dream. But when I stagger into the bathroom, the straps of the syringe case chafe between my thighs.
If I wash off Serafina’s scent, I’ll have to stick my neck again.
Unless I want to be caught. Then killed.
