AllFreeNovel
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“You fucking kidding me?” Tears run down the chained alpha’s cheeks.
Experience has me retreating to the wall, clear of loogie-hawking distance “If you need another hit—”
“No.” A hard flinch rattles his chains. “Fuck, no.”
“Then describe the scent so we can both get out of here.” I bite back my pheromones, already dreading hearing how my scent reminds him of the worst moment of his life.
“Moth balls.” The prisoner goes glaze-eyed. “Dust. Nan’s sweaters. The blood. Fuck. They killed her. I hid and they—”
I tune out his trauma until Brandon gives the all-clear. “Next subject.”
I bolt from the room, skin clammy.
The prisoner behind door number two says I smell like diesel and ash.
Number three says unwashed pubes.
Just what every girl wants to hear.
That’s why I can never see my dream pack again.
Never, ever, ever, and never even then.
I wouldn’t survive them gagging, saying I smell like dead fish or grave dirt, or whatever terrible trauma my scent unearths.
Watching the boys I’ve always loved give me the same wrinkled nose, who-let-in-the-freak glare that everyone’s shot me since the orphanage?
Nope.
We will not be doing that.
My chances of being with them were bad enough before my perfume came in—when I was a weird, stinky kid with a shaved head and no friends.
Freaking pheromones.
One whiff can change your life.
Like, meet your meant-to-be mate and boom. New worldview, new priorities, and rabid new instincts to bite and claim, to protect and love.
Bridget can manipulate her pheromones to smell like anyone’s fated mate, so she’s instantly adored wherever she descends.
I’m the opposite.
Pure poison, hated everywhere.
Which makes sense. I smell like your personal nightmare and my side effects make me sound like one of those sketchy drug commercials.
WARNING: Marisol may cause stinging pain, paralysis, heartburn, hallucinations, projectile vomit, foaming saliva, permanent loss of erection, and EVEN DEATH.
I’m basically a cobra with airborne venom, and the only reason I’m not permanently caged is that Team Fissure doesn’t know how easily I can kill.
They think I have to work to use my ability.
In reality, I’m working twenty-four seven to keep myself leashed.
They’re alive, so I’m clearly doing gangbusters, but I’m not a machine.
By the seventh test subject, my neck aches from the strain of keeping control. My jaw and shoulders go tight as cold rubber.
