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“Jonah’s right.”
All three of them freeze again, whirling to look at me with those same stunned expressions.
Assholes.
I shrug, playing off their surprise. “We have to grow some balls. I know this situation is fucked-up, but we should still try. That’s what people do when they care about someone, right?”
Jonah’s brows crunch. His mouth quirks so he’s speaking out the side of it to the others. “Am I losing it, or was that actually inspiring?”
chapter
eighteen
Okay.
Okay.
Where am I?
My eyelids squeeze while I think through the options. Well, I’m either going to wake up at Wally’s and realize the whole gorgeous-pack-of-mates, accidental-bonding, riding-an-NFL-player’s-face thing was a dream…
Or I’ll be in some strange room. Which would mean that all of that insanity actually happened, and I’m—I just?—
Oh God.
Can you die of embarrassment? Asking for a friend.
If all of that really happened, it explains why the emptiness in my middle feels so strange. At first, I think it’s just because my Omega has retreated, back to whatever corner she’s been holed up in for years. I wonder when she slipped away and if she’ll come back.
Then, I realize that there’s also a noticeable lack of earth-shattering regret. Which means Tristan Thorne has left the building.
Fragments from his conversation with the doctor alpha swirl through my hazy memories of the moments after he bit me. The doctor wanted him to shut down the bond from his side, to seal his emotions off and keep me calm. If all of that was real, then he’s definitely figured it out.
I’m sure my thoroughly mortifying behavior earlier helped motivate him, but I don’t care. I’m just relieved. At least, for now, everything I feel is my own.
The first sensation isn’t a feeling, though.
It’s hunger.
The painful, queasy kind that tells me it’s been a while since Wally deigned to provide me with a meal.
There may not be a Wally anymore, I think, dazed and, somehow, sicker.
I try to take a deep breath and force my eyes open, but a swirl of heavenly scent curls down my throat. Four different alphas, all blended into an aroma so rich that my pussy instantly slicks all over again. My head spins, a stab of fear impaling the whine that wants to scale the back of my throat.
I’ve spent years around every type of alpha there is. Rotten ones, metallic ones. The sort that smell musky or sickly-sweet. Popcorn, cardboard, wet socks. Egg salad, cheap beer. Asphalt. Sawdust.
None of them—not a one—had any sort of positive effect on me.
It made sense. I was broken. Fractured or fucked-up or freakish. Whatever you want to call it—my ass was never normal. I’d accepted it.
I liked it, because, no matter how those alphas at the club treated me—no matter how they leered or catcalled or groped or smacked—I didn’t care. None of them could touch me inside—where it counted.
Which is why the smell of this pack terrifies me.
Why do they smell so good?
What if I’m making them up?
