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I guess I sort of am. Because the second I walked into the police station, every head turned.
A sane person—or maybe just someone with a speck of real-world experience—might have realized, Oh, right, I’m the unbonded omega with the super-perfume. Maybe I shouldn’t walk into a government building that will likely be full of alphas.
Well.
Whoops.
There were growls. Snarls. A few of them even lurched up from their posts.
I spent so long trying to get away from Wally and that filthy dump, I forgot to make a decent plan for what would happen if I ever succeeded. Mostly because I didn’t actually believe I would.
Thankfully, the woman at the front desk of the police station was a beta. She got two of the bonded alpha officers to escort me into a room before anyone decided to make me into a chew toy.
Maybe I already am one. I’m squeaky. And covered in rubber. And apparently, I smell to alphas the way a liver treat smells to a dog. So.
“Miss?”
My lashes flutter as I attempt to focus. Again.
It’s hard—my chest feels like it’s caving in, and I can’t seem to get enough air through the narrow passage of my throat. My mind keeps racing, coming up with stupid jokes and song lyrics and all sorts of other crap I’ve used to cope for years.
But every time I try to speak, I can’t eke out any words.
This lady doesn’t even know my name. Gray eyes that match her tight police-issue bun scroll down my body with some mixture of distasteful suspicion and muted concern.
Damn this dark-red rubber thong.
And the bodysuit attached to it.
And the inconvenient fact that I can’t talk.
Actually, I can’t remember the last time I wanted to talk to someone. Two months? Three?
I open my mouth, sputtering silently. She sighs, dropping her pen to her clipboard. “Sweetie, if you have a drug problem, we can get you some help. There are?—”
I shake my head frantically, black hair flying around my chest and shoulders.
Her gaze takes on a hard, frustrated edge. “Listen, I can’t help you if you won’t speak. Now, I need to know, are you in danger?”
I have to stop to consider that.
Am I?
Wally is surely out there looking for me right now. Not because he cares, but because I make him a lot of money. I ignore the pang that pounds through my stomach and nod my head.
She ticks a box on her form. “Are you seeking refuge from an abusive situation?”
Those words are… hard. Does anyone want to think of themselves as someone who let themselves get mixed up in “an abusive situation”? And, worse, took years to figure out a way to get out?
It hurts, but I force down a swallow, nodding again.
When I confirm, she hands me her clipboard and the pen. “I’m going to need some of your personal information. Especially your name. If you can’t say it, you’ll have to write it out for me.”
That, I can do.
With careful letters, I fill in the appropriate line, scrawling the name I’ve always hated for too many reasons to count.
Serena Swanson.
