Page 282 of Primal

The trailer’s getting warm. Too warm. My limbs feel loose, my thoughts syrupy—until a damp heat licks the back of my neck.

I spin around.

Nothing.

But the air still reeks of wet fur and mockery.

I should be pissed. I am pissed.

Payton Reed blasted me with that eye-melting shit. Maimed my boys. After I spent all night playing fucking knight in a cheap mask.

A laugh slips out. Too loud in this tiny box.

“Oh, you’re so dead, little fox.”

I bark out another laugh and stumble toward the door, tripping over the plush bullshit. Since when is walking this hard?

My head spins. Nothing fits right. Not the ache behind my eyes, not the laughter frothing out of me.

The sink’s edge bites into my palms as I steady myself. The mirror swims in my vision—

A flicker of pink in the reflection—a snout?

My gut clenches. I whirl around.

Nothing. Just those stupid thorn-framed mirrors and velvet black walls pressing in. The air’s thicker now. Sweet. Cloying.

Another laugh bubbles up—almost like a sob.

“Okay. This is fine. You’re fine.”

My voice sounds different. Loose around the edges.

I’m not drunk.

Am I?

The mirror twitches again—a flash of black beady eyes.

Gone before I can focus.

Just crawl back under your rock. Let the lights fade out. Stop fighting.

No. Find Payton.

A sound rumbles deep in my chest—like hinges grinding inside my skull. Thinking hurts. Breathing hurts.

The door. Get to the fucking door.

My legs don’t listen. I lurch sideways, shoulder crashing into a vanity.

Little bottles of Sinful Cherry and Virgin’s Bite lip balm scatter everywhere.

Virgin’s Bite. Perfect.

Except she’s not a virgin, is she? She’s yours.

“Damn right.” That crooked laughter rattles the vanity.