Page 6 of Knot the Stray

I stay on the wet floor for over an hour, scrubbing every inch of the metal and plastic.

Eventually everything is clean. Standing up, I peel the yellow gloves off my sweaty hands and tossing them into the sink. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm. I lean against the cinderblock wall, letting the cold surface pull the heat from my skin. My hands still shake a bit, but the panic in my chest fades into a dull, manageable ache. I survived the initial shock. I kept my mask on. The guys don’t have a reason to come back here. Now, I just need to lay low and avoid them.

Evening falls over Willowside, casting long, dark shadows across the gravel parking lot. Finishing my clinic pharmacy inventory means counting the last bottle of antibiotics. Before shutting the place down for the night, I step out the back door into the cool Colorado air. The gravel crunches under my boots on the walk over to my van.

Unlocking the side door, I slide it open and grab a canvas tote bag from the front seat to raid my built-in mini-fridge. Sliced turkey, a block of sharp cheddar, and a loaf of bread go into the bag. Sleeping on strange mattresses gives me the creeps, so I strip my favorite soft sheets and a quilt off my memory foam bed. Balancing the awkward pile of bedding and my groceries, I lock the heavy van door tight and haul the load back inside the brick building.

Double-checking the deadbolts on the back doors takes a second, followed by locking the medicine cabinets and flipping the switch for the main overhead lights. The clinic plunges into darkness. Down here, the silence feels heavy, broken just by the hum of the air conditioner and the sterile sting of bleach still burning the inside of my nose.

Retreating up the narrow, creaky wooden stairs brings me to the second-floor apartment. The air up here feels stale, but a safe, solid barrier exists between me and the rest of the town.

Dropping the supplies on the retro kitchen counter, I turn just in time. Winston greets me the second my boots hit the floor, letting out a soft, vibrating trill. The tuxedo cat weaves around my legs, unbothered by the frantic, chaotic energy radiating off my skin. Scooping him up hauls his warm weight against my chest.

Burying my face in his soft fur grounds me, and I take a deep breath. He always smells like fresh laundry. Running a hand down his spine reveals solid muscle and a smooth coat; he’s in perfect health.

Setting him down on the checkered linoleum floor, I grab a tin from my veterinary supply bag and pop the aluminum tab on a can of premium wet food. The label lists beef hearts, liver, and organs as the primary ingredients. Protecting his kidneys from failure requires a strict moisture-rich diet, so I scoop the rich, meat-heavy pate into his ceramic bowl. Preventive medicine is my job, and Winston deserves the best. He dives in, purring a rough, heavy rumble between bites.

I make a plain turkey and cheese sandwich. Zero appetite plagues me, but forcing down the dry bites gives me the calories to keep my energy up.

Leaving the kitchen, I walk with my sandwich into the small living area and sit on the edge of the faded floral sofa. The vintage springs groan under my weight. Dust motes dance in the fading light filtering through the windows.

My eyes lock onto my suitcase. It sits zipped and ready next to the front door, right where I left it. The worn fabric bears patches and scuffs from dozens of state lines and temporary clinics.

The urge to grab that handle, carry it down the stairs, and throw it into the back of my van hits me hard. It would mean crossing the state border by morning, finding a new clinic in a town without an Alpha pack waiting to ruin my life. The flight response hums in my veins, demanding action. Every time things got complicated in the foster system, packing my bags in the dark and vanishing kept me safe.

Gripping the edge of the sofa cushion, I force myself to stare at the blank wall and review the raw facts. This contract lasts three months. Covering a staffing shortage means collecting a massive paycheck from the town board. Keeping my head down, doing my job, and driving away when the time runs out remains my one plan. Surviving far worse things than a pesky instinctual pull proves I can handle three months of avoidance.

Despite the logical pep talk, my mind betrays me. The quiet apartment gives my thoughts too much room to spin. As the last dry bite goes down, the afternoon replays frame by frame.

Jake standing at the laminate counter dominates my vision. His broad shoulders filled the space, projecting a calm, undeniable authority. The silver badge on his chest caught the light, but his warm, dark eyes held my attention, tracking my movements with a deep, unwavering interest.

Beside him, Edward’s solid, large frame offered a strange sense of comfort. He looked like a human mountain in those scuffed work boots. The deep, rumbling timber of his voice offering thanks still vibrates in my core. His wide chest and thick arms promised safety.

Nolan provided a quiet balance to the group. The capable way his hands handled the muddy golden retriever’s leash matched the intelligent look behind his dark frames. He watched me with a soft, steady focus, making a hot flush creep up my neck.

They looked at me with genuine fascination. That kind of undivided attention shouldn’t exist toward a boring Beta. Alphas don’t look at Betas like they hold the secrets to the universe.

Wondering if my professional mask slipped drives me insane. Maybe the scent-blocker failed for a split second, or maybe they just exude that kind of protective energy with everyone they meet. The thought of them looking at me with that level of raw attraction sends a heavy, curling heat low in my belly. My nipples harden against my cotton bra, and a slick rush of dampness pools in my underwear.

It frustrates me. I hate how my body responds to the memory of their warmth with such intense hunger, I refuse to be a slave to my own physical needs.

I grab my pile of bedding. I strip the dusty, unfamiliar sheets off the full-sized mattress in the corner and toss them aside. I stretch my clean, soft linens over the mattress and toss my favorite quilt on top.

Next comes washing the day off my skin. I strip off my dirty clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor. Stepping into the tiny shower stall, I crank the hot water and let the steam melt away the harsh stench of bleach and mud.

Now clean and exhausted, I crawl under my own covers. But sleep takes hours to set in. Tossing and turning ruins my pristine bed-making job, twisting the sheets into a tangled, sweaty mess as the phantom scent of fig and spices lingers in my nose.

Thick, intoxicating heat blankets the room. The rich scent of fig, warm clove, sharp vetiver, and steeped black tea saturates the air. The aroma sinks straight into my blood. I sink into a huge, plush mattress. The sheets twist around my naked limbs.

Jake hovers over me. His broad chest blocks out the ceiling. He captures my wrists, pressing them into the pillows beside my head. His grip feels firm and grounding. He leans down, his scruff scratching against the sensitive skin of my neck.

“So perfect. Just for us.”

A hot shiver wracks my spine. His mouth replaces the scruff; his lips dragging a wet, open path down to my collarbone. He bites down, a firm pressure that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core. I arch my back, desperate for friction.

Edward’s frame shifts onto the bed on my right side. The mattress dips under his weight. His rough, calloused hands span my waist. The heat radiating off his skin rivals a furnace. He drags his palms up my ribcage, his broad thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks of my breasts. The sensation rips a loud, needy moan from my throat.

“That sounds so good, sweetheart. Keep making those noises for us.”