Whiskey.
He stares at me, mouth opening to speak. "We're your scent?—"
I swing the hockey stick with every ounce of strength I possess, connecting solidly with the side of his head and cutting him off. The hatch clatters shut as he hits the floor hard enough to shake the loft. I drop to my knees beside the hatch, hockey stick still clutched in my hands.
I don't have time to process what he just said because the voices below have escalated into what sounds like a full-blown fight. Grunts and thuds echo up through the opening, punctuated by shouting.
"—told you to wait?—"
"—she fucking hit me?—"
"—deserved it?—"
The hatch clatters open again. I scramble back, raising the hockey stick, but this time, a different face appears. This alpha has long black hair and pale blue eyes that widen slightly when they lock with mine. Pretty. Almost too pretty to be an alpha.
Definitely Plague.
"I apologize," he starts.
I spray him in the eyes with cologne before he can finish.
The alpha recoils with a snarling hiss, eyes squeezing shut as he drops back through the hatch. More chaos erupts below.
"Not another one!" Whiskey yells. "A fuckin' she-Wraith!"
I remain crouched by the dresser, hockey stick in one hand, cologne in the other, ready to take on whoever comes through next. But the hatch stays closed, though I can still hear them arguing below.
A soft scraping sound from behind me makes me whirl around, heart in my throat. The window slides open, and Wraith's massive form slips through with surprising grace for someone his size. He's carrying a takeout bag that fills the loft with the rich, savory scent of pho, blue eyes flicking from the hatch to me to the hatch again.
Did he tell them about me? I don’t think he would, but before I can ask, in two long strides, he crosses to the coffee table and sets down the bag of food. Then, without a word to me, he vanishes back through the window like a shadow.
I stare after him for a few heartbeats, momentarily stunned by his abrupt departure. Then I hear the sound of shattering glass from somewhere below, followed by a blood-curdling yell from Whiskey.
Oh god.
My body moves on autopilot, muscle memory from months of planning escape routes kicking in before my brain can even process what's happening.
Still carrying the hockey stick as a makeshift weapon, I lunge for my backpack. My fingers fumble with the zipper, yanking it open to grab my essentials—burner phone, wallet with my emergency cash, the small switchblade I keep for protection. I stuff them into my pockets, heart hammering against my ribs.
More crashes from below. The sound of furniture splintering. Deep alpha growls and snarls that vibrate through the floor beneath my feet. Wraith's among them—I recognize that particular rumble now, lower and more guttural than the others.
They're fighting. All of them.
Because of me.
I jam my feet into my shoes without bothering to untie the laces, then grab one of Wraith's black coats from the rack by the window. It's massive on me, even more like a dress hanging off my slight frame than his sweatshirt, but it's warm and carries his scent. I wrap it around myself, inhaling that comforting midnight forest smell one last time.
God, I hope it's not the last time.
Another crash from below, followed by what sounds like a body hitting a wall hard enough to crack plaster. Someone—not Wraith—roars in pain or rage or both.
I need to get out.
Now.
The window Wraith just left through is still partially open. I slide it up the rest of the way, cool night air rushing in to greet me. The roof and the fire escape platform sit just outside, metal grating sturdy beneath my feet as I climb through.
The night air is crisp against my face, carrying the scent of impending rain. I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I look down. The fire escape zigzags down the side of the building, each platform connected by a short ladder. It's a straight shot to the ground, maybe four stories total.
