The day before I left, Vincent had wrapped his hand around my wrist to keep me there. We'd been arguing about something stupid, something I can't even remember now. I'd tried to walk away because I'd learned that sometimes walking away was theonly way to de-escalate, to give him space to calm down. But he hadn't let me, yanking me back so fucking hard that I stumbled.
"You don't walk away from me," he'd snarled, his face inches from mine. His grip had tightened, grinding the small bones of my wrist together until I'd cried out. "You don't get to just leave. You're mine."
The terror in that moment had been all-consuming. The certainty that if I didn't get out, if I didn't run, I was going to die. Maybe not that day, but eventually. He was escalating, getting worse, and some part of me understood that I was running out of time.
So I'd waited until he'd left for work the next morning, thrown everything I could grab into a bag, and ran.
Dylan saw the bruises when I first stumbled through his door. The one on my wrist, the ones on my upper arms where Vincent had grabbed me too hard, and the fading mark on my ribs through my torn shirt from where he'd shoved me into a counter.
Dylan's face had gone through a rapid series of emotions, shock and horror and rage all flickering across his features in the space of a heartbeat. His hands had shaken as he'd reached for me, so gently like I was made of glass.
He never asked about them directly. Never pushed me to explain. But I could see the fury simmering beneath his careful control, the way his jaw would clench when he thought I wasn't looking, the white-knuckled grip he'd have on his coffee mug in the mornings.
He's still pissed. I know he is. Maddox too, though he hides it better.
I've tried to tell Dylan that I'm okay now, that I'm safe, that the bruises are healing, and I'm getting better. Even though I'm not sure I believe it myself.
I sit up a bit more, shifting my weight, and that's when I catch it. Just the faintest hint of scent cutting through the smell of lavender fabric softener and vanilla candle wax.
Rose. Sweet and warm, unmistakably Omega.
My scent.
My eyes go wide, panic slamming into my chest. No, no, no. Where are the blockers? I scramble around my nest frantically, throwing pillows aside, searching for the small jar of scent-blocking cream I keep close. My hands start shaking so badly I nearly drop it when my fingers finally close around the smooth glass.
I wrench the lid off and scoop out a generous amount, slathering it all over my neck with desperate, jerky movements. My pulse hammers beneath my fingertips as I rub the cream into my scent gland, the cool substance quickly warming against my feverish skin. I add more, covering my wrists, the inside of my elbows, anywhere my scent might escape from.
Even if that’s not how it works.
The fear is irrational because it’s just me in here and Dylan and Maddox out there. But what if the scent tracks an Alpha to the house? What if somehow Vincent can smell it and uses it to find me? I know it doesn't work that way. I know he's not some supernatural creature who can follow a scent trail across state lines. But the rational part of my brain has very little say right now.
You're safe,I tell myself. You're in Dylan's house. The doors are locked. Vincent doesn't know where you are. You're safe.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I stare at my device beside my thigh, holding my breath as I wait to see if the screen will light up again. It does, with another notification. And then another, until there’s just text after text filling up my screen.
A small whine falls from my lips as I grab it, some terrible compulsion forcing me to look even though I already know, I already know what I'm going to see.
Vincent.
Text after text after text pops up. I still don't know how he got this number. I'd been so careful, only giving it to Dylan and Maddox and the school. But somehow he found it this afternoon anyway.
The words blur together as I scroll, each message more vile than the last.
You can't hide from me
Stupid bitch, think you can just leave?
I'm going to find you and when I do
You're MINE. You'll always be mine
No one else will want you. You're worthless without me
I made you. I can destroy you
Answer me you ungrateful bitch
The messages keep coming, one after another, and I can practically hear his voice saying the words and feel the way he'd spit them at me with his face contorted in rage. My vision tunnels, the edges going dark, but for some reason, I can't stop reading or look away from the proof that he's still there, still hunting me, still determined to drag me back.
