But there’s also the deep, intrinsic understanding that I am preparing more than just a hideout for the night.
I’m preparing a nest.
I try to shake off the warm thoughts, my omega’s whiny voice in my head that keeps screaming we need him.
We need our alpha.
Our nest is not complete without him.
“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss to myself as I meander my way inside the cave. My skin prickles with goosebumps, the chill turning colder as I wander further in. I’ll definitely have to see if I can usesomethingto make a fire. Even if it’s just some rocks and forest debris—leaves, plants, sticks and dirt—it’ll have to do for the night. In the morning, I’ll be rested enough and can figure out a plan from there.
I plop myself on the floor, closing my eyes as I take a breath. I slide my hands through my wet hair as I try to settle and remind myself I’m safe for now.
And just as my heart stops racing, I feel it.
Oh no…
“Not now…please…” I cry as the heat starts building in my core, ensnaring me with its talons.
Time is a fickle thing when you’re a prisoner. Without any clocks or any way to know how long I’d been in there, the only marker of time I have is my heat.
It comes every twenty-eight days on the dot. It used to be different, before I was captured, but ever since I came to the facility, since they started shoving those pills down my throat and shooting those chemicals into my veins, I’m much more regular now.
Still, sometimes it feels like it’s been months, and sometimes it feels like it’s been days, so the only true marker I have is this.
I’m terrified one day I won’t have this.
I’m not sure which is worse—the unbearable pain andneedthat festers within me until one of those vicious alpha assholes breeds me—or the idea that one of those disgusting, vile creatures might actually knock me up one day, and there will be nothing I can do to stop it.
“You can stop it now,” I tell myself, feeling the ache in my chest and the heat between my thighs. My dress clings to my skin, and the friction makes me feel unsettled. I hate dresses, for one, but the alphas at the facility like to have easy access. At all times, even outside of my heat.
I push the fabric between my legs, but the ache is too much, and just the touch alone causes my damn pussy to throb. I know what I need, but I hate that I need it.
I know my desires are “normal.” Needing to be knotted, to be bred, is just a part of what I was made to do, but the men at the facility…
I know they don’t have knots. I only know because I’d overheard a couple of them talking about some sort of research to alter the alphas of the Orion pack. I think that’s what they call themselves, but I don’t know for sure.
One other thing I know is that, despite the fact my heat craves it, I’ve never had a knot. I’m not certain it would make that much of a difference in the scheme of things, though.
Because once the heat hits, it’s unbearable unless I’m being bred, period.
But it doesn’t mean Ilikebeing touched or fucked by those knotless assholes.
I rarely come if at all, despite being full of theirs.
My body feels as if it is on fire, and the pain starts to throb in my groin. I push the heel of my hand against my groin, and the desire to thrust, to rub it, is intense.
Some of the men in the facility used to touch me with their hands before they bred me. They’d rub my folds or fuck me with their fingers, but usually it didn’t last very long. Still, I remember it didn’t feel terrible when they did it, though they usually stopped before I could feel the pleasure I longed for. I glance at my hand, wondering if it would feel the same if I—
I suck in a breath as the sweat breaks out beneath my dress. I bunch the fabric up, high enough that my panties are exposed. Usually, they are destroyed, and it’s weeks until I’m given a new pair.
The alphas at the facility rip them on purpose, I’m sure of it. They know there will be less of a struggle when they are intheirheat. Even without knots, their desire persists.
I blink through the pain, through the warmth blanketing me. With shaky fingers, I slide one over the fabric and whimper. It’s a strange sort of touch, my pussy electrified from the friction, the need.
The fabric of my panties is wet against my fingertips, and the desire to slide them inside of me is…intense.
I’ve never touched myself like they touched me. Not only was it frowned upon—I’d learned that the first week I’d been thrown in the facility— but I knew I couldn’t accurately give myself what I need more than anything.
