Fear crashes through me, full and blinding. I turn and run, gripping the gun so hard my fingers ache. Jimmy’s footsteps thunder behind me, getting closer, closer?—
I don’t know where I’m going, but I keep pumping my arms and legs, not stopping until I see it.
The greenhouse.
I veer straight for the little building, lungs burning. Holding out one hand, I shove the door open and stumble inside. Then I spin to slam it shut?—
Jimmy hits it like a battering ram.
The door rips free of its flimsy hinges and slams into me, knocking me flat onto the dirt. All the air blasts out of my lungs in a sharp, brutal rush, leaving me gasping, vision sparking. I’m dimly aware of the gun still in my hand. I can feel its weight and the cold metal pressed into my palm, but my body won’t listen.
My chest locks up, refusing to draw breath, panic roaring louder than thought.
I know I should aim. I know I should move.
I can’t do anything except fight for air.
Jimmy’s on me.
He rips the gun away before I can even raise it, straddling my hips. And then he settles his full weight down onto my stomach. The pressure is crushing. My diaphragm locks,breath wheezing uselessly in my throat as panic spikes hot and immediate.
Every shallow gasp scrapes instead of filling; my chest fluttering under him while my vision swims.
“Shit.” Jimmy pants hard, tears streaking his face and mixing with sweat, his eyes wild and unfocused. He pauses for a second and pulls in a deep breath, as if he’s lost in his own head. “You are a fast one.” He clears his throat roughly.
My hand brushes something rough. A rock. Small. Too small. I curl it into my palm anyway. Hitting him with it wouldn’t knock him out and it would probably just make him angry, but I can’t lie here completely defenseless.
Jimmy wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “You know, I really do love him,” he says quietly. “You’re a lucky omega.” He moves slowly, lifting the gun and checking that there’s a bullet in the chamber. “This isn’t personal,” he adds, almost apologetically.
He cocks the gun.
“I need him to see me,” Jimmy says. “Without any distractions.” His gaze drops to my face. “And you’re a distraction.”
The barrel presses to my temple, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, preparing myself for the bang.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, a gentle buzzing fills my ears.
Jimmy’s body tenses on top of me, and I open my eyes.
The alpha’s eyes dart wildly, his body jerking as he tries to swat something away. “What—what the fuck—” Panic spikes in his voice.
Then my mind clears.
I hear it.
The hive.
I turn my head, and I see it. Three wooden boxes sit feet from me, with fat little bees crawling around the mouth.
Jimmy jerks again above me, swearing louder, and a memory clicks into place. That morning in the kitchen, when Gray and I danced, Jimmy made an offhand comment about being allergic to bees.
My eyes narrow at my target as my fingers tighten around the rock.
I suck in a deep breath, then I throw.
The anticipation stretches impossibly thin as it sails, time dragging, my heart hammering.
