“Fuck,” the asshole grunts, still sprawled on the canvas-covered floor. He’s blinking up at the ceiling like he can’t quite track where he is. He’s young, late twenties maybe, with messy bleach-blond hair hanging in his face.
He lifts his head, then places one hand to the back of his skull, fingers coming away slick with blood.
Good.
“What the hell?” he mutters as he slowly sits up, pushing his hair out of his face. There’s a thin scar over hisright eye. “Fuck.” His mouth falls open, examining the blood on his palm. “That one’s feral! She attacked me for no reason. She can’t—” He cuts himself off the second a female alpha steps up beside him and into my line of sight.
My shoulders curl inward on instinct.
She stands at least six feet tall, with sleek black hair falling in a perfect curtain to her waist. Her lips are a glossy, lethal red, the kind of color that stains. Her nails are long and pointed, claws painted to a mirror-shine. She’s dressed like a posh businesswoman: tailored charcoal trousers, a bright red blouse, and black heels sharp enough to stab someone if she felt like it.
My body reacts to her, my back arching and my head ducking as I drag in her dominant scent. It’s thick and smoky, laced with warm tobacco leaves. The beta holding my arms from behind tightens his grip, steadying me when my knees threaten to give out again.
I hate that I can't see his face.
“I’m sorry, Angelica,” the asshole drops his gaze, submitting to her intense presence. “I was just checking her vitals. She woke up confused and tried to bolt.”
My body jerks at the lie. It’s a weak, useless protest, but that’s all I can manage. Everything else is locked in place. Angelica’s dominance presses down on me like a weighted blanket soaked in fear, pinning every muscle in place.
And I’m too exhausted to fight it.
“Calm down, Zack,” Angelica says, looking down at the asshole like he’s a speck of dirt. “And clean yourself up. You have blood on your scrubs.” Her voice has a cold, unshakeable authority that makes the air feel thinner.
The beta mumbles, “Yes, ma’am,” as he scrambles upright.
My body recoils as he passes me, shoulders curling inward.
His eyes meet mine, and my heart pounds so hard it hurts, my instincts screaming that I’m not safe, that I need to run.Now!
My legs twitch uselessly beneath me, desperate to move even though they refuse to cooperate.
“It’s okay, omega,” the man holding me whispers. His weirdly kind voice settles over me, and the urge to run burns itself out all at once, leaving me hollow and blinking, my brain finally catching up to my eyes.
And for the first time, I actually see where I am.
There are several other betas moving around the massive tent. Most wear wrinkled navy scrubs, a few in black. Medical trays covered in bandages, vials, syringes, and coiled tubing line the walls. More white partitions stretch across the space, each hiding a cot. Behind some, I catch the silhouettes of omegas.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” a nurse murmurs as she guides an omega across the room.
The omega’s feet drag, unsteady. Clearly drugged.
I just stand there, shock rooting me to the floor as I watch the girl shuffle past, her eyes slack and unfocused.
“Everyone, back to work,” Angelica’s sharp voice grabs my attention, and I instinctively look up at her. She’s looking right at me, her cold stare hitting like a hand closing around the back of my neck. Firm and dominant. “You woke up ready to play, didn’t you?”
The canvas flap at the side of the tent jerks open and a man steps inside. He’s kind of short and thin, with dark hair plastered to his forehead and tan skin gone sallow with stress. He’s wearing black scrubs that mark him as someoneimportant here, someone medical. His eyes jump from me to the overturned partition, to the blood on the floor, to the betas standing too still.
“Angelica?” The man rushes toward us. “What happened?” His dark eyes slip over my naked body. “Why is she awake?” He looks at the nearest nurse. “She shouldn’t be?—”
“Everything is fine, Dr. Plume,” Angelica says smoothly, like this entire situation is nothing more than a spilled cup of coffee. “A minor incident. But I am concerned about this one.” Her cold blue eyes slide to me. “How is she awake?”
My throat works. It takes effort—more than it should—but I manage to force out a sound. “Where…where am I?” My voice cracks. “What is this place?”
Neither of them looks at me.
A nurse approaches instead, placing something in Dr. Plume’s hands. A chart?
Dr. Plume scans it, brows lifting. “She shouldn’t be conscious,” he murmurs. “We gave her enough sedatives to keep her under for hours.”
