“Shut the fuck up,” I groan.
Too bad the exhaustion doesn’t get rid of my racing thoughts. Neither of us have heard anything about the girl since the younger Mercer kid stumbled out of the barn yesterday.
For all we know, she’s dead.
That thought doesn’t sit right with me.
“You’re just a sore loser,” Griffin teases, jumping to his feet.
The sound of an engine coming closer makes my hackles rise.
“Someone’s coming,” I grit out, regretting how far I pushed myself physically.
Normally, this kind of exercise wouldn’t tire me out, but I’m still recovering from yesterday’s fight. It normally takes me a day or two before my body is back to normal, even with my accelerated healing from both my alpha designation and the drugs we’re given.
“Can you tell who?” Griffin asks, his voice low as he pushes up against the bars of the stable door, trying to get a better look at what’s going on.
“It’s a golf cart, not an ATV,” I answer.
“That a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know.”
The golf carts aren’t used very often. Most of the time, they use the ATVs because that’s what they have the transport cages attached to.
The door opens, and I catch sight of the scrawny Mercer kid as he holds the door open for something behind him.
Someone behind him.
Her. The omega.Mirabelle.
“Oh, thank fucking God,” Griffin says, slumping against the door.
While I don’t vocalize it, I’m feeling a similar sense of relief. I just don’t like what I’m feeling because it meansthey’refuckingwinning.
They already control so much of my fucking life: when I sleep, what I eat, what I do. I despise the fact that they now control what I care about.
I’d be lying to myself if I denied the fact that she’s burrowed her way into my brain and hasn’t left.
Is what I feel anything close to affection? Or the sweet sort of softness an omega like her deserves?
No.
Far from it.
I want her underneath me. I want her to bend to my will. I want to leave my mark on her body so she’s forced to think of me as much as I think of her.
“Morning, guys,” the kid says, nodding to us both as they come closer.
I smell her all over him, and a wave of uncontrollable jealousy washes over me.
The kid’s lucky there’s a locked door between us, because if not, I’d be at his throat. Fuck the fact that he still looks like a walking bruise.
She’smine.
“Good morning,” Mirabelle says, her voice soft and melodic.
She’s carrying a paper plate with another plate on top, acting as some sort of cover to hide what’s underneath.
