He hands me a small business card. I take it automatically, not even glancing at it. I’m still reeling from his touch, and from the real concern in his voice.
“Okay,” I say, not knowing what else to say.
He nods once, steps back, and closes my car door with a soft click. Through the window, I watch him walk away, his confident stride carrying him across the parking lot to a sleek black SUV that probably costs more than my annual salary.
I sit there, stunned, trying to process what just happened.
My body has never reacted so strongly to anyone before. This alpha, Drake, has a magnetic presence that seems to pull at something deep and primal inside me. I want to be near him at all times.
I want to be hugged, touched, caressed by him.
I shake my head, trying to clear the image of being tangled with him.
He’s probably like this with every omega he meets, just another rich alpha player looking for a breeding mate to add to his collection. The thought leaves me feeling hollow.How would I ever know if an alpha has real feelings for me?
As I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, I realize that the emptiness I’m feeling has nothing to do with Mother’s death. It seems cruel and cold. But the emptiness might be a longing I’ve always ignored—the need for a pack, for belonging. I want the security and love that my sisters, Carmen and Lena, have found.
I drive to my apartment building, trying to focus on the road instead of the lingering scent of Drake that seems to have permeated my car.
The parking garage is dim and damp, with flickering fluorescent lights that give everything a sickly glow. I grab my bags from the trunk and head for the entrance.
The apartment building I used to share with Mother always depresses me. The corridors are narrow and dark, with peeling wallpaper that might have been floral once but has faded to an indeterminate grayish-brown. Spiderwebs cling to the corners of the ceiling, and dust coats the walls.
Empty beer bottles line the hallway, tipped over or standing in small clusters. The carpet is stained with substances I don’t want to identify, and the whole place smells of mildew and despair.
Home sweet home.
I drag myself and my bags through the door of the apartment, the key sticking in the lock like it always does.
The place still smells like the candles Mother always lights up. The lavender smell always fails to mask decades of cigarette smoke. The sudden smell makes tears suddenly spring to my eyes.
I drop the bags on the kitchen counter, and I sink to the floor, tears rolling down my face in streams.
I hate her, I try reminding myself, but I can’t stop the tears from rolling down as I cry like that on the floor, curled up on the dusty red rug.
She was the only one there for me. But deep down, she had a dark side I never knew. A dark side, I never thought she would be capable of having, until her deathbed confession.
The tears start to slow, and I slowly stand back up, clutching the kitchen counter as I sniffle. Once I move out of here, I won’t be stuck with the memories here.
I need to move on and forget about everything. I was still saving up to move before Mother died, and now I realize that it’s pretty urgent to move and get away from here for my own well-being.
I unpack my new scent blockers methodically, arranging them in the tiny bathroom cabinet. The mirror above the sink reflects my haunted eyes and the dark circles beneath them. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memories of the day.
My wet funeral dress clings uncomfortably to my skin, so I peel it off and toss it into the hamper. I don’t want to look at it again. Maybe I’ll burn it later, along with everything else that reminds me of this day.
I pull on my softest pajamas, red and black pants, and an oversized shirt. My twin bed is shoved against the wall of my very small bedroom.
The mattress sags in the middle. A small dresser with a wobbly drawer sits opposite the bed, and a single lamp casts a weak yellow glow over everything. It’s a little sad. At my age, I should have more to show for myself than this cramped corner of my dead mother’s apartment.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the patchwork quilt Mother made when I was a child. Before she—no. I can’t go there again. I need to move forward. Get rid of her things. Cleanse this place of her presence. Or better yet, find a new place altogether. Somewhere without memories. Somewhere where I’m not constantly reminded that I lived with a murderer for twenty-six years and never suspected a thing.
I leave my small bedroom and walk restlessly around the small space.
The apartment is cluttered with her belongings. Ceramic figurines of wolves on every surface. Her collection of romance novels is stacked precariously on the coffee table. Her favorite armchair has the permanent indentation of her body. It all needs to go. I need to reclaim this space or escape it entirely.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
I pad across the small living room to the door, standing on tiptoes to peer through the peephole. Carmen and Lena stand in the dingy hallway, looking uncomfortable and out of place in their nice clothes. No sign of their kids or alpha mates. Just my sisters.
