A violent tremor wracks my entire body. My teeth chatter so hard my jaw aches.
Sam tracks my line of sight. She looks out the window, spots the idling vehicle, and her entire demeanor shifts in a fraction of a second. The polite, cheerful boutique owner vanishes.
Sam grabs my shoulders. Her grip bites into my skin. “Sandra. Look at me.”
I can’t. The phantom smell of Nero chokes me.
“Sandra!” Sam steps right into my line of sight, blocking the window with her body. She grabs my face between her hands, forcing my gaze up to meet hers. “You are safe.”
She hauls me to my feet. My legs feel like lead, my knees buckling with every step. Sam wraps a strong arm around my waist, bearing the brunt of my weight. She doesn’t take me toward the front door. She drags me past the plush velvet sofa, past the racks of silk and cashmere, and past the mirrored dressing rooms.
We hit the back corridor. Sam shoves me into a small, windowless office and slams the heavy wooden door shut behind us.
The deadbolt echoes like a gunshot in the cramped room.
Sam drops the blinds over the small glass pane in the door. She doesn’t waste a single second. She pulls her cell phone from her pocket and dials.
“Jethro,” Sam barks into the receiver, her voice tight but steady. “Get to the boutique right now. Sandra is having a severe panic attack. There’s a black SUV idling out front. We are locked in my back office.”
She turns to me, her chest heaving. I back into the corner, sliding down the wall until I hit the floor. I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my head. The tremors turn into violent, full-body shakes.
Sam drops to the floor next to me. She doesn’t coddle me. She uses the firm, no-nonsense tone of someone accustomed to handling crisis situations.
“Name five things you can see, Sandra. Right now. Do it.”
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. The darkness only makes Nero’s face clearer.
“Open your eyes!” Sam commands, her voice cracking like a whip. “Look at the room. Look at me. Five things.”
I force my eyelids open. My vision swims with tears. “Desk,” I choke out, the word tearing at my throat. “Chair. Filing cabinet. Pen.” I look at her dark pants. “Your slacks.”
“Good.” Sam grips my knee, her hand warm and solid. “Four things you can feel.”
“The floor.” I press my palms flat against the hardwood. “The wall. My sweater.” I dig my fingers into my pocket, finding the cold metal. “Caleb’s pin.”
“Hold onto that pin,” Sam orders. “Three things you can hear.”
I strain my ears, trying to listen past the roaring in my head. “The heater. Your breathing.”
A new sound cuts through the air. The harsh, violent chime of the front door bells ringing as someone throws the boutique door open with explosive force.
My breath catches. The rancid phantom scent surges back.
He came inside.
Heavy boots hammer against the hardwood floor of the boutique. The footsteps lack the hesitant, meandering pace of a browsing customer. They strike the ground with measured, predatory intent.
My inner Omega whimpers, shrinking back against the drywall. I clutch Caleb’s silver leaf pin so tight the metal edges bite into my palm. I brace myself for the splintering crash of the office door giving way.
“Sam!”
The voice rumbles through the walls, deep and rough like grinding stones.
A massive surge of scent crashes through the cracks in the doorframe. The smell of campfire and marshmallow hits my senses, but the sweetness vanished. The scent burns. It smells like charred wood, ash, and pure, unrestrained Alpha aggression.
Jethro.
Sam sags against the door, letting out a breath she held in her lungs. She reaches up and flips the deadbolt.
