She shakes her head. Her scent goes heavy with grief, cedar and basil wilting. “You were the only one there.”
Wallace moved them then. Or they were already dead. Or they were never real at all, just another hallucination in the cocktail of drugs he pumped into my veins.
I close my eyes. The tremors are getting worse. Withdrawal claws its way through my system now that whatever Wallace was feeding me has started to leave. He’s cut me off drugs before to observe the withdrawal process.
It always hurts.
But what if he’s feeding me new drugs?
Ones that feel like withdrawal. Ones that fake a scent-match.
Because that’s what she scents like to my omega.
Mine.
Chapter Three
Espie
Sera is trying not to scare me. The furrow between her brows runs deep, and her scent has shifted toward anguish. She grips the arms of the chair until her knuckles pale, her whole body leaning toward mine. She has the power to take. She's choosing not to. I don't know if it's real or a different kind of trap. A longer game. A softer knife.
A purr rolls out of her chest and I hate the way my muscles loosen, the way my breathing slows to match the rhythm of that sound. Warmth spreads through my chest, and my omega perks up like a starved thing, which she is. My body leans toward her, drawn by that vibration.
Safe.
Safe.
Safe.
This is another manipulation, and I know that, but my bones are turning to honey, and my eyes are stinging and I want to crawl into her lap and press my ear to her chest and let that sound wash over me until I forget my own name.
She must see something in my face. The terror underneath the craving. The way I'm shaking harder now, my body at war with itself. Her purr stutters. Stops.
My chest aches with the loss of it, a hollow space where that sound filled me with warmth. Screaming at her to start again. Screaming at her to get away from me. Clawing out of my own skin because it doesn't belong to me anymore, it belongs to whatever she's doing to me, and I can't make it stop. I clamp down the whine that rises.
“I’m sorry, I’m… I thought that…” Her tongue swipes to wet her bottom lip. “You can scent me. Your body knows who we are to each other. It will help.”
She tilts her head and exposes her throat. Her scent gland is there, beneath the skin. So strong. So concentrated. This is the source. This is where she's most herself, most Alpha, most everything my biology was designed to respond to.
“Please, sweetheart. Just try.”
I freeze every muscle locked tight so I don’t move. My omega is screaming at me, clawing at the inside of my skull, demanding I go to her, bury my face in her throat, and breathe until there's nothing left of me.
Wallace never made female Alphas. His experiments were always males. Easier to sell. Easier to control. Females too rare. Too complicated. If she's manufactured, she's new. I don't know how to read her.
My spine goes cold as she rises from the chair. Slowly. So slowly it almost hurts to watch. She's moving through honey, giving me every possible chance to stop her. Each movement telegraphed. I should run, should fight, should do anything other than lie here and shake. I don't. I can't.
“S-stay away from m-me.” My voice cracks on the last syllable. Pathetic.
Her scent shifts, the blood orange curdling, the cedar going bitter and black. Guilt. Fear. Not fear of me, I realize with a jolt. Fearforme.
“Okay.” Steady. Calm. The voice of someone who has done this a thousand times. “Okay. I'm stopping. I'm not moving. See? I'm right here. I'm not coming any closer.”
She holds perfectly still. I see what it costs her in the white-knuckled grip on her own thighs, the way her whole body strains toward me.How long until the leash snaps?
“I know that doesn't mean anything to you right now. I know people have said it before and then hurt you anyway. I'm going to keep saying it until you believe me.”
I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help.
