by Lola Rock
I know they’ve got me.
They beeline to Jett, who stands in the foyer with a handgun cocked. His gaze snaps to my bloody arm, and his lips pull back, flashing teeth. “What happened?”
“He was aiming for Orion,” I say.
“So you took a bullet for him?” Jett snarls.
Why the hell is he mad at me?
“Pretty much.” I tuck myself tighter against Finn. As my adrenaline drains, my veins fill with pain. “Do we have to talk to the police or…?”
“Fuck the police.” Finn hugs me, covering my bullet hole with surprising gentleness. “Wyvern Clinic. Now.”
“Atlas is with Dom.” Jett falls into formation, all of them making a square around me. “Fucking bastard.”
“He’ll pay,” Hunter growls, promising murder.
If I were less light-headed, I’d be a lot more worried about the guys surrounding me like I belong to them.
Knowing how soon that’ll change, I close my eyes and listen to the calming thump of Finn’s heart.
The thumping sound that lulled me to sleep bleeds into a beep. My face scrunches up as I’m pulled from a deep, deep dream.
“Lilah?” asks the honey-voiced prince.
I blink open heavy eyes to find Orion hovering over me, his golden hair glowing like a halo in the low light of a hospital room.
“What happened?” I start to sit, wincing when an IV wire pulls against my hand. I’m in a hospital gown instead of a ball gown, and I pray that nurses made the switch. I wriggle, lifting my blanket higher because it’s freaking weird wearing a paper towel in front of Orion.
“The bullet passed through your arm,” he says. “We called in the best plastic surgeon to stitch you up, so there won’t even be a scar. The doctors…”
“What?” My heart lurches. The way he pales, I expect to look down and find a stump. My arm barely stings.
Why is he acting like I died?
“You had a lot of old injuries.” Orion grips the bed rail until his knuckles whiten, looking anywhere but my eyes. “The doctors put you on a nutrient drip. They said you need it to heal. You already slept for twenty-four hours.”
I hate the idea of him—or any of the Wyverns—seeing my bruises and scars. And still, Orion hasn’t relaxed. He’s coiled. Tense in a way that has my heartbeat shuddering like a swamped engine.
“What else?” I ask.
“They said it could affect your hormones. Maybe bring on your heat.”
I suck in a breath.
No.
No, no, no.
“I sent the alphas away. You haven’t perfumed.”
“Why would you let them do that?” I’d rather be a shriveled husk, pitted, scarred, and weak than ever awaken.
“You saved me,” Orion’s voice catches.
“It was just a reflex.” I was facing the shooter. I saw him draw his weapon, pointed straight at Orion. There wasn’t time to think, but even if I had, I would’ve done the same.
“I owe you my life.”
“No.” I draw the blanket higher, wishing I could claw underneath and stay hidden in the dark forever. But the time to hide is over. I’m out. I’m exposed. And I have to start attacking. “We’re even. I’m the one who came into your pack.”
“Not because you wanted to,” he insists.
My mouth drops.
Orion’s defending me? “Did you hit your head?”
He laughs, high and sparkling. “The guys are outside. Are you okay if I call them in? They’ve been waiting to check on you.”
“If you’re okay with it.” Lifting the blanket over my nose, I give myself a sniff. All I smell is the plasticy, dry scent of hospital linens. No perfume, thank fuck.
When Orion hops up, I scan the room. With a couch near the big window and warm furnishings, the suite is nothing like TV, where someone slips into a coma and has to share their space with three psych patients and a team of neurotic doctors.
The accountant in me starts calculating how much it costs. The fresh flowers on my side table. The bag of IV fluid. Will the Wyverns ask me to pay it back? Or does it go on my OCC tab like all my other expenses?
I want to saliva vomit.
“Babydoll.” Finn rushes to my bedside, followed close by Hunter.
Atlas and Jett follow more sedately, with Orion trailing behind after shutting the door.
Hunter wrenches Finn back before he can dive on me, and the five of them surround my bed. They’re so big and tall it’s like being surrounded by statues—only they’re flesh and blood, and their pheromones flood with emotions.
Stress. Worry. Lust.
Lust?
I swallow, worming deeper under my blanket.
“Thank you.” Atlas dips his head.
A weird, hazy feeling squirms inside me. The pack leader cannot submit to me. My blanket drops to my hips. “Don’t. It’s not—”
“We owe you,” Atlas insists, hugging Orion against his side. “Losing him would destroy us.”
They all dip their heads.
I’m fraying, caught under attention that pulls the cord on my heart and leaves me vibrating. I still feel the instinct to hide, but I’ve already been seen.
The deepest part of me has to admit we like their attention.
We want more of it.
Even if Orion is their special one.
I want them to be mine.
That’s why I know what has to happen next. “I’ll leave the pack. I can’t be near you if the doctors screwed up my hormones.”
If I awaken, I’ll destroy them…and myself when they reject me.
“No,” Atlas growls.
I whip to him, shocked that he’s the one objecting, and even more shocked when Jett speaks up. “Dom has seen you with us, and he thinks you’re ours. We have to keep you under our protection until he’s neutralized.”
Finn licks his lips. “Fucker put a hit on our omegas. I’m not neutralizing shit. Going to flay him the fuck open.”
I shiver at the dark promise in his voice.
“You’re stuck with us, Killer,” Hunter says.
Clutching the blanket, the only thing keeping me grounded, I look to Orion. “You’re okay with this?”
Leaning against his pack leader, he looks cozy and safe, with a smug, masculine smile that shouldn’t make me quake. “You remember the part where you saved my life, right? I’m pretty sure that cleared up the territorial jealously bullshit. Besides. You never did anything wrong.”
“I…” My throat closes.
You never did anything wrong.
It’s just a phrase, but I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear it. From Orion, it’s magic.
You never did anything wrong.
It soothes the years and years of being hated for existing. The beatings and scorn.
You never did anything wrong.
I crack, pulling the blanket over my face so they don’t see my eyes turning glassy with the tears I can barely choke back.
“Let us take responsibility for your safety,” Atlas says softly. “You can stay with us as long as you want, or until you awaken and find your real pack.”
My face twists.
My real pack.
Shit.
One whiff of my perfume is all it’ll take to break our truce. Who cares about a scent match when Orion’s already bitten, already theirs? They’ll have to send me packing, send me far, far away from their real omega, who won’t give a shit that I saved him when my scent hits his mates like cocaine.
Maybe I can’t have them as mine, but if I can stay with them, it’ll be enough.
As long as I don’t awaken.
I can never, ever let them know if I awaken.
Twenty-Five
LILAH
By the time the doctors say I’m healed enough to go, it’s just me, Orion, and Hunter at the clinic.
They leave the suite while I change into the new clothes that someone bought me. There’s a pair of perfectly fitted jeans and a b
ig, baggy, orgasmically comfortable Wyvern House hoodie that’s drenched in Atlas.
I bury my nose in the fabric. His scent is leather but not leather, something warmer and more lickable, like sex on the comfiest, coziest cloud. I want to rub myself down with him so that everyone knows exactly who I belong to.
That’s when I catch a hint of something else.
Caramel.
Burnt sugar and vanilla.
Like crème brûlée, freshly torched, with a scoop of ice cream melting on the side.
My scent.
My pheromones.
My perfume.
I think I’m going to throw up.
I strip off, dive into the shower, turn the water to scalding. Then I scrub myself red with de-scenting body wash, thankful as fuck that Wyvern Clinic is so bougie.
I scrub and scrub and scrub.
The water soaks my arm bandage and I’m pretty sure the nurses are going to ream me because it stings and it’ll probably get infected.
Bring on the sepsis.
Blood rot would hide my perfume.
When I’m clean enough to ace a sniff test, I towel off and grab the de-scenting lotion. I need more. Hair products. Pads. I need to cover every base.
The suite is stocked with everything. I ransack the cabinets and jam as much as I can hide into my bag.
“Lilah?” Orion knocks. “Are you ready? The doctor wants to talk before you get your discharge papers.”
“Just a second!” And speaking of discharge…
I shove a pad into my lacy new panties. If my perfume’s coming in, my body’s going to start with all the omega tricks.
My slick is a death sentence if one of the alphas catches a whiff—let alone Orion.
You saved my life won’t pull as much weight when my arousal slaps him in the face and hormones have me throwing myself at his mates, begging them to knot me.
Smoothing my hoodie with shaking hands, I try to breathe. Everything has changed, but nothing is different.
I need about three hours of laps in ice-cold lake water, followed by a marathon of treadmill and boxing. I’m too rested and hydrated after sleeping and being pumped full of IV fluids. I need to drain this energy to get back to normal. I need to wear myself out until I puke.
“Ready,” I call when I’m positive I’m scent-free.
Orion and Hunter enter, followed by a clean-cut beta doctor.
Hunter frowns at the wet hair soaking my hoodie. “You got your bandage wet?”
Shit. He sees too much, too quickly.
“I needed a shower.”
“You have to take better care of yourself, Miss Darling.” The doctor calls for a nurse to change my bandages, and his eyes pinch as he works himself into a lecture. “With your history of injuries, you need to make health and nutrition a priority if you’re ever going to resolve your late awakening and hit fertility.”
Right. Because my main concern after a gunshot wound should be opening the gates to my baby factory. “I hate children.”
The guy gapes like a koi fish. “That’s… Excuse me, I thought…”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “We’ll take good care of her.”
“Yes. Of course.” The doctor recovers from the fluster, and spouts a bunch of ultrabasic omega healthcare info that I could rattle off backward in Mandarin.
I know how my body works.
When I’m set with dry bandages, Orion and Hunter walk me down the stairs, and I try not to preen at how much I like being between them.
I can’t help sneaking peeks. Orion is every inch the prince, soft curls glittering in the sun, the perfect contrast to Hunter’s dark, knowing, action-figure vibe.
“Careful,” Hunter says, tugging me away from the umbrella stand I almost ate.
He sees everything, and I like him seeing me, watching over me.
I seriously have to get my shit together.
Whatever dopey smile I’m wearing dies when I spot the Jeep on the curb. Craig jumps up like their left-behind hound.
“Alpha. Omega.” He licks his lips, leaning a little too close to Orion, who draws back from him until his shoulder bumps mine.
It’s super clear that his simpering omega is for Orion and Orion only. Craig quirks a sneer when his gaze passes over me like I’m the trash bag they’re hauling into his ride.
It’ll be a goddamned miracle if I don’t stab this guy.
“Straight to the house,” Hunter says, helping me into the backseat.
“Yes, Alpha.” Craig hops to obey, opening the passenger door with a puppy dog look, and his cardboard scent swells with hope.
Orion shakes his head. “I’ll sit with Lilah.”
The back of my neck starts to sweat as the guys settle me in between them. The middle seat gives the perfect view of the rearview mirror and the glares that Craig keeps shooting.
Looks, I can handle. I’m worried what happens if his resentment turns to something more.
But it’s kind of hard to focus on the kicked-dog beta when I’m the meat in this hearty man sandwich. The backseat is all apples and honey and smoke, and I can’t tell if my perfume’s sneaking in the mix. I grip my thighs, trying to keep my hands to myself.
“You sure you’re not hurting?” Hunter asks. “We can call in a prescription for more pain meds.”
“I’ve had worse.” The bullet went clean through my arm. Yeah, it aches, but it’s professionally stitched and sanitized. Much better than all those times omegas clawed me to shit and I had to disinfect with hand sanitizer, fearing the nasty germs they had crawling under their nails.
Hunter rumbles. “We’re going to take care of you, Killer.”
“For real this time.” Instead of reacting to the nickname, Orion hesitantly touches my knee.
His touch is kerosene. The applesauce scent of him sucks down my windpipe, strokes down to my core, and settles in to stay. I squeeze my thighs against the sudden betraying wetness sparked by his attention.
His care.
Thank fuck for scent-neutralizing pads.
I can hardly breathe on the ride home. Hunter keeps asking me what I need and Orion drifts closer and closer, a brush of my shoulder, a bump of my thigh, and a soft, soothing purr that makes me want to squeeze him like my own personal body pillow.
When we finally park in the garage, Hunter offers me a hand down and doesn’t let go, leading me into the house.
“She can’t go that way.” Craig hops out in a snit. “She has to go around.”
“She can.” Orion takes my other arm.
“Do you want a room upstairs?” Hunter frowns. “The basement’s kind of…”
“I like it.” Because if I have to try to rest knowing these guys are just down the hall, I’ll cream myself in my sleep.
Every night.
“Come in.” Orion tugs my elbow. “Let me give you the tour of our McMansion.”
“You’re giving her free reign?” Craig chokes out. “But the pack—”
“Craig,” Hunter barks. “We need to talk. You two, go ahead.”
Orion pulls me into the house, and both our shoulders drop when the door cuts off the resentful cardboard scent.
“Why do you keep him around?” I ask the question that’s been bugging me since day one.
Now that I understand their pack vibe, I don’t get how Craig fits.
“He was our driver. Scorpio and the dads insisted we needed a beta for balance. It was easier to invite him as an assistant and say we were considering it than interviewing candidates we didn’t want.”
“So you’re stuck with him?” It boggles. Apparently, I’m not that special. The four founders love shoehorning members into their sons’ pack.
“Not forever. Just until Scorpio eases back.” Orion leads me down the hallway, but I can’t focus on the expensive bachelor pad decor.
“Will he ever? I mean, Exhibit A.” I wave at myself. “At some point, you’re the omega. It should be your decision who’s in or out.”
“Yes a
nd no.” He huffs a breath, dropping the elbow that he was holding. Landmine. “It’s not that simple.”
But it should be that simple.
Both with Craig and with me.
Why is Orion tolerating us?
His word should be law. That’s what I was taught. As long as you have a reputable pack—not some mafia, underground, slavery nightmare—the omega is king or queen of the roost.
But with Orion pulling back from me, I keep it light. “Craig sucks at grocery shopping.”
Orion snorts, tension easing. “Yeah. I mean, I love sour cream and onion, but chips and dips? Not a food group. And downstairs is always in shambles.”
“You don’t have a cleaning staff?” I ask as Orion leads me past the kitchen, into a huge sunken living room filled with masculine leather sofas that reek like the pack and have me twitching to launch myself into the scattered cushions.
“I hate having anyone in the house.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine now.” He shows me the remotes and how to work the TV. “This is where we hang when everyone’s home, which these days is never.”
“You’re always alone?”
“Just me and my buddy Craig.” He jams the remote back into its charger cradle. “I’m banned from HQ until my perfume’s under control.”
Biting my lip, I can’t help giving him a sniff. I’ve grown up around so many crazed omegas, I have a good sense of where they are in their cycles. There’s this sharp, needy undertone that makes me sneeze when one’s edging to their heat.
It’s harder to tell with Orion because I’ve never met an omega who smells so fucking delicious, but if I push past the yummy, coat-me-in-that-shit apple amazingness, there’s a subtle sharpness that makes my nose itch. “When was your last heat?”
“Ten months ago.”
I suck in a breath. “That’s too long.”
“Tell me about it.” He ruffles his hair, rucking up the curls.
Males should cycle through their heat every three to six months, at most. Orion’s coming up on a full year.
As the world champion of avoiding heats, I’m also pretty fucking epic at diagnosing them. “How many hours of omega classes have you taken?”