Chapter 24
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
MYLO
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I curl tighter against Christine’s chest and hate myself for it.
Unless my nose is filled with her scent, I can’t breathe. She smells like standing on the edge of the ocean, watching a distant storm gather at the horizon.
My lack of sleep catches up to me, and I drift off in Christine’s arms, only realizing I’ve done so when she eases me down onto the couch.
Her lingering scent in the air is enough to keep me from jolting awake at her absence. She returns shortly with a bundle of workout clothes fresh with her scent; she must have worn them this morning.
She rubs the top and leggings against her neck and underarms, then tucks them under my cheek like a pillow.
Gentle hands go to the zipper at the back of my neck, pulling it down and peeling away the soaked fabric.
I muster a groggy protest, but it comes out a whimpering moan. My body betrays me again, leaning into her fingers as they slide along my arms and legs, removing Melinoe’s bodysuit. Her cool touch feels so good…
She leaves my briefs as they are, then pulls on my shorts and tank-top, easily lifting my weight and cradling my head like a doll.
Then she settles me back on the couch.
“I won’t be gone long, Mylo. This should hold you over. Just try to rest.”
She drapes a blanket over me, tucking in the edges.
Exhaustion and her scent combine into a powerful drug, and sleep rises around me.
When I finally stir, I can mark the hours passed by the fading afternoon light. Fuck, I slept most of the day. I push upright—and my chest tightens.
I tighten my jaw and then force myself to stand.
Pain cracks through my bones again, and my knees buckle.
Reluctantly, I grab the wad of Christine’s clothes and hold it to my nose.
The pain fades to an ache—enough that I can stand—but the scent isn’t fresh enough to banish it entirely.
I slowly get my bearings. My tucking briefs now cut painfully into my hips after who knows how many hours of sleeping in them. My backpack is nearby, and I dig out a pair of clean boxers.
I stumble to the bathroom to relieve myself and change, then search out something to drink. I find some overly fancy and unpronounceable electrolyte beverages in Christine’s fridge—only the best for America’s sweetheart—and I help myself.
As the water soaks in, I feel slightly less like absolute shit.
With my senses returning, I spot a plate of fruit and crackers left out on the table. Hunger overwhelms my lingering nausea, and though I eat slowly, I manage to finish all the food.
And now I’m bored. I’d leave Christine’s trailer, but I’d rather have my fingernails ripped out one by one than explain why I’m carrying around her workout gear, sniffing it every five seconds.
Ugh.
Well, I guess this is my chance to see how a star lives; I wasn’t exactly admiring the art the last time I was here.
It’s a nicer trailer than ours, more like a mobile home.
There’s the little couch area with a TV at the front, the dining table and kitchenette, the bathroom, and the bedroom area at the back.
I wander that way, half-heartedly wondering how much her used tissue or face moisturizer or whatever insane fans want these days would go for online.
I stop short as I step into the bedroom. Where there’d been sheets and a mattress before, now there’s just the plywood platform, gouged with scratch marks, only a few chunks of foam remaining in the corners.
Great, just great. The alpha whose scent I’m currently addicted to seems to be extremely unstable.
Not that I really think there’s such a thing as a stable alpha to begin with.
And that’s exactly why I started taking suppressants when I did—to avoid this whole mess.
Lot of good that did.
I sink back onto the couch with a sigh, wrapping the blanket around myself as I start to shiver despite the sweat beading on my skin.
There truly could not be a worse time for this to happen…