Chapter 18
chapter
eighteen
Okay.
Okay.
Where am I?
My eyelids squeeze while I think through the options. Well, I’m either going to wake up at Wally’s and realize the whole gorgeous-pack-of-mates, accidental-bonding, riding-an-NFL-player’s-face thing was a dream…
Or I’ll be in some strange room. Which would mean that all of that insanity actually happened, and I’m—I just?—
Oh God .
Can you die of embarrassment? Asking for a friend.
If all of that really happened, it explains why the emptiness in my middle feels so strange. At first, I think it’s just because my Omega has retreated, back to whatever corner she’s been holed up in for years. I wonder when she slipped away and if she’ll come back.
Then, I realize that there’s also a noticeable lack of earth-shattering regret. Which means Tristan Thorne has left the building.
Fragments from his conversation with the doctor alpha swirl through my hazy memories of the moments after he bit me. The doctor wanted him to shut down the bond from his side, to seal his emotions off and keep me calm. If all of that was real, then he’s definitely figured it out.
I’m sure my thoroughly mortifying behavior earlier helped motivate him, but I don’t care. I’m just relieved. At least, for now, everything I feel is my own.
The first sensation isn’t a feeling, though.
It’s hunger .
The painful, queasy kind that tells me it’s been a while since Wally deigned to provide me with a meal.
There may not be a Wally anymore , I think, dazed and, somehow, sicker.
I try to take a deep breath and force my eyes open, but a swirl of heavenly scent curls down my throat. Four different alphas, all blended into an aroma so rich that my pussy instantly slicks all over again. My head spins, a stab of fear impaling the whine that wants to scale the back of my throat.
I’ve spent years around every type of alpha there is. Rotten ones, metallic ones. The sort that smell musky or sickly-sweet. Popcorn, cardboard, wet socks. Egg salad, cheap beer. Asphalt. Sawdust.
None of them—not a one—had any sort of positive effect on me.
It made sense. I was broken. Fractured or fucked-up or freakish. Whatever you want to call it—my ass was never normal . I’d accepted it.
I liked it, because, no matter how those alphas at the club treated me—no matter how they leered or catcalled or groped or smacked—I didn’t care. None of them could touch me inside —where it counted.
Which is why the smell of this pack terrifies me.
Why do they smell so good ?
What if I’m making them up?
Is that even possible? They seem so real, and I honestly doubt my imagination is this good.
All blurred together, I can’t even tell where one scent ends and another begins. There’s the summer-sweet grass and orange blossoms that I thought belonged to Tristan, but it’s layered with a cool freshness. Rain and wet stone. Dew-soaked gravel or a wet brick road. The electric snap of a thunderstorm on my tongue.
That ominous, otherworldly scent was the smell clinging to Spencer’s dress shirt. It overlaps perfectly with Tristan’s—almost like they’re one scent instead of two.
Avery’s masculine perfume winds through it in a teasing, mysterious sort of way. A lazy curl of jasmine smoke. Musky amber. Spicy and sweet.
Or… or is that sweetness from something else? Jonah, the big, burly one, made my mouth water just as much as he made my body gush. Sticky and toasted, but rich and golden, too. With… chocolate?
What is that?
In the end, I decide I have to figure out what the hell is happening. I can always blame it on my stomach later.
Keeping my eyes shut, I scrabble upright, my trembling hands sifting through something soft and sumptuous piled around me. Once I’m sitting, I blow out a long breath and crack one lid open.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Where am I ?
This couldn’t possibly be… a guest bedroom? My guest bedroom?
Who lives like this?
Politicians , my brain sneers. And NFL players . Not to mention the professional MMA fighter and a professor at some prestigious university.
So maybe the room makes sense.
If my hazy memory serves, I didn’t see much of their townhouse, but everything I saw was black. This room has the same luxurious, impenetrable feel, and the palette is every bit as dark. But the similarities end there.
Because this room is… cosmic .
I’ve never seen anything like it. Big and open and beautiful .
Midnight walls stretch high on three sides. The paint is a rich, purply black infused with some sort of sheen—glittery and subtle. It reminds me of the photos of constellations I’ve seen in books, the way stardust seems woven into the darkness but also stands apart from it.
Not that I need a picture of the stars in here.
Not when the entire back wall and ceiling are made of windows .
My neck cranes back while I follow the matte metal frames and clear, shining glass—all the way from the floor of the back wall to the ceiling seam over the entrance.
“Wow,” I murmur, awed.
“You’re awake.”
I jump, screeching. “Holy fuck!”
A dark rumble answers across the room. From the broad shape of a man sitting on the chair in front of the room’s antique vanity.
He stands slowly. Shadows shift until the tailored lines of Tristan Thorne’s body come into view. My stomach plunges to my feet.
“You’re real.”
It is, quite possibly, the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. Tristan’s face creases into a frown, the expression more intimidating than before, with shadows surrounding his square jaw and settling over the thick ledge of his brow.
“I am real. You’re in our pack house. And you’ve been asleep for about two hours.”
Okay. That makes sense. Or, at least, it all fits with the fantastical story I thought I’d made up. I nod, but the motion is shaky.
“You’re speaking again,” the alpha staring at me points out. “I was wondering if you would when you woke.”
And because I’m stupid and awkward, I do this weird, seated half-curtsy thing that does not achieve the casual air I was striving for because my voice shakes. “Ta-da.”
Good Lord.
Kill me now.
Tristan doesn’t even crack a derisive smirk. In fact, his frown deepens . “Are you—” He pauses to clear his throat and tug at the sleeve of his dress shirt. “How do you feel?”
I assume “wet” isn’t a great answer, even if it’s true. Honestly, I need a shower and food and some clothes to borrow, but I’m too chicken to say anything other than, “F-fine.”
His scowl just gets more severe when he sighs. “You shouldn’t lie to me, Serena. I can still?—”
My stomach starts to roil, and he cuts himself off, narrowing his flashing eyes and scanning over my body. “Did we harm you earlier? I know it must be difficult for you to believe, but none of us would ever hurt you on purpose. If what Jonah did wasn’t welcome…”
I notice he omits any mention of his own role in the whole thing. Which makes sense, right? Why would a powerful, beautiful man like Tristan Thorne want to admit to an attraction to me ?
I’m still in this STUPID RUBBER THONG.
My cheeks burn. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I should probably apologize to him, though. I was…”— unhinged —“Is he okay?”
For the first time since the whole biting fiasco, the side of Tristan’s mouth twitches. “He’s fine, omega. Jonah is used to taking hits from three-hundred-pound linebackers. I’m afraid having a tiny omega grind into his face doesn’t rank high on his list of concerns.”
Oh. Of course. Stupid .
These are, like, grown men. They probably have sex all the time.
I mean, I’m no virgin, but I know I have significantly less experience than most people my age. Especially other omegas. I’ve never even had a knot, real or fake, and?—
A low sound echoes in Tristan’s chest. I think it’s a growl, but he douses it too quickly for me to feel sure.
The air in my lungs freezes over. Is he… angry? With me?
Shit. I can’t piss this alpha off. I have literally nowhere else to go, not to mention he’s already marked me, and his pack smells like heaven and—and?—
“ Breathe, omega ,” he barks, low and firm. “There are a few things you should know.”