9. Olive
My spine arches off the plush mattress. Massive, rough hands grip my bare hips, holding me in place.
The crisp scent of thunderstorms fills my lungs, drowning out every rational thought in my head.
Finn towers over me. His auburn hair falls across his forehead.
His warm brown eyes burn with a feral, possessive fire.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck. His teeth scrape against my collarbone. A desperate, ragged moan rips from my throat.
My thighs spread wide. A slick, wet mess coats my skin. My body aches for the brutal stretch of his thick cock. I need his knot to fill the agonizing void inside my pelvis.
A second scent washes over the bed. Crushed black pepper and bright citrus mingle with the ozone.
Lawrence leans over my other side. His broad shoulders block out the ceiling. His golden skin gleams with a fine layer of sweat. He traces the line of my jaw with his nose. His lips brush against the corner of my mouth, teasing a kiss I crave more than oxygen.
"You smell incredible." Lawrence drops his voice into a dark, vibrating rumble. "You smell like you belong to us."
Finn slides a thick finger deep inside my dripping center.
“Finn.” My hips buck upward, chasing the friction. The pleasure hits like a freight train, blinding me with white-hot heat. My wet pussy clenches and spasms around his finger.
My eyes snap open.
The plush mattress vanishes. The towering Alphas disappear.
I stare at the popcorn ceiling of my sister's suburban spare bedroom. The stale smell of old protein powder replaces the intoxicating aroma of ozone and black pepper. The lumpy twin mattress digs into my spine.
My chest heaves. Sweat coats my forehead and my neck. I throw the thin blanket off my legs.
My thighs feel soaked. A thick pool of slick coats my cotton underwear, proving the explicit dream was more than just a figment of my imagination. My clit throbs with an agonizing, unsatisfied ache.
I drag my hands down my face, letting out a frustrated groan.
Two days have passed since my encounter with Lawrence at the park. The suppressants did their job and crushed the main cycle. My brain feels clear again. The nausea faded.
But the after-effects linger in my blood like a toxic poison.
My anatomy betrays me. I rejected Lawrence and his calculated playboy charm. I told Finn to leave me alone. I hate their entitled, arrogant pack for destroying my career and stealing my home. I want nothing to do with them.
My subconscious refuses to listen. My inner Omega craves their hands and their thick knots. It begs to be claimed. It turns my sleep into a torturous highlight reel of their scents and their bodies.
I hate this. I hate feeling like a hostage to my own hormones.
Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hit the stained carpet. I strip my ruined underwear off and toss them into a plastic grocery bag I use for laundry. Grabbing a clean pair from my duffel bag, I pull them on.
I need to wash my face. I need cold water to shock the lingering arousal out of my system.
Creeping over to the bedroom door, I press my ear against the cheap wood. The house sounds quiet. The faint hum of the refrigerator vibrates through the hall.
I unlock the door and crack it open. The hallway looks empty.
I tiptoe down the hall to the small guest bathroom. Slipping inside, I lock the door and turn the cold water tap on. I cup my hands under the faucet and splash the freezing water over my face and my neck. The chill bites into my flushed skin.
I grab a towel and dry off. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, dark circles shadow my eyes. I look exhausted and hollowed out.
I sneak back to the spare bedroom and lock myself inside.
My stomach gives a loud, demanding rumble. Walking over to the small nightstand, I grab a foil wrapper. I rip it open and take a bite of a dry, stale granola bar. The oats taste like cardboard.
I spent the last three days hiding in this stuffy room. I avoid the kitchen at all costs. I avoid the living room. I limit my bathroom trips to the middle of the night.
Rick terrifies me.
My creepy brother-in-law stalks the house like a vulture. Whenever I crack the bedroom door to grab a bottle of water, I catch him staring. He watches me with a sick, predatory fascination. He's waiting for the suppressants to fail. He thinks my new status makes me public property.
The suburbs offer zero safety. This house feels like a trap closing around my throat. I sit on the edge of the twin bed, chewing the dry granola and staring at the wall. The walls feel like they shrink an inch closer every single day. I need to get out of this house before my luck runs out.
The morning sun bleeds through the cheap plastic blinds. Dust motes dance in the harsh beams of light hitting the stained carpet.
Perched on the edge of the twin bed, I pull a fresh navy blue t-shirt over my head. I pair it with a faded pair of denim jeans. The clothes hang loose on my frame. Surviving on dry granola bars and tap water for three days takes a toll on my waistline.
My ears tune into the chaotic symphony playing out on the other side of the drywall.
Footsteps pound down the hallway.
"Put your shoes on!" Chloe's voice echoes through the thin wood of my bedroom door. "The bus comes in five minutes! Grab your backpacks!"
A kid shrieks in protest. Rose cries a high-pitched, relentless wail. A backpack zipper rips open, followed by the clatter of spilled plastic toys hitting the linoleum floor.
I pull my knees to my chest and wait.
"Rick!" Chloe's frantic tone cuts over the noise of the crying toddler. "I need to drop the baby at daycare before my shift starts! Lock the front door when you leave for the gym!"
A muffled grunt of acknowledgment comes from the kitchen.
The chaos moves toward the front entryway. The front door opens, letting in a brief rush of morning traffic sounds.
"Have a good day at work, Rick!" The jingle of car keys follows her farewell.
The front door slams shut. The walls vibrate from the impact. A few seconds later, the low rumble of Chloe's minivan engine flares to life in the driveway. The sound fades down the street as she drives away to tackle the school drop-off line.
I listen to the house. I track the loud, shuffling footsteps of my brother-in-law.
Rick walks from the kitchen to the front door. The deadbolt clicks into place. The secondary lock turns. His boots hit the entryway mat. The door opens and shuts again, this time with a quieter thud.
The house goes dead silent.
I release a breath. My tense shoulders drop a full two inches. The knot in my stomach untwists for the first time in days.
The coast is clear. The kids ride a school bus. Chloe navigates morning traffic. Rick drives his truck to the gym and his afternoon shift at the warehouse.
I stand up and stretch my stiff back. The idea of leaving this stuffy, smelly box feels like a victory.
I crave a few minutes of absolute normalcy.
I want a hot cup of coffee. I want a piece of buttered toast. I want to pull up a chair at a table and look out a window without feeling like a hunted animal.
I twist the flimsy lock on my doorknob. Pushing the wood open, I step out into the hallway.
The silence in the house feels like a luxury.
I walk down the hall and step into the kitchen. The morning sun floods through the large window over the sink. The light warms the scuffed linoleum floor and brightens the faded yellow walls.
I walk over to the coffee maker on the counter. Finding a clean ceramic mug in the dish rack, I pour myself a steaming cup of leftover drip coffee. The roasted aroma hits my nose, making my mouth water.
I grab two slices of bread from a plastic bag on the fridge and drop them into the toaster. Pushing the lever down, I lean my hip against the counter.
Taking a sip of the hot, bitter coffee, a tiny shred of peace settles over my chest.
I grab my phone out of my back pocket and unlock the screen. I need a plan. Hiding in a bedroom and starving to death offers no long-term solutions.
Opening my banking app, the numbers on the screen make my stomach drop. My savings took a hit paying for a last-minute storage unit. The landlord waived the eviction fees, but locking my furniture and my entire life inside a rented metal box drained my accounts.
I have enough cash left to cover gas and cheap groceries for a month. Scoring a new apartment means dropping first and last month's rent plus a security deposit. My current bank balance laughs at that idea.
I open my internet browser and navigate to a medical job board.
The hospital fired me because of liability laws. High-stress floors ban unbonded Omegas to prevent Alpha ruts. But remote clinics and private pediatric offices might offer a loophole. A desk job doing telehealth consultations keeps me away from Alpha patients and crowds.
Typing my credentials into the search bar, a list of available remote positions pops up. Hope flares in my gut. I can update my resume this afternoon. I can send out ten applications before dinner.
I take another sip of my coffee. The hot liquid warms me from the inside out.
I survived the Iron Wolves and their devastating pheromones, the eviction, and the brutal side effects of the suppressants. Finding a remote job and securing a tiny, cheap apartment in a Beta-friendly suburb feels possible. I can rebuild my life from scratch.
The toaster pops with a loud metallic clank.
I set my phone on the counter and reach for a butter knife. For the first time all week, the future looks manageable. I drag the butter knife across the hot toast. The melting butter smells incredible after three days of eating dry oats.
A floorboard creaks in the dark hallway behind me.
The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. The tiny shred of peace in my chest vanishes, replaced by a massive spike of ice-cold dread.
I freeze with the knife in my hand.
"Making breakfast?"
The voice comes from the entryway.
I spin around, my back hitting the edge of the kitchen counter. My heart drops into my stomach.
Rick stands in the archway leading to the hall. He wears a stained gray t-shirt and loose gym shorts. He didn't go to work. The smell of his stale sweat and cheap body spray fills the small kitchen, suffocating the aroma of my coffee.
He’s trapped me.
"I thought you went to work." I grip the handle of the butter knife. My voice shakes.
Rick steps out of the shadows. He takes a slow step into the kitchen, blocking my escape.
"I decided to take a rest day." He smirks, his eyes dragging up and down my body. "I noticed you came out of your cave. You look hungry."
"I just wanted some toast." I reach behind me and grab my ceramic coffee mug with my free hand. The hot porcelain burns my palm.
Rick takes another step forward. He crosses his arms over his chest. His gaze drops to my neck.
The lingering flush from my morning dreams still stains my skin. The red patches give away my arousal. A Beta lacks the ability to smell my slick, but he sees the visual proof of my vulnerability.
"You still look flushed." Rick runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Those suppressants wear off fast. You must be burning up right now. A desperate Omega needs relief."
"Stay away from me." I raise the butter knife, pointing the dull metal edge at his chest. "I told you what happens if you touch me, Rick. I call Chloe. I call the cops."
"Chloe isn't here." Rick chuckles, a dark, sickening sound. "The cops take ten minutes to get out to the suburbs. We have plenty of time. You need a knot, Olive. You need a cock to stretch you out and make that fever go away. I can fix you right here on the kitchen counter."
The sheer audacity of his words makes my blood boil. The fear morphs into absolute, blinding rage.
He sees me as a submissive toy. He thinks my new status makes me weak. That an unbonded Omega lacks the willpower to fight back.
He lunges forward.
His large hands grab my waist. He plans to pin me against the counter and force his weight over my body.
I refuse to freeze. I refuse to be a victim in my sister's kitchen.
I swing my right arm in a vicious arc.
The heavy ceramic coffee mug smashes into the side of his head. The porcelain shatters on impact. Boiling hot coffee splashes across his face, his neck, and his shoulder.
Rick screams.
He stumbles backward, his hands flying up to cover his burned face. His grip on my waist breaks. He trips over the edge of the kitchen rug and crashes into the wooden dining table. The table slides across the linoleum with a deafening screech.
"You crazy bitch!" Rick roars, clutching his scalded skin.
Adrenaline floods my veins. I drop the broken mug handle and the butter knife onto the floor.
I sprint out of the kitchen. My sneakers slip on the spilled coffee, but I catch my balance on the doorframe. I run down the narrow hallway as fast as my legs can move.
I burst into the spare bedroom.
I grab the straps of my duffel bag off the floor. I never unpacked the clothes. I snatch my purse off the nightstand.
I sprint back down the hall. Rick groans from the kitchen, struggling to get up from the floor.
Hitting the front entryway, my hands fumble with the locks. I twist the deadbolt and yank the handle, throwing the heavy wooden door open.
I burst out onto the front porch. The morning sun blinds me.
I run down the cracked concrete driveway.
Pulling my car keys out of my purse, my fingers shake.
I hit the unlock button. I throw my duffel bag into the passenger seat.
Slipping behind the steering wheel, I slam the door shut.
I hit the master lock button. All four doors lock with a solid, satisfying thud.
I jam the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life.
I throw the car into reverse and slam my foot on the gas pedal. The tires squeal against the concrete. I back out of the driveway at a reckless speed, missing the mailbox by an inch. Shifting into drive, I speed down the suburban street.
I drive for twenty minutes without a destination. I take random turns, putting as much distance between myself and that house as possible.
I pull into the empty parking lot of a deserted strip mall. I throw the car into park and leave the engine running.
My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles ache. My chest heaves with ragged, tearing gasps. The adrenaline crash hits my system, leaving me trembling from head to toe.
I stare out the windshield at the cracked asphalt.
The terrifying reality settles into my bones. I have no job. I have no apartment. I have no family left to rely on. The suburban sanctuary turned into a violent trap. I sit in a running car in an empty lot with a bag of clothes and a dwindling bank account.
A broken sob rips past my lips. I bury my face in my hands and weep. I am homeless, in real danger, and I have nowhere else to run.