Chapter Seven
Rhea
T he camera smacks against my back as I lunge through the ballroom. I stumble through sequins, shoulder-check silk, and nearly decapitate a waiter with someone’s glittery clutch.
Someone gasps. Another swears. A few call out - maybe my name, maybe just “ help, a feral beta’s loose! ”
I don’t care.
Someone grabs my arm. I rip free without looking, all unhinged birthday energy and the survival instinct of a cornered possum in designer heels.
I don’t turn. I don’t stop.
Because behind me are four alphas. Four very scent-capable, very hungry men -
And the fucking OMB.
At least one official is definitely at this gala, drinking sparkling wine and pretending not to catalog everyone’s scent signatures like a walking barcode scanner, but for all I know, there could be more - lurking behind potted plants or disguised as waitstaff with tranquilizer guns.
And now I smell like honey-drenched sex panic.
So yeah. I run.I shoulder the nearest side door open like I’ve been launched by adrenaline and poor life choices, disappearing into a hallway that smells mercifully neutral and government-free.
It’s cooler in here. The scent-neutralizers are still buzzing, but quieter - mostly background noise. I stumble forward, heels skittering across tile, one hand braced on the wall like I’m trying not to fall off the edge of the planet while the other clenches my clutch like it’s going to save me.
It won’t.
My hands are shaking. Too fast, too wild. I claw at the flap and dig into the lining like a raccoon searching for the meaning of life in a takeout container.
Come on, come on, come on -
The emergency suppressant. Custom-made. Tongue strip. Tastes like acid and sadness, but buys me twenty-four hours of plausible deniability. I always keep one tucked in the lining.
Except -
No.
I tear the clutch open wider, ripping the seams in my panic. Lipstick flies. Compact shatters. SD cards scatter across the tile like confetti at my funeral.
Nothing.
The lining is empty.
I freeze long enough for reality to crash through the door and slap me in the face.
Then it hits again - low and brutal, a hard punch from the inside. Heat blossoms behind my ribs, floods through my spine, and coils in my gut like a living thing stretching awake for the first time.
I arch involuntarily. My back, my thighs, everything burns.
This isn’t nerves. This isn’t hormones.
It's heat .
My very first heat.
The one I was never supposed to have.
And now my scent - sweet and smoky and absolutely illegal - is blooming through the air like a death wish sprayed with perfume.
I can smell it.
Worse - they can, too.
The alphas. And probably the OMB.
Any minute now, someone’s going to throw me in scent-jail or hand me a registration form and a lifetime of supervised snuggling.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes, hot and angry. I blink them back.
I don’t cry. I don’t fall apart.
I’ve spent seven years planning around this. Every dose, every precaution, every back alley clinic with a shaky ceiling and no questions asked.
I built a whole life out of self-erasure.
And all it took to undo it was one night. One too-tight dress. One stupid sparkler birthday cake and an invitation to a work event from a beta best friend who has no idea she dragged me into a nuclear trap.
My skin’s on fire.
My blood is trying to escape through my ears.
My entire lower half is staging a coup.
And I know the Mask is gone. I can feel it slipping sideways, melting into memory.
Even my name feels distant now. Blurred at the edges.
Not quite mine anymore.
A sound escapes my throat - quiet, hoarse. Not a sob, not fear - not even frustration, but rage. A pressure-valve hiss of are you fucking kidding me.
And then, I feel it.
A presence approaching - certain and slow.
My spine goes rigid as the air thickens.
I don’t move, even though I want to. I want to back away, to hide, to run - but I can’t. Instead, I stay perfectly still, trying to push against the fog in my head.
The wrong kind of awareness burns under my skin, louder now. The part of me I’ve kept buried claws its way forward, whispering things I don’t want to hear as instinct flares.
It's not fight or flight. It's something worse.
Something primal.
Submit. Yield.
Let go.
Absolutely fucking not .
I’ve spent too long building this life, too long clawing out a space that belonged to me, not them.
I don’t want their protection. I don’t want their claim.
Not Ash. Not Kai. Not Theo.
Definitely not Lucian.
Especially not with an OMB official somewhere behind the walls, possibly filling out a warrant on scented stationery.
My fingers curl into fists.
I will not fall apart in front of this.
Slowly, I rise to my feet. My legs shake. My head spins. My mouth tastes like panic and fondant frosting.
But I stand.
Shoulders back. Chin lifted.
Even if I’m vibrating like a wet cat in a thunderstorm, I’m upright. I’m breathing.
And whoever’s coming?
They don't get to see me on my knees.