Page 112 of Knot Here for You

I’m not sure if the underwear will do me any good. The amount of slick my body is producing is honestly terrifying, but they’ll be one more line of protection.

I push to stand, wobble and catch myself on the exam table. My hand comes away sticky with slick arousal. Fuck.

Moving slow as hell, like an old grandma with a bad back, I shuffle over to the sink and wash my hands. The soap is a descenter so I slather a handful of bubbles between my legs and don’t rinse it off. A UTI is the least of my worries right now.

When I’ve gotten as clean as I can, my thighs are trembling from exertion and little pinpricks of pain and pleasure. But I’ve been dealing with chronic pain for the last seven years. I can sure as fuck deal with this.

After gathering as many paper towels as I can, I wobble over to the chair and swipe up my underwear. Getting into them takes some doing, especially since I refuse to sit down. If I do that, I might not stand up again. I need to keep moving. Once I pull the fabric up my thighs, I stuff the wad of paper towels into the crotch. I doubt it will do much, but hopefully it will act as a barrier until I can get to a phone or my car or my alphas.

My alphas.

Need them so fucking bad. Need their knots. Their bites. Need them to fill me up over and over. The whining keen from my chest startles me enough that I blink. Need to get dressed. Need to escape. Need to get the fuck out of here. Need to find my alphas.

I repeat those words to myself, a litany to keep myself focused. It goes better, with those words in my head and before long I’m in my jeans, but my shoes seem like too much work. So I leave them off. I can run without them.

Swaying, sweating and trembling, I pick up my purse and find that my phone is indeed gone. I shake my head. It’s okay. Calling isn’t on my list. I’m dressed. So now I need to escape.

The room tilts as I take a step toward the door, breathing through my nose and out through my mouth. Just as my hand curls around the knob, a cramp hits, but I continue to breathe through it, like those pregnant women I’ve seen in movies and TV. ‘Hee-hee-hooo,’ or whatever.

When it passes, I check my jeans for any soak through, but the paper towels are doing their job. Satisfied it’s relatively safe to proceed, I open the door without listening, and it’s only after I’ve stepped into the hall that I realize just how stupid that was.

Luck is on my side, though, and the hall is empty.

Need to escape. Need to get the fuck out of here. Need to find my alphas.

Need to escape. Need to get the fuck out of here. Need to find my alphas.

I hesitate, trying to decide the best course. Not the front, right? There will be people out front and they might work with Dr. Attersby in her fucked up experiments and then I’ll be back in that room.

No, there must be a back door.

I turn away from the reception room and straighten my spine, walking like I have every right to be there. It’s hard as hell. My body wants to give up, to just lay down on the floor and wallow in pain and lust, but I wrangle it into continuing to move, one foot in front of the other. That’s all I need to do.

At the end of the short hallway, I reach a T intersection and let out a breath when I catch sight of an exit sign to the left. It’s the opposite side of the building from where I parked, but I can’t bring myself to care. I’ve almost gotten it down to only two items on my to-do list.

Need to get the fuck out of here. Need to find my alphas.

I lurch toward the door and stumble over my own feet, hitting the wall hard. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out, but a pained whimper still pulls from me.

“What was that?” I hear someone ask from inside one of the nearby rooms. It’s not Dr. Attersby, thank god, but I still can’t be seen here. So I slide myself down the hall, leaning on the wall the entire way for support, until I reach the door.

No alarm sounds when I push it open and stumble out, blinking up at the falling twilight. More time has passed than I thought. Enough that they should be looking for me, wondering where I am, why I haven’t responded to messages. Though if Dr. Attersby and her clinic have my phone, someone could be responding to them for me. I certainly wouldn’t put it past them.

I look around. The door spat me out, not in an alley, but in a side parking lot, likely used for employees. Crap. I can’t linger here.

My bare feet slap clumsily against the pavement as I walk at a quick pace toward the visitor parking where my car should be. I don’t have to look for my keys, because I have one of those fancy cars that will unlock so long as the dongle is present.

Just make it to your car, Vee. That’s all you have to do. Get to the car. You can lock the doors. You’ll be safe.

It’s a lie, but I’ve gotten very good at lying to myself over the last seven years.

As I round the corner and come into view of the windows of the clinic, I straighten as much as I can, and walk with purpose, keeping my eyes focused on my car. I’m so close.

Fifteen feet.

Ten.

Five.

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