Page 7 of The Cheerleader

I nodded, too scared to speak.

“You keep it hidden. You suppress it. And you never let an Alpha near you.”

“Why?” I whispered.

His voice cracked.

“Because they’ll take you. Whether you want them to or not.”

I blink back tears. I wish I could call him. I wish I could scream and tell him he was right. That I made a mistake walking into that club. That I should’ve stayed home. Stayed hidden. Stayed safe.

But it’s too late. The bond is forming. The suppressant hits like a cold wave, dulling the edge, slowing the fire, but it doesn’t stop it. Not completely.

I curl tighter under the covers. I try to sleep. I try to think of anything else. But the air in the room starts to thicken, like smoke I can’t see. Every sound stretches too long. My skin buzzes with static.

And then I feel him. Not really. But it feels real.

The mattress shifts behind me. Heat radiates against my back. A large hand brushes my hip, rough and warm, like it’s memorizing the shape of me through the sheet.

“Juliet,” he breathes, voice low and raw.

I squeeze my eyes shut. No. But the hallucination doesn’t care.

Abel’s scent fills the room—leather, smoke, something darker underneath. My pulse skitters. My thighs press together. The air vibrates with his presence, his growl curling inside my ear like a secret.

“I told you,” he whispers. “You’re mine.”

The imagined version of him is softer than the real thing. Gentler, more reverent. His fingers slip under the edge of my sleep shirt, dragging fire across my skin. His mouth finds the back of my neck, and my body arches, desperate, shameful.

“Say it,” he says. “Say you feel it.”

I almost do. I almost give in. But then the illusion shifts. His grip tightens. Too tight. His mouth at my throat is no longer a kiss. It’s a claim.

And suddenly, I’m not dreaming anymore, I’m drowning. I throw off the blankets, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. My heart’s pounding. My clothes are soaked. My sheets smell like him, and he’s not even here.

He’s not here. He’s not here.

I stumble to the bathroom and vomit into the toilet. The cold tile bites my knees. This is only the beginning. If the suppressant fails before I get another dose, I won’t just hallucinate. I’ll beg. I’ll call for him. And he’ll come. Because he won’t be able to stay away.

I barely manage to drag myself out of the bathroom before my body betrays me again. My heart thuds in my chest like it’s been pumped full of raw electricity. Sweat coats my skin, and my legs feel like jelly.

I try to breathe, try to focus, but my mind is running too fast, spinning into overdrive. I force myself to sit on the edge of the bed and take deep breaths. My fingers press into my temples, trying to push away the suffocating heat, but it’s already there, creeping in like a shadow over my senses. It won’t stop.

I feel his hand again, his breath at my neck.

It’s like I’m drowning, but I can't escape. Not even from myself.

I close my eyes, and another memory assaults me.

The house is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock on the wall. My dad’s there, on the couch, flipping through a stack of old papers, but he’s not reading. His eyes are fixed on the window. The blinds are drawn now, but I know he’s been watching the street for hours.

I’m supposed to be asleep, but the urge to ask him about the shift, about the changes happening to me, is unbearable. Finally, I can’t stop myself.

“Dad,” I whisper. He doesn’t look up. Just grunts in acknowledgment. “Dad, what happens when I shift? When I really shift? When I’m—”

He cuts me off before I can finish. “Don’t talk about it. Not yet.” The words are sharp. Defensive.

“Why not?”

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