Page 56 of One for the Money
The only saving grace is that they can’t force a bond on me. Even if it means biting my tongue the entire time they are near me, I refuse to open my mouth on the off chance they can figure out how to force it.
I have to get out of here before they do.
As they yell at me, kick me, and spit on me, I close my eyes and open the gate to the paddock I have created in my mind. I stretch out in the wildflowers and stare up at the warm sun, the sound of fresh water in my ears.
I luxuriate in the texture of the soft grass, ignoring the horrors of what my body is going through on the other side of the gate.
I will deal with the side effects of that later. Clean myself up. Treat my wounds.
When the gate to my paddock opens again, and I pull myself out of the wildflowers, finding myself in bed, bloody and sore, my throat aching and probably bruised with fingerprints, I know that one day soon, the gate won’t open, and I won’t make it out of my paddock.
So I climb out of the scene of the crime, throw myself in the shower, and nurse my wounds.
And I start to make my plan to get out and never look back.
Memories assaultme the same way the scents swirling around the room do, and I struggle to calm my rapidly pounding heartbeat. My body aches, and I squeeze my knees to my chest, struggling to breathe out of my mouth.
My traitorous body wants to take them in. Wants to luxuriate in the scents that surround me.
But I can’t. I can’t let myself fall down that path again. I know that it leads to the paddock in my mind, and I won’t allow myself to be vulnerable like that again.
And yet I can’t help it.
The trailer is small, and there are so many of them. It’s all around me, soaking into my skin, trying to rewrite my DNA so I can never be alone again. My traitorous Omega instinct screams bite, claim, with every breath I take.
Matteo is the closest to me, and I’m wearing his shirt, so I know he’s the owner of the sweet kettle corn scent that is making my mouth water. But also swirling in the room are the irresistible aromas of caramel and candy apples.That’s probably the twins, since their pheromone profiles are going to be remarkably similar. It’s so sweet and yet has that tart apple undertone that is so sharp that I can almost hear the crunch beneath my teeth.
A sugary, salty fragrance with hints of vanilla and fruit makes my teeth ache, and I am immediately thrown into memories of the boardwalk as a kid, chewing saltwater taffy on the Ferris wheel. Underneath it all is the sweet, doughy fragrance of funnel cakes, dusted in powdered sugar. It’s fainter than the others, but I would recognize it anywhere.
I would laugh at the irony of a group of men smelling like carnival foods ending up in a circus if I weren’t so fucking scared of what this means.
I can’t do this again. I won’t.
I won’t survive it.
Dexter’s blue eyes are locked on mine, and for some reason, since I know he, above all the others, doesn’t want a scent match either, I find it easiest to tell him my story.
Because I owe them that much.
It’s not fair of me to write them off and not tell them why. I can see the hope, the longing in the eyes of the others, and if I am going to crush their spirits and pull their dream out from underneath them, they deserve the truth.
“Rich was wonderful. We met during our residency at Portland Hospital and dated throughout our time there. When it came to getting our full-time positions, I moved to Florida with him to work athistop choice of a hospital. I didn’t see anything wrong with that at the time. On our fourth anniversary, he took me to this incredible restaurant, and I thought, this is it. He’s going to propose, and my Omega will want to mark him. But that’s not what happened. At that dinner, he introducedme to his pack. His pack, which I didn’t know he had. Apparently, they were a pack in college, and they were getting back together. I didn’t like the guys, and they smelled awful, and they made me nervous, but Rich was my scent match. I knew he would never put me in danger.”
I was a fucking fool, believing all of the romantic notions about scent matches being everything you could ever possibly need. About how they’ll protect you from everything and are your perfect match. I fell into the propaganda that biology doesn’t get it wrong, that we were made for each other.
How could I fall for that as a physician? I’m smarter than that. And yet I let my romantic ideals and notions, the things a young Omega dreams about, guide my decisions.
Fucking bullshit.
“Despite all of my misgivings, I stayed when they moved in, and eventually let them strong-arm me into registering as a pack.” Dexter continues to stare me down, but it doesn’t deter me. It doesn’t even make me uncomfortable. All I hope is that he can read my truth in my eyes. “I’m a smart woman, but that Alpha made me fucking stupid. It was like, because he smelled like sweet cream and berries, I thought he could do no wrong. I should have taken my Omega instincts refusing to bond him, as the warning it was. But after we registered, and I was all but stuck with them legally and emotionally, they started to want more from me.”
I trail my fingers up my calves, trying to dispel the phantom touches that linger on my skin. The indelible impression they carved into my flesh.
“More than I was willing to give.”
Rumbling growls fill the air at my words, and I can’t stop the whine that escapes me. I try to tuck myself deeperinto the corner I’ve taken up residence in as if it could protect me from the wrath of four angry Alphas.
It never has before.
