Page 24 of Knot What She Seems
With emotions crackling like fireworks and my mind slamming down metaphorical pots over said explosions to keep them contained, I meekly follow Sam, remembering to drag my ankle a bit. Since it does lock up if I twist it right just a bit, it’s easy to make my old pain flare.
Quickly, I find the keycard for my room, a key for my mailbox, and the sheet of paper that provides the code to get into the laundry room here.
Ha.
As if I’ll ever wash a single fucking article of clothing in this place. I had my brother pre-wear everything I’ve got on.
But as we circle back around the silent, majestic Titanic of a man, I find myself swoonier than when I’m drunk. I’m sorely tempted to crash right into him. To grab one of his palms and place it squarely on my neck. Then grab the other and bring it up and kiss it gently as he squeezes my throat softly, fingers playing with my pulse—teasing at hurting me, but both of us knowing he could never, not in a million years, do it.
Beneath the bodysuit, my panties start to grow wet with slick.
Fuck.
Brylee, turn it off.
I need to get out of here and lock myself in my room quickly. If I don’t, the scent of slick could overpower my scent blockers. I’ve tested them out, but not against the draw of a scent match before—the most potent draw in our world.
In a panic, I dash for the stairs, backpack slamming down crazily on my shoulders as I hustle to the second story. My breathing ragged, I clutch the metal railing once I’ve gotten to the landing.
Thank goodness his scent isn’t nearly as potent up here.
My head clears, and the ridiculous vision I just had blows away like gauzy clouds in a sharp wind.
But when I glance back over the railing, the silent sentinel has turned his face upward. His skeletal mask is pointed right at me.
And the glare pouring through it burns the back of my throat like a shot of whiskey.
I came here tonight intending to fly under the radar, and instead I’ve attracted the attention of a masked mystery man who’s my scent match.
I don’t think I could have fucked up worse.
9
BRYLEE
“I don’t feel so good,”I murmur, my head lolling against my chest. Fuzzy cotton balls have taken up residency in my head. No, not cotton balls…bowling balls. They slam against my skull every time I attempt to move. A searing pain explodes behind my eyes.
“It’s okay, baby. I have you.” He glances over his shoulder at his packmate and brother, who stands on my other side, one of his tattooed arms around my waist. “Wehave you.”
I try to speak again—though I have no idea what I intend to say—but the words catch in my throat like fish in a net. All that comes out is a garbled “ughh” and a little bit of saliva.
Once again, the two men exchange glances, furrows between both of their brows. The final member of their pack moves to stand in front of us. He forks a hand through his reddish-brown hair, his movements jerky with agitation and something else. An emotion I can’t quite name.
“They should be here shortly,” he tells the two alphas on either side of me.
Who are “they”?
Where is “here”?
I remember being at the club with my alphas. Dancing. Laughing. And yes, admittedly, drinking, but I only had one, and it was a fruity cocktail with more juice than alcohol inside of it. Definitely not enough to make me feel this shitty.
“I don’t feel so good,” I repeat, willing myself to lift my head and stare into my lover’s searing green eyes. He’ll know what to do next. How to take care of me. He always does.
His expression is pained when he says, “I know, baby. But you’ll be okay soon.”
The alpha on the other side of me blows out a breath, that one noise laced with a plethora of emotions he struggles to express with words. This one is the sensitive alpha. Sweet. Compassionate. Always willing to make me hot chocolate when I’m feeling sick.
But just now, his eyes glimmer with pain, not sympathy. Then, in a choked voice, he rasps out, “I’m so sorry, Brylee.”
