Page 154 of Altius
Garvey snagged the center of my vest and hauled me backward, forcing me to turn around, pressing our chests together, and pinning my trapped wrist between my shoulder blades. Pain coursed through me, but instead of giving him the satisfaction of crying out, it made me crave violence.
Fighting to free myself, I debated whether to elbow him in the eye or knee him in the groin. Or I could land a swift kick to the knee and dislocate it.
Decisions, decisions.
“Oh, that’s right,” Garvey sneered into my face, refusing to release his hold. “Youarean omega, aren’t you? Even though youreek. Why is that? Did your accident scramble the part of your brain that makes you fuckable?”
His words barely registered on the insult scale. I was meaner to myself in the first five minutes of most days than Garvey could ever manage.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I scoffed, my gaze burning with all the subtle devastation of a blue flame. “I don’t know why I expected more from a second-rate asshole, who got demoted because you don’t know how to read.”
Garvey’s hand swung upwards with a ferocious growl, reaching back, gathering strength, determined to shut me up by force.
Good, I thought, watching as it flew toward my face. Hit me.
I couldn’t wait to sue the shit out of him.
Amir suddenly grabbed my arm and yanked me to the side—and projectile vomited all over Garvey.
Two violent spurts left him gasping on the side of the exam table. A third, weaker wave landed on Garvey’s shoes.
Amir’s eyes rolled back into his head. He went limp. I threw myself at him, fighting with all my strength to keep his larger frame from falling off the table.
“Reyhan, Dr. McEwen,” I cried out. “Security—medic—anybody!”
Garvey stood paralyzed, face contorted with revulsion, as bile and chunks of half-digested pasta dripped down his shirt and pants.
Just as I managed to get Amir settled, Garvey body-checked me. My right side slammed into the medical supply cabinet at full force, scraping my forearm along the metal edges as I fell to the ground.
Garvey grabbed the delirious Amir by the front of his jersey, dragging him toward the edge of the table. “Get the fuck up!”
Pulling on a half-open drawer, I got onto my knees.
The bottle of freeze spray rolled forward, knocking against my fingertips—volunteering to serve as alpha repellent in my time of need.
Staggering back to my feet, I gave the can a few frantic shakes, aimed it at Garvey’s face, and pulled the trigger.
Freezing white mist stung his skin. He cried out in pain and dropped to the ground, clutching his eyes. “You fucking bitch!”
“Touch him again,” I seethed, resisting the urge to kick him in the ribs for good measure, “and you’ll be the one leaving in an ambulance.”
“No, bitch. It’s you. I’m going to kill you!”
The thunderclap of Dr. McEwen’s approaching dominance made Amir pass out.
Dr. McEwen stopped at the entrance of the tent, bushy brows sky-high as he stared at the mess. His left arm was in a sling. A dozen other people crowded around him, including Reyhan—and Alijah, who was still filming.
Their shocked expressions were understandable.
There was nothing normal about a five-four omega fighting to keep two hundred and sixty pounds of solid muscle from falling off the exam table while simultaneously pointing a bottle of freeze spray at the face of an enraged alpha, who was writhing on the ground in a puddle of vomit.
No one spoke a word.
The silence stretched and stretched—until it was shattered by a scream so raw, it sounded like an animal being slaughtered.
Through the tent opening, I caught sight of a video board.
Tyler lay on the ground, clutching his leg, the same one as his previously torn ACL. Which, if the intensity of his cries was anything to go by, had just been obliterated.
