Page 42 of Pack Owned
Once my legs stop shaking and my orgasm subsides, I rinse off, still reeling from the aftershocks that ripple through me. Stepping out onto the cold tile, I reach for the towel, hastily wrapping it around my quivering body.
Taking a deep breath, I try to ground myself back in reality, but reality means facing what comes next. As I pat myself dry, I realize with a sinking feeling that I have nothing but the clothes I wore today, which are discarded and dirty on the floor.
“Great, just great,” I mutter. I could try to sleep in these clothes, but the thought of spending another uncomfortable night in the same outfit makes my skin crawl. I rifle through the bedroom for anything useful, but all the drawers are empty. “Guess it’s going commando under a towel tonight.”
A shaky laugh escapes me, a brief burst of hysteria at the absurdity of my situation. Alone in a mansion filled with men who could either be my salvation or my ruin and here I am, worried about pajamas.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. Maybe I can do a quick wash. So, I grab my clothes and steel myself as I step out into the hallway with the towel, the only thing keeping me from being completely naked.
I pad down the hallway, my feet cold against the polished floors.
Please, don’t let anybody be awake.
The laundry room is empty as I slip inside. I toss my clothes into a washer, dump in some detergent without measuring, and hit start with more force than necessary.
“Come on, come on,” I urge the machine as it chugs to life, hoping none of the Alphas have a reason to wander in here.
Minutes tick by—too many—and I’m starting to get antsy. The washer seems to be locked in an eternal spin cycle, and I’m standing here, half-naked, with nothing but a towel to protect my modesty.
“Maybe there’s something in one of the dryers.”
The first dryer is empty except for a dryer sheet, and the second is completely empty.
I tug open the last dryer.
Score! I find Dane’s shirt among a handful of socks. I reach in and pull it out, the fabric soft and amazingly still warm from the dryer.
The hole from where he was shot is still there. Shaking my head, I bring the shirt closer. Memories flood back—the frantic rush to get the bullet out, the worry etched on Liam’s face, the heat of Dane’s body under my hands.
Taking a deep breath, I pull the material over my head. The shirt hits me just above the knees. Then I toss my towel into an empty dryer, glaring at the wash of my clothes that finally sounds like it’s fixing to finish. When it buzzes, I quickly pull out my wet clothes and toss them into one of the empty dryers.
A shout pierces through the mansion’s thick walls. My pulse spikes, and for a second, I freeze, ears straining.
“Was that...?”
The sound doesn’t come again right away, and I’m torn. Investigating feels risky, especially after Ryker’s veiled threat. But the stillness feels wrong, charged with an unsettling energy that makes my skin prickle.
Taking a deep breath, I hit the start button on the dryer. I can’t just ignore a potential cry for help, even in a house full of Alphas.
Padding down the hall, barefoot and wary, every nerve ending is on alert. The house is quiet now, too quiet, and I’m seconds from convincing myself I imagined the whole thing.
Then the shout comes again, a muffled cry that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. This time, I’m sure it’s real, and I’m moving before I can second-guess myself. I follow the sound, each step falling silent on the plush carpet.
The muffled cry cuts through the silence once more, louder, closer, and I press forward, driven by a mix of concern and the stubborn refusal to be the kind who ignores a call for help.
Outside a cracked door, I see flickering lights.
I creep closer, peeking through the crack, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The room looks like it got hit by a neon lightning bolt with a huge screen overhead.
Liam has a controller in his hand as he sits on the couch, his fingers mashing buttons.
Glancing back at the screen.
There’s a burly figure armored in pixelated steel, swinging a massive sword, cleaving through the grotesque form of a goblin. It collapses with an exaggerated squelch that echoes weirdly in the vastness of the room.
“Didn’t anyone tell you spying is rude?” Liam says. “Come in already.”
But I shouldn’t. I hover in the doorway, bottom lip between my teeth, as I debate going inside or leaving.
