Page 2 of Sawyer

The man at my back grips my hips and nudges his cock against the entrance of my pussy.

“You ready for me, baby girl?” he rumbles into my ear, his hand ghosting over my skin only to grip my neck. “Because once I thrust inside of you, I won’t stop until you shatter all over my cock again and again.”

I mewl and almost gag on the dick thrusting down my throat.

My whole body shudders, and goose bumps pebble across my skin with anticipation.

My alpha pulls out, and they both still.

My core clenches, and arousal seeps down my thighs.

Anticipation becomes my entire existence.

“Breathe, baby girl.” The guttural growl in my ear is all the warning I get before they both thrust into me.

The dull roar in my ears precedes the shattering of my body, my mind, my entire fucking soul as they both thrust into me at once.

True to his promise, he doesn’t stop as I fall apart over and over, and when I fall onto the forest floor, my alpha starts the process all over again.

Sawyer

Pink, sparkly, and full of everything I am not, the tonic shimmers in the small vial, twirling and swirling without a care in the world, unknowing that its existence allows me to thrive.

I loathe that small sparkly vial, yet as my fingers clench around the glass, panic swells inside of me that I could bust the glass and lose the precious concoction. I couldn’t live with myself if it broke, not to mention my bank account wouldn’t survive either.

These little vials are few and so far between that I have to sneak around to the shadiest parts of the city just to buy one, and I can’t afford another.

My hands clench the stained porcelain sink in front of me, and all my weight leans forward until the sink creaks and wobbles away from the wall. Nerves swim in my stomach, and bile creeps up my throat on an acid trail.

I hate that this is who I’ve turned into and that I’ve allowed myself to fall into the trap of wanting to become something I am not.

The little pink vial turns my weaknesses into strengths.

I’m not strong like an alpha, yet this tonic gives me strength.

It allows me to run like a delta, to think like a beta, and to smell like an omega.

This dark world revolves around alphas and their packs, and the omegas who exist for them to cherish and love, while the rest of us get shoved to the side until we are no more than servants to the elite.

An anguished cry breaks free of my throat, the bile spreading and burning until my voice cracks and breaks. My palm slams down on the sink, and my flesh slaps along the edge and slips off the side.

Losing my balance, I twist and turn, falling to the grimy, fissured linoleum floor. My tailbone slams a little too hard against the floor, creating a pain that spikes through me and splinters up my spine. One lone heel falls off my foot to skitter across the bathroom floor.

Even that is a lie.

Gammas are a designation without meaning, one in which we are nothing more than handmaidens and servants. Soft and meek, many describe us as mousy. We are the brownies of lore—the little creatures that turn a house into a home, never complaining. We fear sticking up for ourselves, afraid to talk back or dream of a better life.

The stimulants help me overcome all those weaknesses, allowing me to speak out of line, to thrive, and to hold my chin high.

Long ago, I swore I would become much more than my designation.

I promised that to myself, yet here I am, staring down at a pink vial that allows me to become more than I am.

My breath shudders out, and I pop off the top with a perfectly manicured thumb and throw the liquid back. Sugary and sweet, it hits my taste buds, coats my mouth and throat, and then glides down until it reaches my stomach.

I know from prior use that it won’t take long for the tonic to take effect.

Stretching my legs out on the dirty floor, I lean against the wallpapered wall. Somewhere beyond the door, a woman cries in ecstasy. Her pleasure echoes throughout the small townhouse in the slums of the city.

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