Page 120 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“You know, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I think it might give you something to look forward to given your, erm, history.”

What a lovely way of saying, your previous whoring ways. I don’t even flinch when she says it, and she carries on as if she hasn’t metaphorically slapped me.

“A number of packs have expressed interest in you. Many alphas are uncomfortable taking on an omega barely into their heats. You’ll have a good deal of potential matches, and you still have at least a decade left in your fertility window. Even a certain senator has asked about your progress.”

Joy, my geriatric omega parts are desirable to the olds.

Instead of saying that, I smile and nod like I’m excited at the prospect of being sold to the pack with the most money and connections.

At least it isn’t the auctions. My cage will be gilded.

I don’t even have the call center job anymore. I was never formally fired, but also I haven’t shown up in three weeks and my phone is permanently dead.

“This was a positive session, Isabelle,” she says.

It’s Izzy, you therabitch. Only Patrick Wyatt gets to call me Isabelle.

“I think so too. And thank you again. I can’t imagine what this would’ve been like without you.”

“You’re making great progress. Keep it up and we can pull back on the monitoring.”

I scratch at the one-inch square chip on my arm instinctively. The little device measures the eight primary hormones in my body and reports on any spikes in levels.

It also tracks my location. They haven’t said as much, but there’s no way it doesn’t.

The night they’d implanted it, four days after Brad outed me and triggered my unintended detox, a medical team showed up in the middle of the night because I had a night terror. It took several calls by my parents to convince them to let me stay with Jolie and not be involuntarily admitted to a facility.

“I’ve worked hard to prove I can be trusted,” I tell the therabitch.

We smile kindly at each other.

“This time tomorrow,” she says by way of answer.

“Of course. I look forward to it.”

I look forward to it about as much as a boiling coffee enema.

When I step out of the office into the frigid autumn air, I suck in a full breath of chilly oxygen and remind myself I’ve survived another session.

Each day is a strain. I never know whether the Admin will allow me to leave the building.

Fucking Brad and his fucking ego.

I dig my burner phone out of my purse and flip between my troll accounts to like and repost my also viral gif of him slapping his own bicep and blowing himself a kiss.

Should I be encouraging the virality of the videos?

No.

Is it satisfying as all hell?

Yes.

Pettiness is an essential part of my self-prescribed therapy.

As I walk, I exchange comments with one of the two accounts that have become my favorite to interact with. I’m decently sure they’re Jolie catfishing me. She doesn’t acknowledge it, but that’s part of the appeal.

PuckFunny926 and I trade barbs about what we envision Captain Brad is doing during his forced solitude. It’s like she finally has permission to rag on him, and I’m so here for it. I’m cackling by the time I arrive on the correct floor of the parking garage.

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