Page 41 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Mason swings at Brad, but Brad dodges the sucker punch at the last minute and it rolls off his chin.

The guys pummel each other in the torso, and Trick and Vin have to tear them off each other.

I stomp off to my car while the guys bellow at Brad and Brad screams back at them.

They’re loudly following behind me while only half paying attention to our surroundings.

None of them see what I see when I turn the corner and find my beat up wreck of a car.

BETA WHORE has been written in permanent marker a thousand times across my paint job.

Key scratches mar the surface anywhere the words haven’t been scrawled. There are several versions of handwriting here, so it wasn’t Livvy alone.

My windows are intact.

My tires are fine.

The body of the car has no visible, non-aesthetic damage.

The door handles have been left untouched.

This is purely about humiliation.

They expect me to drive home in a car with my misdeeds exposed for all to see. A scarlet letter to announce my offenses to society.

I expected pushback about being a live-in beta bunny. Even if some alphas mate and marry betas, packs belong exclusively to omegas. My guys aren’t a pack—not yet anyway—and I’d assumed the lack of formality would save me from this particular taboo.

Not so, it seems.

Thick lettering across the hood labels the driver a SELFISH SLUT!

Tears spring unbidden in my eyes. The pathetic little grocery bag with Mason’s jersey and my shorts plops onto the ground as my body attempts to reset and pretend this isn’t happening.

Swallowing seems to make it worse.

My breathing speeds as shame and anger surge.

It’s only then that I realize the guys have stopped talking.

I can’t turn and face them. Not like this. I’ll take a second to collect myself and then get in my car like it doesn’t bother me one bit.

I haven’t done anything wrong, I remind myself.

Whether beta or omega, the guys are acting on their own free will. Bunnies tend to be forgettable to most, and that works to my benefit.

There’s a drug store on the way back to the house. I’ll buy a vat of rubbing alcohol. With a little elbow grease, my car will be good as new.

There, a plan. Now to find my calm.

Five . . .

This is a good sign. It means the tale I’ve spun with the guys is convincing.

Four . . .

Brad chased me out here. He’s coming around.

Three . . .

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