Page 90 of Claimed By the Band

"I was just..." I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "Looking for the bathroom. Got turned around."

He clearly doesn't buy it, but his smile remains pleasant. Almost predatory. "The bathroom is upstairs. Not far from the elevators, actually."

"Right," I stammer, taking a step back. "Guess I had a bit too much to drink."

I try to move past him, but his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my arm. "Or maybe it's the pheromones," he muses. "You do seem to be curiously affected. For a beta."

I freeze, memories crashing over me like ice water. My brother's hands holding me down by the arms. Another cult member's weight across my legs to stop me from kicking, and a third'srough hands pressing my forehead down as they seared a mark into my wrist. The older alpha they chose for me approaching with gleaming eyes, teeth bared to force another mark.

A mating mark that would have bound me to him forever if the cult had gotten their way. I still shudder when I think about how close I came to living a very different life.

"It's not the pheromones," I manage, proud that my voice barely shakes. "Just the drinks."

"Some betas are more susceptible than others," he continues as if I hadn't spoken. "Rare as it is. A fascinating subject, really." His grip tightens slightly. "I'd love to study you sometime. See what makes you tick."

His hand crawls up my sleeve, fingers brushing over the raised scar on the inside of my wrist through the fabric of my shirt. The touch sends revulsion crawling up my spine. He knows. Somehow, he knows it's there.

I wrench away, stumbling back. This time, he lets me go.

"I'll pass," I snap, trying to sound braver than I feel.

His smirk widens as his eyes rake over me, analyzing. Cataloging. "You should head upstairs. Your pack is looking for you."

I don't need to be told twice. I flee toward the stairwell, not willing to wait for the elevators that are clearly busy with whatever chaos is happening above. As I push through the door, a wave of concentrated pheromones hits me like a physical blow.

I double over, retching. The artificial musk is overwhelming, but there's something else. Something wrong. Each step up makesmy skin feel hotter, tighter. Sweat breaks out across my forehead as understanding dawns.

They've cranked the pheromones to maximum.

And my suppressants...

They can't hold up.

A cramp rips through my abdomen, dropping me to my knees. I bite back a cry as heat floods my system. Not the gradual buildup of a natural cycle, but something forced and violent. My clothes feel like sandpaper against my hypersensitive skin.

I need... I need...

No. Focus. Get upstairs. Get to safety.

Then I can figure out what the hell is happening to my body.

Another cramp hits, stronger this time. I actually whimper, curling in on myself. The urge to strip, to present, to submit is almost overwhelming, years of careful control crumbling under whatever they've pumped into the air.

My fingers scrabble against the concrete wall as another wave of heat rips through me. The stairwell feels like it's spinning, the metal steps blurring in and out of focus.

I have to get out of here before the pack finds me. Before they realize what I really am. The thought of them seeing me like this—desperate and needy and so obviously a fucking omega—makes my chest tight with panic even as another part of me purrs at the idea.

The suppressants were supposed to prevent this. They were military grade, for fuck's sake. But whatever Trakiss has createdis stronger, designed specifically to override chemical controls. At least at this concentration.

I force myself up another few steps, legs trembling. The binder that usually feels like armor now feels like a torture device, restricting my chest as it heaves with desperate breaths.

"Stop. It," I growl at myself through clenched teeth, slamming my palm against the wall. The pain helps clear my head for a moment.

I need to get away from here. Away from the pack before they catch my scent. Away from Trakiss and whatever he's done to trigger this. Especially now that it's clear he knows I'm not who I'm pretending to be.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, probably the pack wondering where I am. My brain immediately supplies helpful images of them taking care of me, claiming me, making me theirs...

"Fuck," I groan, pressing my forehead against the cool concrete. I can't let that happen. Not when I haven't even gotten the chance to tell them the truth on my own terms.

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