Page 2 of Sweet Heat

“Shit,” I moan, trying to salvage a few of my favorite treats.

“You don’t need them anyway,” a voice behind me snickers. “Nothing worse than a fat omega.”

Mortification flames my cheeks, and fury builds low in my belly. But before I can turn to face him with a scathing retort, a hand clamps on my braid, lifting the heavy rope from my neck.

The harsh tug brings me to my feet, and I raise my hand to seize my captor’s wrist.

What the actual fuck!

“No bite, so she’s unclaimed,” another sharp male voice chimes in. “She’d be hot if we got her into better shape.” Nearby, a small beta male’s eyes widen when he notices my plight. He shifts uncomfortably, unsure whether to say anything, and I wonder if these Alphas are large.

Large hairy goons who need to be taught a damn lesson.

“We can work her out on our knots and give her a steady diet of cum.” Palms slap together, and although I can’t see it, I know they’re high-fiving like pathetic pissants—little boys who don’t have a lick of decency between them.

“Let’s train her to use that mouth for something other than inhaling candy.” A wet, sweaty finger traces the crescent at my neck, and I shiver with revulsion. A bystander gasps loudly, but still no help arrives. Panic claws its way up my throat, but I swallow it down and replace it with a fiery rage. These assholes are ruining my favorite place, and that’s just not going to happen.

“Oh, fuck off,” Emma roars, grabbing her bag. She rifles through it frantically, and knowing my bestie as I do, she’s either going for her pepper spray or a taser.

Either way, if I don’t get control of the situation, this is going to become messy. My breathing becomes choppy as anxiety surges within me. My brain scrambles for the proper course of action.

Do I scream for security? Should I plead for help? Should I try to fight my way out?

Fight. Definitely fight.

“Let go right now,” I demand, digging my sharp nails into his wrist until he grunts with displeasure.

The Alpha-Douche releases my hair long enough that I’m able to turn and face him. Emma and Mari slide closer to me, hissing at the offensive pack behind us. More people arrive, ready to take their seats before the game. They throw strange glances our way, but not a single onlooker stops to check on the bunch of girls being hassled.Cowards.

“I’m barely catching her scent,” whines a medium-sized Alpha with greasy blond hair that’s parted down the middle. There’s a zit on the tip of his nose, which is big, white, and ready to pop.

Not if you were the last Alpha on the planet, buddy.

“Perfume for me, omega,” the second packmate demands. He’s short, plain-looking—with curly hair and a goatee. I’m grateful he didn’t bark because, while the thick scent-blocking lotion I wear should be enough to stop people from scenting me, perfuming is much more potent, and I doubt it’ll hold.

“Not on your life,” I scoff. “I think you should leave before I call security.”

Outwardly, I’m trying to exude confidence and poise, but internally, I’m shaking, and I’m not sure if it’s rage or fear. Trembling, I cross my arms over my belly and glare at these losers, wishing they would just disappear. My eyes flick over to Mari. Her brow is sweaty with anxiety and she keeps checking to ensure her hair is in place. She’s had so many negative run-ins with Alphas that my heartsqueezes.

Yeah, this needs to end.

“Get on your knees and apologize for leaving marks on me,” the dark-haired one sneers, inspecting the crescent-shaped divots circling his wrist. My fury breaks, washing away the churning panic.

Fucking Alphas.

I open my mouth, ready to eviscerate this weak little bitch. No one is going to intimidate me on my home turf…

But an angry growl cracks through the air, turning into a roar that makes every hair on my body stand on end. Electricity zips through me, heading straight for my clit. My pussy throbs so hard that I bite back a moan as slick soaks my panties.

My head turns, and my jaw drops to the floor.

It can’t be…

Chapter Two

“Come on, Miller the Killer,” Owen, my childhood best friend and a giant pain in my ass, jests from across the field. My eyes narrow at the stupid nickname, but it’s not enough to ruffle my feathers, so I ignore him and return to my pre-game stretching.

“Quads, then hammies, knees, and toes—knees and toes,” I hum as I work through lengthening each muscle and trying to collect my mental fortitude for the game ahead. It’s a silly ritual. The childhood nursery rhyme has gotten me ragged on more times than I can count, but I don’t give a fuck. My dad taught me to stretch with it way back in little leagues when I first started playing t-ball, and I’ve done it ever since.

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