Page 5 of Harley & Her Ferals

My heart clenches at the thought.

Also, what about the family that Feral lost? I don’t know who they are.

Does Feral? What’s the mystery?

I’ve only been locked in the attic for three years, since I refused to bond with Vinnie, the forty year old, ruthless leader of the rival biker pack, the Hades.

I insisted that I wanted to fight instead.

Dad is enough of a showman that he laughed. “Why not? A freak, feral Alpha and the world’s first Omega cage fighter. You’ll make my illegal fights the biggest in America. Well, as long as you’re not torn to pieces in the first one. So, try not to embarrass me by dying.”

I found out that he bet bigagainstme.

I won.

Dad never bet against me again.

When I chose this path to independence — grasped the chance to save the man who I’ve been falling in love with for years — I knew that I would be giving up my own freedom and risking my life.

But the reward is a chance to be with my scent matched Alpha.

To save each other.

Dad and my sister have tried to tame me, building me nests and attempting to push me into the arms of brutal Alphas who’d have me on my knees like Vinnie attempted to.

I’ve destroyed every nest.

I ripped and tore and stood panting in the center of the destruction, half laughing and half sobbing.

It was Vinnie’s shocked face like I’d torn his favorite leather jacket to shreds, rather than his nest with its fussy, frilly cushions that showed how little he knew me, which made me burst into full laughter.

Possibly, I looked manic.

Still, I long for a soft nest with Feral, a male Omega soulmate who I can love and cherish, and my Beta, River.

Pheromones flood from me at the thought of my own pack.

I flush, when Feral sniffs and cocks his head, giving me an interested look.

I push my wavy, brunet hair out of my honey colored eyes.

When I shiver, Feral instantly drapes the single, scratchy blanket over my shoulders.

I burrow my nose in the material, soothed by the spicy cinnamon brandy scent of my Alpha.

I’m always cold. It feels seeped into my bones.

How long has it been since I’ve been allowed to dress in more than my pack’s fighting colors: red shorts and a t-shirt?

Huh, I’m the mafia boss’ daughter but I’m locked in a cage with tangled hair.

Except, Feral always looks at me like he never notices anybody else. “M-my Omega. Will f-f-fight for you.”

Feral’s voice is husky, but he stutters.

Talking is hard for him. Often, he speaks more slowly to manage to force out the words.

Most ferals can’t talk at all.

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