Page 9 of One Way Out

“I hate seeing you injured.” I pull my fingers from his forearm and brush them next to the gash on his cheek.

He snarls, snapping at my wrist and baring his teeth.

It takes everything in me not to pull my hand away as my heart thumps wildly.

Okay, I thought he was on the way back to a clearer level of consciousness, but we’re not there yet. My vision is no longer hazy, though, so I think he may have loosened his grip on my throat.

“Omen picks on you for being a baby about having your injuries tended.” I flutter my lashes. “Your beta is right.”

“Why do you smell wrong?” he asks with his chest heaving.

I ignore the blood-soaked material and keep my eyes on his. “You knew they took my suppressants away, and you still got yourself locked up in here. You don’t get to make me feel bad. If you don’t like the way I smell, then I suggest you cover me in your scent.”

ChapterFour

Valor

The haze of rage simmers. It’s always present. Sometimes it’s harder to fight than others.

My vision has a foggy white sheen that would be slightly alarming if I knew what was happening.

The omega’s scent is indescribable, with light cherry and lime notes, but there’s an underlying base smell that I don’t have words for. It’s stormy and chaotic, almost like lightning, and at the same time, it soothes the violence vibrating just under my skin.

My thumb tightens over her pulse on her slender neck. It fights back, pounding against my skin as her heart races, and something deep inside me screams that I’m the cause of her distress.

Only, I don’t recognize her.

So I’m not sure why I would care.

I don’t hurt women.

Not unless they’re actively trying to kill me. If that’s the case, I treat them like any capable adversary. But my size gives me an unfair advantage, which is why Aunt Clara beat the rules of consent into my head from the time I hit double digits.

Figuratively, of course.

That woman never raised a hand to me in anger. All she had to do was sigh and shake her head with a disappointed expression, and my gut would twist in knots.

“I said if you want me to smell like you, we can make that happen.” The daft woman slides her hand over the front of my joggers, cupping my shaft.

A low, dangerous growl rattles from my chest, and I slam her against the bars.

Why is she taunting me?

She whimpers, wrapping her dangling legs around my ass. “Still not afraid of you.”

My nostrils flare, picking up all those pheromones she’s busy dumping into the air.

“You should be,” I growl, tightening my hold on her throat.

I am.

I’m terrified of what I’m capable of in those blocks of time I don’t remember. Nothing makes sense when the haze of decay sets in.

Some deep piece of my soul seems convinced she’s familiar, but she smellswrong, and it’s setting my instincts even further on edge.

A foggy red haze takes over my vision.

Soft fingertips circle my crown, and my shaft thickens in her grasp.

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