Page 119 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
“Not even me.”
And I believed him.
God, help me, I believed him.
I woke up slowly, immediately recognizing that I needed to sleep far longer, but my body wasn’t going to let me. My bladder felt like it might explode. It was a constant, nagging pressure that had woken me once already. I’d fought against the basic need for as long as possible, but now it refused to be ignored another minute.
I rolled over on the too-hard mattress, swinging my legs over the side. I missed my own bed, my apartment, my life. God, I even missed dancing half naked on stage, waiting for Alphas to toss cash in my direction. Looking down, I checked over my bandaged feet. It had hurt like hell walking to the bedroom a few hours ago. Standing up, I winced against the sharp stings and the instant dull throbbing as blood rushed to the wounds. I bit my lip, worrying the skin until it broke. Great, my mouth could match my brutalized feet.
Last night had been such an epic failure. I still felt the sting of shame at how I’d turned around for help the second I’d gotten scared. Pride before the fall… isn’t that a famous saying?
I didn’t want to face any of them, but biology won out over pride every time. I turned around, seeing that the window was closed and latched. I hadn’t done that, so one of the men must have. It had been open when I’d fallen asleep. So, they’d come into check on me, because, dammit, I’d forgotten to lock the door. That was twice. How did I never realize that I had horrible survival instincts?
Yes, I never gave up. Every time life beat me down, I fought to stand.
That was not the same as this. One was staying physically alive; the other was staying emotionally alive. The two may be intrinsically connected, one weaved into the fabric of the other, but I couldn’t fight against wild animals and Alphas with guns the way I could fight against my own body and mind.
I took two tentative steps, testing the way the skin shifted and tugged on the bottoms of my feet. It wasn’t as bad as I expected. I tested the rest of me out, moving my arms and slightly arching my back. Tenderness everywhere, nothing broken.
My stomach growled as I approached the door, and I clamped a hand over my belly to quiet the grumblings. My gaze roved to the dresser where I’d left the tray of mostly untouched food. That was gone, maybe taken away when someone had come to close the window. Thinking about the hefty pork chop and mashed potatoes made my mouth water. I didn’t even eat that kind of food, but if it were in front of me now, I’d stuff my face.
Hunger would have to wait though. One problem at a time though.
Bathroom.
Then figure out how to get food without being at the mercy of my stupid fucking captors.
I pressed my thighs together, wincing at the urgent pressure. There was no avoiding it. I had to pee. Had to face whoever was stationed outside my door like I was some flight risk.
Which, fair enough, I absolutely was. I couldn’t very deny it after last night.
The uncomfortable memories surfaced, like a bruise you could ignore until you pressed it. The mountain lion's strange whistling chirp, the heart-stopping terror, the humiliating retreat with those massive dogs flanking me. And then the five ofthem, shirtless and armed, rushing to protect their property. Me. Their property.
But their faces… I still thought there was more to their expressions than losing something they’d bought. I wanted to believe they were better than that. I needed to believe it if I was going to have to stay here longer.
My hand closed around the knob, and I turned it slowly.
Who was outside the door waiting?
Did they think I was ridiculous now? Did they think I was useless?They probably did…just like Imperial.
Heat flushed my cheeks, even the backs of my ears felt warm. How long had I lasted out in the ‘wilderness’? Some big bad rebel I was. Some escape artist. My bold claim about having survived Seattle’s nightlife burned on my tongue, and I wished I could take it back. I was so stupid. It made sense people discarded me. Everyone except Grandpa and Grandmother. And I didn’t have them anymore.
I tugged at the hem of the long shirt I’d worn to bed. Wade’s this time. He’d left it in the bathroom, along with a towel and boxers that I’d had to knot at the waist to wear. They were still huge and kept gaping at the slitted crotch. The long shirt did cover the underwear exposing my intimate areas, but it made me wildly uncomfortable.
Though I’d just begun to pull the door open, I pushed it back into its frame and turned towards the closet. I rummaged around, déjà vu washing over me, but I couldn’t find anything with a drawstring this time.
The need to pee grew painfully bad.
I abandoned the closet and moved to the scratched dresser, rifling through the first and second drawers before opening the bottom, which presented me with a pair of swim shorts printed with tiny red lobsters against navy blue fabric. They were absurd—the kind of goofy thing you'd expect from a frat boy, not aserious, beer drinking rancher. Of all the men, though, it made sense for Cooper. He just gave those vibes.
"Ridiculous," I muttered, holding them up.
I pulled them on, tying them tightly like I had the baggy sweatpants, so they'd stay on my much narrower hips, but it wasn’t enough. They were insanely long on me, falling well past my knees, so I rolled the waist over four times. Now they puffed out comically around my thighs, but at least they gave me more coverage, no crotch hole ready to play peek-a-boo. The shirt and trunks combo made me look like I was having a sleepover at a boyfriend's house, which was about as far from my actual situation as humanly possible.
I went back to the door, steadying myself before I ventured out.
On the other side would be one of them. One of my scent matches.
