OLIVIA
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The food was... good.
No—great.
I wasn’t mad at the food.
I was mad at him.
Mad at his dumb, overbearing clan.
Mad at myself—furious—for getting caught like so rookie thief in the night. For failing. For ending up here, in a place where I didn’t belong, wearing his shirt, eating his food, and breathing in the lingering scent of him that clung to every corner of this damn room.
But the food? It wasn’t the enemy.
So, I ate.
Bite after bite, I let the flavors distract —rich ats, soft bread, and sothing sweet and honeyed at the end. My stomach stopped gnawing at , and for a mont, I could almost pretend I was anywhere else.
Almost.
When the tray was empty, I pushed it aside and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, my jaw tight. The satisfaction of a full belly did nothing to soothe the storm raging inside .
I wasn’t going outside.
Not tonight.
Not because I wasn’t curious about the Alphas or their stupid traditions—but because I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing wide-eyed and desperate for answers.
I wasn’t so girl eager to be picked.
I didn’t care about their rituals or their full moons.
All I cared about was Boyd—my dog—and the gnawing worry that crept into my bones.
Was he okay? Was he still suffering while I was here in this gilded cage?
Did my parents even notice I was missing?
No.
The answer ca too fast.
Of course, they didn’t. They never noticed anything unless it inconvenienced them.
I pushed away the ache in my chest, rising from the bed and moving toward the windows.
There were three—each one tall and narrow, frad with dark wood.
I checked the locks first. Sturdy. Impossibly so. They weren’t taking any chances with .
Fine.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and stared out at the dark landscape. Beyond the sprawling estate, I saw nothing but the black silhouettes of mountains, the sa ones that had watched over Picria for centuries.
No paths. No roads.
Just wilderness.
But there were always loopholes.
There had to be.
I spent the rest of the night pacing the room, morizing every detail—the placent of the furniture, the height of the windows, the lock on the door. Planning. Thinking.
Trying not to breathe too deeply.
Because his scent was everywhere.
Warm, woodsy, with a hint of sothing darker—sothing uniquely him.
It clung to the shirt I was wearing, to the pillow, to the air itself.
Every ti I shifted, the fabric brushed my bare skin—a cruel reminder that I had nothing on underneath it.
No underwear. No shorts. Just , drowning in a shirt that slled like the man who thought he could claim .
My thighs pressed together.
I hated the way my body reacted, like a traitor moving without my consent.
I didn’t want this.
Didn’t want him.
But gods, the way his scent wrapped around , it was like a whisper against my skin—an unrelenting presence that made my fingers twitch.
It was too much.
Too close.
And before I knew it, my hand was slipping between my thighs, fingers ghosting over sensitive skin, chasing relief from a fire I did not ask for.
A soft, broken sigh escaped as my head fell back against the pillow.
My other hand clenched the fabric of his shirt, pulling it tighter around , the scent of him thick in my lungs.
I imagined his red eyes—those dark, burning rubies—watching . I imagined his hand still on my chin, his voice, deep and possessive, saying my na.
Olivia.
Gods, I hated myself.
Hated him.
Hated how easily he had ignited sothing inside .
But I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t.
And when the release finally ca, I bit down on my lip to muffle the sound, my body shuddering beneath his ghostly presence—because even though he wasn’t here, it still felt like I was surrendering to him.
As the last tremor faded, I lay there—breathless, angry, and ashad.
The room was too quiet. Too still.
And his scent was still all around .
I closed my eyes and swore, tomorrow... tomorrow, I would escape this place.
No matter what.
Morning ca too fast.
The pale light of dawn filtered through the windows, casting long, cold streaks across the room. For a mont, I just lay there—staring at the ceiling, the weight of last night pressing against my chest like a stone.
Boyd. I had to get back to him.
I sat up, dragging a hand through my hair, and the shirt—his shirt—shifted against my skin. The scent of him still clung to it, faint but undeniable.
I gritted my teeth.
Enough of this.
I wasn’t so girl waiting to be claid. I wasn’t going to let him—or his absurd world—decide my fate.
I found my clothes in a neat pile by the bathroom door, clean and folded like so silent mockery of my situation. Did they think I would be grateful for this?
I tugged on my pants and sweater, not bothering to glance in the mirror. There was no ti for vanity when I was planning my escape.
The bathroom window.
Small, high up on the wall, but not impossible.
I climbed onto the porcelain sink, my fingers slipping slightly against the frosted glass. It was latched, but old—worn down by ti or neglect. With a little force, the window creaked open.
A burst of cold air slapped in the face.
I looked down. It wasn’t too far—a first-floor drop at most.
I could survive it.
The ground below was a mix of gravel and grass, frost biting at the edges of the stones. If I angled my landing just right, I could avoid twisting an ankle.
I paused, my breath clouding the air, and gathered my hair into a bun. It was freezing out there.
Damn it.
I climbed down, but before swinging my legs over the ledge, I went back into the room.
His jacket.
It was hanging over the back of a chair—black leather, sleek, and heavier than I expected when I picked it up. The mont I pulled it close, the scent of him hit again.
Damn him.
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