CHAPTER 5
OLIVE
What a shitshow.
I never thought I’d have three Alphas fighting about me, especially after I spent weeks in hiding.
And I never thought I would collapse in a lovely Beverly Hills mansion, bleeding all over someone’s floor.
Killian’s spicy aroma overwhelms me as he rushes to catch me, making sure I don’t hit the marble tile. I thought I had my balance, but after the wild display of the dark-haired, bearded Alpha smashing his fist into a wall, apparently, I’ve lost control of my basic functions.
“Olive, I’ve got you,” Killian murmurs, while the other Alpha, the blonde one with kind green eyes, rushes to my side.
“Olive is your name?” He murmurs, and he looks as if that fact couldn’t make him happier. “I’m Dylan. And that asshole that punched a perfectly good wall is Brock.”
Despite the pain in my body and the panic in my mind, the Alpha produces a chuckle from me. They both help me to a spacious brown leather couch, with Dylan propping my head up on the cool pillows. As I float in and out of a haze, Dylan presses a cup of water to my lips, which I drink greedily. His scent is the exact opposite of Killian’s—while the other Alpha is spicy and wild, Dylan’s is warm and earthy.
It’s welcoming.
It’s safer than I expected.
If I could melt his scent down into a candle, I would.
I giggle at the image, half-delirious, while Killian curses.
“I’ll get the med kit. She still has suppressants in her blood, but we should up ours, just in case. Try to keep her comfortable until I get back.”
“Of course,” Dylan says, sitting on the empty cushion next to me, the couch sinking with his weight. “Hey, Olive, I know we just met and all, and this is really fucked up…but I need to take off your boot, okay?”
He flushes a bit, and he smiles sheepishly.
It’s endearing.
I crack a smile. “At least you acknowledge it’s fucked up.”
I stare up at the high ceiling, trying to distract myself as my foot screams in pain. Dylan’s touch is gentle, and he peels back my sock, exposing the cut with the glass inside.
“Shit. What did you do?” He asks carefully, his scent calming the storm in my head.
“Stepped on a broken bottle. Then ignored it.”
“Ah.” His nimble fingers dance along the top of my foot gently. “I can’t believe you were out there for weeks,” he murmurs under his breath. His touch is light, feather soft, as if he’s afraid he’ll break me.
“Everything was going fine,” I murmur. “I had it under control.”
He stays silent, his fingers dancing along my skin. My eyes flutter closed against my better judgement; the couch is much too comfortable. I open my eyes when Killian’s spicy scent envelops me, and I meet his icy eyes hazily.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says in a hushed voice.
Don’t call me sweetheart, I want to say, but the retort dies on my tongue.
“I’m going to clean your foot and get the glass out. You might need stitches, too.”
He says it matter-of-factly, with no teasing or passion behind his voice.
“It’s going to hurt like a bitch,” he adds.
Well, at least he’s honest.