Where am I? What happened to the smell of semen and cigarettes? Where’s Steve’s icky pea-green couch?
Now all I can smell is peppermint. It saturates the puffy bedsheets beneath me as I roll onto my belly, pressing my nose to the soft fabric. It appears I did die and go to heaven after all, because now I'm lying on a big, fluffy cloud that smells of peppermint.
I just want to lie beneath these sheets forever and make a nest.
Nest...
The term is so foreign to me. In all these years since I manifested, I have never once had the chance to build myself a beautiful nest. It’s not that I didn’t want to; I just didn’t have the means of making one.
My parents sold me to the OCC for a big, fat check, and the bastards at the compound only gave us one threadbare sheet and a pillow.
Omegas crave comfort. It’s in our DNA to nest build, and I already know what my nest would look like.
Pillows and unicorn plushies (because you can’t go wrong with unicorns). Don’t forget snacks too and a flat-screen TV.
I never built a nest back at the strip club. If Steve or the other strippers saw my nesting instincts, then I would have been exposed.
But now here I am lying on top of a fluffy marshmallow, and who knew death could be so comfortable.
I’m dead, after all. I have to be. This seems too good to be true.
I just wonder why my cloud smells of peppermint. The scent is all over the bedsheets, and I finally crash back to earth when I remember his chiseled face and frosted blue eyes.
“Someone’s comfy...”
My heart cleaves in two at the sound of his deep baritone, and then my eyes snap open. He stands in an open doorway, surrounded by a cloud of hot, billowing steam, and my heart beats faster when I spy that toned physique.
All he wears is a bathrobe, and the blood whooshes through my head, sending my mind into a spiral.
Holy fucking mother of ghost. He’s like a deity. There is no way I am going to be able to resist a god like him.
But I have to; I can’t let him knot me. I am his prisoner. He bought me from my sleazy boss and I have to get out of here.
I slip off the bed. It’s so high. My tiny feet can barely reach the carpeted floor, but the moment my toes sink into the thick fiber, I groan.
No. I can’t get distracted. This place may look and feel like heaven, but it is just another hell.
Everywhere I go is hell: the compound, the strip club, and now here.
Has this Whitefang guy taken me to his apartment? The creepy bastard. I’m leaving.
He’s a fool if he thinks he can own me.
I walk to the door, and he chuckles. “Where are you going, Buttercup?”
I snap, whirling around. “My name isn’t Buttercup!”
Whitefang raises a brow. “No? Then whatisyour name?”
I tighten my lips. As if I will ever share that information. I have to hold onto my real identity. It’s all I have left.
This alpha won’t take that away from me too. I am myownomega; I own my own freedom.
I scoff, heading toward the door. Just as my fingers graze the brass handle, he says, “My name is Killian.”
Killian? I’m not surprised he haskillin his name after what he tried to do to Martina. That bitch was cruel to me, but she didn’t deserve to die just for giving me a shiner.
And why did he even care anyway? I am nothing to him. Just some pretty little omega that he bought from some downtown strip club.