Page 28 of Puck Your Charity

My chest heaves. Sweat coats my forehead and my neck. I throw the thin blanket off my legs.

My thighs feel soaked. A thick pool of slick coats my cotton underwear, proving the explicit dream was more than just a figment of my imagination. My clit throbs with an agonizing, unsatisfied ache.

I drag my hands down my face, letting out a frustrated groan.

Two days have passed since my encounter with Lawrence at the park. The suppressants did their job and crushed the main cycle. My brain feels clear again. The nausea faded.

But the after-effects linger in my blood like a toxic poison.

My anatomy betrays me. I rejected Lawrence and his calculated playboy charm. I told Finn to leave me alone. Ihate their entitled, arrogant pack for destroying my career and stealing my home. I want nothing to do with them.

My subconscious refuses to listen. My inner Omega craves their hands and their thick knots. It begs to be claimed. It turns my sleep into a torturous highlight reel of their scents and their bodies.

I hate this. I hate feeling like a hostage to my own hormones.

Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hit the stained carpet. I strip my ruined underwear off and toss them into a plastic grocery bag I use for laundry. Grabbing a clean pair from my duffel bag, I pull them on.

I need to wash my face. I need cold water to shock the lingering arousal out of my system.

Creeping over to the bedroom door, I press my ear against the cheap wood. The house sounds quiet. The faint hum of the refrigerator vibrates through the hall.

I unlock the door and crack it open. The hallway looks empty.

I tiptoe down the hall to the small guest bathroom. Slipping inside, I lock the door and turn the cold water tap on. I cup my hands under the faucet and splash the freezing water over my face and my neck. The chill bites into my flushed skin.

I grab a towel and dry off. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, dark circles shadow my eyes. I look exhausted and hollowed out.

I sneak back to the spare bedroom and lock myself inside.

My stomach gives a loud, demanding rumble. Walking over to the small nightstand, I grab a foil wrapper. I rip it open and take a bite of a dry, stale granola bar. The oats taste like cardboard.

I spent the last three days hiding in this stuffy room. I avoid the kitchen at all costs. I avoid the living room. I limit my bathroom trips to the middle of the night.

Rick terrifies me.

My creepy brother-in-law stalks the house like a vulture. Whenever I crack the bedroom door to grab a bottle of water, I catch him staring. He watches me with a sick, predatory fascination. He's waiting for the suppressants to fail. He thinks my new status makes me public property.

The suburbs offer zero safety. This house feels like a trap closing around my throat. I sit on the edge of the twin bed, chewing the dry granola and staring at the wall. The walls feel like they shrink an inch closer every single day. I need to get out of this house before my luck runs out.

The morning sun bleeds through the cheap plastic blinds. Dust motes dance in the harsh beams of light hitting the stained carpet.

Perched on the edge of the twin bed, I pull a fresh navy blue t-shirt over my head. I pair it with a faded pair of denim jeans. The clothes hang loose on my frame. Surviving on dry granola bars and tap water for three days takes a toll on my waistline.

My ears tune into the chaotic symphony playing out on the other side of the drywall.

Footsteps pound down the hallway.

"Put your shoes on!" Chloe's voice echoes through the thin wood of my bedroom door. "The bus comes in five minutes! Grab your backpacks!"

A kid shrieks in protest. Rose cries a high-pitched, relentless wail. A backpack zipper rips open, followed by the clatter of spilled plastic toys hitting the linoleum floor.

I pull my knees to my chest and wait.

"Rick!" Chloe's frantic tone cuts over the noise of the crying toddler. "I need to drop the baby at daycare before my shift starts! Lock the front door when you leave for the gym!"

A muffled grunt of acknowledgment comes from the kitchen.

The chaos moves toward the front entryway. The front door opens, letting in a brief rush of morning traffic sounds.