The door clicks shut behind me with a softness that feels more dangerous than a slam, even the house knows it's treading on thin ice.
Corrian stands across from me in a room with shadows to hide in, no growling testosterone or lollipops being suggestively tongued. Just polished hardwood, a leather armchair in the corner, and the weight of everything I don't understand pressing down on my ribcage like a second skeleton.
He's not looking at me, he's doing that thing again, studying, assessing, jaw tight like he's chewing on something he doesn't want to swallow. And I get it. I do. Because what the hell even was that?
He drags a hand through his hair and finally says, "I'm sorry."
Honestly, that's what I was gonna say, so I'm surprised to hear it come from him. This was all my fault right, like how can this have happened. I cross my arms purely because I need something to hold. And unfortunately, my sanity packed up and left somewhere between River's tongue and Jax's semi comment.
"For what, exactly?" I ask, and I hate that my voice comes out smaller than I meant it to.
He lifts his eyes to mine, and there's a crack in him now, something behind that perfect composure that looks a lot like regret.
"For the lack of control," he says. "You didn't deserve that. They should've known better."
My mouth opens. Closes. Words scramble for order, but none of them stick. Because what do you say when you just got snarled at and sniffed and nearly fucked against a tree by men you just met, and your body betrayed you by loving it?
"I," I shake my head. "I know I signed the contract. I'm not backing out, I just…I need time. I'm going home."
There, said it. Out loud. Ripped off a Band-Aid soaked in sex pheromones.
He doesn't argue. Doesn't do the controlling Alpha-hole thing I fully expected. Instead, he nods slowly, eyes flicking to the floor like he's disappointed, but not in me. Just in everything.
"Can I give you a ride?"
The way he says it, a genuine, soft-spoken offer from a man who looks like he could bench press my apartment building but still opens doors for old ladies.
The answer Frankie, is no, you need space to think away from testosterone drenched hot men.
But I nod. Walking away from this place on shaking legs and shattered thoughts? That feels like surrender.
And Frankie Bell? She doesn't surrender.
The ride over was uneventful, we took one of the blacked out SUVs, didn't says a single word to each other and I got him to drop me a block over so he didn't know where I actually lived, safety first and all that. I did let him put his number in my phone before I got out though.
The second I shut my apartment door behind me, the air feels too thick to breathe. I don't bother turning on the lights, just stand there in the dark, the silence pressing in on me like a weighted blanket soaked in regret. My mind's a broken projector reel, flashing images I can't unsee. Sweat. Teeth. Growls. Hands on my waist, breath on my neck, heat licking up my thighs like a goddamn wildfire. My cheeks flush, stomach knots. I flop down on my couch and stare at the ceiling praying it has any answers. It doesn't offer a thing. Just that weird stain above the light fixture that looks vaguely like a howling wolf. Comforting.
I should be scared right? Or curled up in the fetal position reevaluating all my life choices. But instead, I feel…ashamed. Not because of what happened, because of how badly I liked it. I'm a sexual woman and damn proud of it, you will never find any slut shaming here, I say go and get that D girl. But it was how fast I let go of every ounce of self-preservation the second a man with murder in his eyes and a six-pack said "you're late."
I'm not some wilting idiot in a horror movie who wanders into the murder cabin because she heard a noise. I've survived shit. Real shit. I'm street-smart. Cynical. Impossible to impress. Or at least I was, until four men walked into a room and looked at me like they wanted to eat me alive. And I offered them a goddamn lollipop.
I stand and pace. Curse myself out under my breath. I need to reset. Get some air. Maybe a drink. Maybe seven. I yank on a hoodie, flip the hood up like it's gonna protect me from bad decisions, and head out into the city night.
The streets are loud and grimy, and it helps. A little. I walk past the gas station where I once saw a guy throw a burrito at a cop, past the pharmacy with the flickering neon cross that always makes me feel like I'm in a low-budget horror film. And then I see it, Mack's.
A dive bar with a broken jukebox, sticky floors, and the exact level of no-questions-asked I need tonight.
I slip inside, and the wave of old beer, sweat, and regret hits me in the face like a warm welcome. Mack looks up from behind the bar and flashes a grin like I haven't ghosted this place for months.
"Well look who finally crawled out of hell," he says, already grabbing a glass.
"Still smelling like sulfur," I mutter, sliding onto a stool and planting my elbows on the bar. "Gimme the usual."
He pours the whiskey without blinking. "You look like someone ran you through a meat grinder. Twice."
"Got fired. Again," I say, taking a sip and wincing. "Then got offered a new job by four weirdly hot men in the woods. Not sure if I hallucinated it or accidentally joined a cult."
Mack snorts. "Was it one of those retreat places? With ayahuasca and goat yoga?"
"Something like that. Less goat. More growling."
I'm halfway through my drink when the stool beside me screeches against the floor, dragged way too close for comfort. My fight-or-flight instinct prickles up the back of my neck before I even look.
And then I smell him.