CHAPTER SEVEN

JORDAN

Immediately, I am on his shoulder, and I want to get the hell down. There is no way that he just placed me on his shoulder. Why will he do something like that? Alaric was not the kind to do something like that.

“Put me down!” I thrash, pounding at his back, but my limbs are weak, shaky, drained of strength. “Alaric—put me the hell down!”

He ignores me. His grip is iron, each step jolting me against him. Escape is useless. Even if I threw myself backward, he’s too strong.

Just as I twist, ready to try, something drops over my head.

Fabric.

My vision drowns in darkness. My pulse spikes.

He’s covering my face.

From who? From what?

Panic claws at me, but beneath it lurks something worse: the truth.

I’m completely at his mercy.

Alaric adjusts, lifting me into his arms bridal-style. My body trembles, my breath shallow, my throat raw. His hold is steady, his pace unhurried, like he dares anyone to challenge him.

Footsteps approach—too heavy to be his. He pauses.

“Who are you carrying?” Suspicion threads through the stranger’s voice.

Though I can’t see properly, I can see a little bit of his face and the expression he is making. The person he just bumped into is none other than one of the business partners we have just had a meeting with. 

And seeing him there makes me even more concerned. If he makes a mistake, he is going to tell the person who I am.

Alaric tilts his head, smirking faintly. “No idea who this is either.”

The words cut like a blade. For a moment, I think he’ll expose me, strip me bare with nothing but the truth. But he only clicks his tongue and moves on.

Then, he suddenly stops, and I try to peek to see who it is or what makes him stop, but I can’t see anything. 

“Get the car ready,” he orders, his voice low, commanding.

My stomach sinks. I know where this is headed, but it’s too late.

A car engine growls. The door opens. I’m shoved inside, his hand pressing firmly at my back. The space feels suffocating until his fingers tear away the fabric covering my face.

Air floods in. I gasp, sucking it down like I’ve been drowning.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” My voice shakes, but I force it out.

“Shut up,” he says smoothly, sliding into the driver’s seat. His tone is sharp, final. “If you don’t want to come, get out.”

My gaze flicks to the door. For a heartbeat, I actually consider it. My fingers twitch toward the handle—freedom, escape, anything but this.

Then his voice drops, low and deliberate.

“Step out, and everyone will know you’re an omega.”

The words hit like a slap. My chest tightens, fury bubbling hot, but my hand falls from the handle.

From the rearview mirror, I catch his smirk—slow, cruel, satisfied. He turns the key, and the car hums to life. The city lights blur past.

Now that he’s taking me, what the hell am I going to do?

Minutes pass. Still driving. Still nowhere. My body burns, restless, desperate. Every breath drags his scent deeper, making it worse. My thighs press together, nails dig into skin, anything to distract from the ache, the need. But it’s useless. 

My lips tremble, and before I can stop it, a whimper slips out—soft, desperate. I cover my mouth instantly, mortified. Too late. He heard.

The car slows, then stops. My heart leaps.

Before I can react, his arms hook under me again. Effortless. He lifts me, and my body betrays me—burying into his chest, dazed, desperate. His scent smothers me.

By the time my lashes flutter open again, I’m no longer in the car.

I’m in a bed.

The ceiling looms overhead—unfamiliar.

My brows twitch.

Where the hell am I?

The ceiling stares down at me, blank and cold. My chest rises too fast, too sharply, each breath uneven. For one horrible second, I think he stripped me. My hands fly to my shirt, to my pants—still there. Still on.

A rush of relief escapes me.

I sit up too fast. The room spins, but I force through it, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My muscles feel heavy, weak, but I can’t stay here—not on a bed that reeks of him, not in a place I don’t recognize.

My feet hit the floor. Cold. Solid. I stumble, catching myself on the nightstand, then push toward the nearest door. My slick fingers fumble at the handle, but it turns.

A bathroom. Thank God.

I stagger inside and twist the shower on full blast. The pipes groan before water crashes down, harsh and cold. I don’t even bother undressing. I step beneath it, clothes and all, letting it drench me, fabric plastering against skin.

The icy bite shocks me, burns away some of the fire—at least for a moment.

I grip the sink, leaning forward, head bowed as the water streams down. My chest heaves. Even with the cold, steam fogs the mirror. The fire still coils low in my stomach, clawing up my spine, but at least the water gives me something else to feel.

Where the hell is Alaric?

I glance toward the doorway—no footsteps, no movement. Nothing.

Did he leave me here?

The thought twists inside me, equal parts relief and unease. I should be furious. I should run. But instead, I close my eyes and let the water drown out everything else.

Before he comes back, I have to take care of this myself.

Stripping off my soaked clothes, I toss them aside, my hand moving to my belt. Fingers unbuckle clumsily until I free myself, cock springing out as though desperate for air.

If I can just get myself off, maybe the heat will ease. Maybe then I’ll think straight—find my way out of here.