Page 116 of Puck My Life

I open it up and see two words.

“Why not?”

Okay, I can hold out for a little bit longer.

PRESENT

Being out, packing up the hotel room, and cancelling the apartment I was going to rent out has taken a long time today. We’d been messaging each other almost constantly until a couple of hours ago, but they probably are busy. It doesn’t matter; I’m almost home, and I can see them.

I can’t wait to show them the new ideas I have for the bakery, and I’ve a new recipe they might like. It’s healthy, too.

My happiness has been infectious, and I’ve been spreading it everywhere I’ve been today.

But I can’t wait to get home.

Home to them.

I sing along to the music, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel as I turn into the neighbourhood. The streets are full of cars, and it’s dark. I should have come home hours ago, but I didn’t want to go back to the hotel room. It took me a while to pack up, and then Mrs Crampton, the housekeeper, offered me tea and biscuits, and she’s so lovely, I couldn’t say no.

I laugh as I imagine Raynor telling me off for being so nice.

I think about their knots and the last couple of days, and my cheeks turn molten, I squirm on the seat. My alphas.

“I have alphas,” I say out loud. I want them again.

The first thing I notice are all the cars. My stomach drops, but there’s no way. A tiny voice in my head whispers that it was too good to be true. The denial screams through my mind because they wouldn’t, they wouldn’t treat me like the other girls. They said I was different, that we were forever.

No, I’m wrong. Of course, I’m wrong.

“Calm down. Just go and see them first; it’s probably not what you think.”

I park my car halfway up the street and walk. The music is thudding across the entire neighbourhood, the deep bass making the very air bounce.

That horrible feeling gets stronger and stronger. I almost don’t want to walk a single step further. My throat aches, and I’m shaking like a leaf, but I keep moving forward.

A sob catches in my throat, but I hang onto that hope. I cling to it, desperate to be wrong, because if this is our home and a party, then I’ve made a serious mistake.

I stumble in my effort to hurry, twisting my ankle so that every time I put my weight on it, pain lances up the bone.

I gasp and brush the tears aside, covering my face with my hands. I’m not crying because of my ankle. I’m admitting the truth. Accepting the truth. I know where that music’s coming from, and I just don’t want to face it in person, I don't want to see what they’ve done.

In the dark, I limp down the street and stop where I can see the house. Shock roots me to the spot, and as it fades, pain tears me asunder. There are people everywhere, coming and going. The party fairy lights are wrapped around the porch. The music is indeed coming from the house, as are the screams, laughter, and general mayhem. I don’t know how many people are in there, but I’m guessing a lot.

In my nest.

My heart clenches painfully, and I turn and vomit into the gutter. The horror and absolute violation of strangers being in my nest cripples me. I claw at my chest, aching in a way that I can’t describe. There are no words for this soul wound.

“No, don’t do this to me. Don’t do this!” I sob brokenly.

I peel open my eyes, blink the tears away, and watch the house. There has to be some reason, there has to be something. They wouldn’t do this to me. They wouldn’t.

Still, all the long years of friendship will not let me leave. The last few days won’t let me leave.

“They promised things would be different. Trust, I have trust. Please, please be a reason, please be something. Don’t do this. Please.”

I grip my hair and pull, torn between self-preservation and needing to know one way or another what has happened.

More people go in and out, but I don’t see them. Maybe they aren’t here? Maybe this is a mistake?