Page 87 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

"Can I at least call my landlord?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Let them know I won't be?—"

"All personal matters will be handled by our transitions team in accordance with the client’s preferences," he interrupted, dismissively flapping his hand at me. “You’ve no need to worry over the details. Your only job is to be exactly what nature made you—an Omega.”

“I don’t want to go somewhere else. I don’t want to be just an Omega for some stupid Alpha or a pack. I just want to be me!” I stumbled backwards. Hands reached out, steadying my body but also keeping me caged. “Let me go!” I squealed, hating the touch because I knew it must be one of the large Beta men.

No one could just touch me whenever they wanted to.

No one could drag me off to some unknown location.

No one could force me to mate.

I kicked back as hard as I could, my leg colliding with probably the only soft part on the man’s body. When he grunted in pain, one hand releasing me to cover his manhood, I cocked back my arm and slammed an elbow into his gut. He let go of me completely and I triumph flooded my body.

“Restrain her!” Grouse shouted, voice squeaking.

The Beta with greasy hair came into view and lunged for me, but I was already moving, my body responding with the trained reflexes of a dancer. As his hand reached for my wrist, I balled my hand into a fist, pulled back my arm, and punched with every ounce of strength I possessed. I found myself grateful for my time on the pole, grateful for the different muscles I’d honed while stripping. I wasn’t just a small and delicate ballerina now.

My knuckles connected with his mouth, though I’d been aiming higher. Still though, I was satisfied to see the split forming down the delicate lower lip tissue. Crimson blood began to well up along the fracture. He reeled back, eyes wide with shock.

“Stupid bitch,” he seethed.

“Fucking asshole,” I shot back.

He gently touched two fingers to the wound, and he winced. Good. I hope it stung like a mother fucker. He deserved it. They all did. If they’d just left me alone, I’d still be a pretend Beta dancing in a club minding my own damn business.

For one breathless moment, everyone in the room froze, staring at me with expressions ranging from horror to grudging respect. Here I was, an Omega who was meant to be nurturing and kind, ready to fight my heart out.

Then the world exploded, and so much happened at once. The Beta I’d struck came at me yet again, blood dripping ontothe collar of the white button-up under the suit jacket. Grouse pressed a button that set off a silent alarm, lights flashing in the corridor beyond and pulsing through the office’s open door. The Beta I’d hurt first got his second wind, wrapping his thick arms around my much smaller frame.

I couldn’t move. My hand throbbed where it had connected with the Beta’s face, knuckles already swelling. I tried to kick backwards again, but this time the Beta lifted me off the floor and dangled me in the air. This was it, my last stand. I wasn’t going quietly. I’d rather die right here than submit myself to Eros and scent mates I didn’t ask for. I flailed wildly, trying to damage anything I could hit.

Suddenly, something sharp stung the side of my neck. I turned, disoriented, to find a woman in a lab coat beside me holding an empty syringe. The needle point glinted menacingly, though it had already carried out its threat. The woman’s expression was cold, clinical. By the time I finished reading ‘Alpha Swann, MD’ on her nametag, the words were going fuzzy.

"Defiant ones always make the process more difficult than it needs to be," she said, her voice already sounding distant and echoing.

The room darkened around the edges. My limbs became heavy, unresponsive. The Beta loosened his grip; he didn’t need to restrain a lifeless doll. The duffel bag slipped from my nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a muffled thud.

“Implement defiant product protocol," Grouse’s voice filtered through the growing fog in my brain. "Alert the Wyoming transport team and keep her sedated until she’s in transit."

‘Wyoming’ registered dimly as my knees buckled. Someone caught me before I hit the floor. I blinked up, barely able to make out features.It’s Mister Eyebrow Scar, not Mister Busted Lip. Eyebrow Scar. That could be his nickname.

What a ridiculous thing to think as my faculties faded into nothingness.

"Feisty," someone said, the word floating to me as if through water. "The Alphas at Sagebrush will enjoy trying to break this one."

Break this oneechoed in my mind as darkness slowly claimed me.

Before I succumbed to the nothingness, a final, defiant thought pulsed through my brain.

They could fucking try.

22

NELLY

Present day...

Heading to Wyoming