Page 89 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

My hands shook as I ran them down the front of the dress, feeling for pockets, for my phone, for anything that might help me. Nothing. They'd stripped me of everything familiar, leaving me in clothes of their choosing, on a plane headed God knows where.

No, not ‘God knows where’.

Wyoming.I clearly remembered hearing someone say Wyoming before I’d blacked out.

Again, I found myself mentally repeating, ‘this can’t be legal’.

Again, I found myself berating myself for signing a contract without fully reading it.

Again, I found myself hating that I was an Omega—so easily controlled, so easily pushed toward matching, mating, pupping.

If only I could turn back time…

If only I could go back to the day of the injury and double check my laces, double check my surroundings, double check that I was ready to make the jump as we practiced the next show’s choreography.

I’d agreed to be sold, agreed to go where I was told.

I’d done this to myself. As much as I wanted to blame Vince and Eros and every person who’d been involved in the reality of me waking up on this plane, I had held the blue pen and inked my moniker.

So here I was, packaged like merchandise.

Like a doll on a shelf, complete with clothes that she couldn’t change into herself because her limbs didn’t work. And, even if they did, the doll had no brain to control her extremities. So, the doll needed helping hands to move her body to and fro, shoving legs and arms into their proper places. Then there appeared more hands to brush her hair. More hands to apply her makeup, never asking if she preferred a natural look versus glam. And yet again more hands arrived to carry her limp body onto a plane.

Where were the hands now?

The doll was alone.

Belted into a seat, waiting for take-off.

My hands formed tight fists in my lap, nails digging crescents into my palms. The anger felt good—better than the fear. Better than the violated feeling that made me want to tear this dress off and scrub my skin raw. Anger was familiar. Anger—weaponized into sheer stubbornness—had gotten me through my career imploding, through my grandpa dying, through mygrandmother’s mind fading, and through every handsy customer who thought a lap dance entitled them to more.

I unballed my fingers and looked down at the belt. I released the latch and tried to stand.

My legs wobbled.

My head swum.

The aftereffects of whatever Eros used to drug me still lingered in my system.

I fought my way through the fog. I had no idea if I could get off the plane, let alone run fast enough to find safety beyond the runway. It was probably a foolhardy plan—to deboard and pray my legs wouldn’t fail me, when they had already failed me once so greatly that I lost my life’s dream. It was likely a prisoner’s madness—that a captive could dig beneath their cell, push up through the ground beyond their cage, and disappear into the night without spotlights and guards catching sight.

But I had to try.

I barely made it two steps from the seat when a dark shadow fell across me.

A Beta.

One forehead vein bulged cartoonishly.

Tall, thick, muscled. Wearing the same suit as the oppressive men from Club Midnight. The jacket strained across his formidable build, like he'd been sewn into, and the seams might give at any moment. Where the hell was Eros getting these Betas who, if you didn’t look too closely or smell too deeply, could pass for Alphas?

"Sit. Back. Down." His voice was firm, punctuating each word with power, leaving no room for argument.

I remained standing. My heart hammered against my ribs.

It wasn’t defiance; I was frozen in fear, my momentary fury vanished. My eyes darted past him, calculating distances.Emergency exit by the wing. Ten feet, maybe. Open passenger door. There, waiting, taunting me.

"I need to use the bathroom," I lied, my voice shaking slightly.