Page 48 of Thorns That Bloom (Venusverse #3)

“You’re not supposed to be here!” I say loudly this time, anger coming alive somewhere deep within, and I’m more than happy to let it overshadow everything else I’m feeling. Anything but this powerlessness and fear. Anything but misery and pain.

“Come on, Sam… Why can’t we talk about this like adults? If you’d just calm down, we could avoid all these hysterics.” The tone he uses enrages me even more. Like I’m some unreasonable, dramatic lunatic who doesn’t know better.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” My voice keeps trembling, but it doesn’t break. “Why would you think that after yesterday, you could… Fuck! You need to leave!”

Brandon lets out some sort of snicker behind the door.

“What do you…what do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? I am! I am sorry that my instincts, which I can’t control, were stronger than my will. Is that what you want to hear? You have no idea how powerful pheromones can be, especially for alphas.”

Bullshit! Fucking bullshit! I ball my fists, barely resisting the urge to punch the door. Disgusting, lying, abominable bastard.

Excuses. All of it. The same fucking excuses they all used. I was conscious enough. I was aware of my body and of theirs as they held me and prevented me from leaving.

Neighbors. The idea of shouting, of screaming for help, flashes through my mind, but it disappears as quickly as it came.

There are only three apartments on the floor, and I’ve run into someone only once since living here.

Nobody is coming to help me, whether it’s because they don’t care or aren’t home.

Nobody is coming to save me. Like no one did back then.

Brandon leans against the door. His disgusting stench grows stronger, so much so that I face away and cover my nose.

“Listen to me. That’s all in the past. It doesn’t matter now.

It was a mess. All of it. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did, yeah, but…

” He pauses, sighing. “Goddammit. Everyone’s been telling me I’m crazy for doing this, but I know, Sam. I feel it in my fucking bones.”

“You’re insane…”

“You can’t deny it. You can’t! You know it, too. I was the first to finish inside you. The first to fill you up. That child is mine, Sam. I’m sure of it.”

My entire body seizes with white-hot anger, burning me from within.

His words sear into my mind and make my head spin. ‘I was the first one to finish inside you.’ I can barely stand the storm it creates until suddenly, as if my brain decides it has to even out the chemistry before it explodes, a bitter chuckle shoots out of me.

Because it’s kind of hilarious, isn’t it?

What did their expert call it in court? Rapid Onset Pheromone-Induced Delirium?

All of that talk about how it wasn’t their fault.

All of their long, regretful faces when they described the intense, horrifying way my heat somehow made them completely lose their minds… It was all fucking bullshit.

He knew. They all knew. They were there, doing exactly what they wanted and desired, conscious enough to pass me on and to remember who finished when.

“I want to be in his life, Sam. I have the right, don’t you think?”

It’s not a him. It’s a girl. My baby girl!

“Get the fuck out! Now!”

“Sam. Saaaam,” he says in that condescending tone again. “It wasn’t my fault. It was our pheromones. Our pheromones fit so well together that they…they were just too strong, and there was nothing I could do. Don’t you think that means something?”

The mere suggestion—the disgusting, manipulative, calculating implication that he wants me to believe whatever happened might have been anything even close to the pull of fated mates Theo believes we have—nearly makes me snap.

Or maybe I do snap.

It is like a switch flips inside my head, and then an image appears. Image of the object at the back of my closet that calls out to me.

At any other time, I might have been reasonable. At any other time, I might not stoop to something like this, but there’s so much helpless anger within me that I have to act. And that thing is the only way.

I rush to the bedroom, dropping on my knees with a faint huff to push aside other boxes until I find the little metal one at the very bottom corner. I pull it toward me, resting it between my knees, and take a deep breath.

All rationality gets thrown out of the window. Because why should I be rational right now? Why should I listen to the insanity he’s spouting when I have this?

I open the box with a click and look at the small revolver.

I bought it when I was, admittedly, not in the best state of mind.

It was right after it happened, when I was scared and full of paranoia.

I haven’t gotten it the most legal way, either, because who would sell a gun to a freshly traumatized victim of a brutal crime?

Either way, I had to have it. It felt like every alpha I saw was an enemy.

A ravenous monster itching to get me. I don’t even know why I brought with me here.

Well…it is coming in handy after all.

I grab it and get up, heading right for the door. Brandon’s still mumbling something behind it, banging and knocking and demanding my attention.

I’ll gladly give it to him.

With my finger on the safety and arm stretched out, I unlock the door and open it. Brandon nearly falls in. I’m faced with that cocky excitement in his eyes for a split second before he notices the gun and quickly jerks back.

“Whoa! What the fuck, Sam?” he blurts, putting his hands up. “You…really shouldn’t have this.”

“Why?” I bark at him. “So I can’t defend myself? To make it easy for you? Huh?” Seeing him still makes me feel like someone is scraping out my insides with a dull ice cream scooper. But I have power now. He knows that, I know that, and that feels fucking great.

“Are you seriously going to shoot me? You’re not a murderer.” With a faint smirk, he glances down at my stomach, and even that makes me feel violated and disgusted.

“I don’t know. Am I?”

Brandon frowns. “I get that you’re hurt…”

“No. No, you don’t fucking get it, you disgusting prick!”

“Okay, okay…” He carefully puts his hand between us.

“I know you’re going through a lot of emotions right now.

That’s normal.” Condescending again. God, I want to shoot him so bad.

“But really think about this. I could give you stability. A good life. You would never have to worry about money ever again, and neither would our baby.” He points to my stomach.

“What alpha will want to take care of someone else’s kid? ”

I pull the hammer of the revolver with a loud click. Brandon freezes.

“The child…is not…yours,” I say slowly, pushing each word through my clenched teeth while glaring at him. My hand might be trembling, but I’m aiming for his head, and if the push came to shove, I won’t miss.

His bulging eyes dart to the gun and back at me.

“Sam…”

“Get out.”

“I know he’s mine! Why else would I be unable to get that thought out of my mind?! Why would I have spent nearly every night these past few months unable to sleep, thinking of nothing but you and this?”

I let out a sharp laugh. He sounds like a lunatic.

“You know what that is? It’s no magical connection, just some underdeveloped, deformed echo of your fucking conscience! That’s all that is!” I spit out harshly.

Oh, I hope he does actually feel regret, even if it’s in his fucked-up, delusional way. I hope the shit he did to me keeps him up at night for the rest of his pathetic life.

When my finger moves to rest on the trigger, Brandon jolts back.

Clearly, his life is much more valuable to him than all this faux conviction.

“If you don’t turn around and leave right now, I’m going to call the police.

And if you ever come here again, I’m going to fucking shoot you.

I swear it on the life of my child, whom you’ll never see or touch or be in the presence of! ”

“You’re fucking deranged!” Brandon shouts, voice trembling, but he starts retreating into the hallway. “You can’t do this,” he grumbles to himself as he leaves.

Once I’m sure he’s definitely gone, I shut the door and quickly put the safety back on.

After putting the gun on the side table next to me, I run to the living room window, where I’m able to see the parking lot.

Brandon dashes to his expensive, shiny car, and promptly drives away, nearly running into a bush in the process.

The moment his car disappears behind the buildings in the distance, everything inside me goes into free fall.

With a painful heave that nearly pushes all the air out of me, I slide down against the wall under the window and pull my knees toward my chest as tight as I can with my belly.

With my trembling hands over my stomach, I let the tears out.

The anger has served me well, but now it’s well and truly gone, and all that’s left is the agonizing helplessness once again.

I could’ve shot him. And I wanted to shoot him.

This can’t go on. It needs to stop before he wounds me more than he already has.

No more. Not again.

?

Getting an appointment the following day, a Sunday at that, wasn’t what I expected.

I fidget nervously with the box on my lap. There are some volunteers running around and a couple of omegas waiting, like me.

I glance at them only briefly, wondering what horrible violation they’ve experienced.

Last night, when I was in bed, trying to feel safe in my own home, with the gun ominously ready on the side table, I did some research online.

Spyrax is quite the organization, turns out.

Set up only four years ago, it’s been a part of many big cases of alpha-on-omega violence. A few high-profile celebrity ones, too.

On their website, I studied the members section. Three highly skilled, driven omega lawyers and one beta make up their main team.