Page 50 of Your Wild Omega (The Feral Actress #2)

Plus the indistinct murmur under my scalp of one alpha who isn’t mine.

I wonder if that will always be with me.

At moments like this, it’s hard to decide if I love this last thread that ties Callisto and me together, or loathe the constant reminder of what should have been.

Regret and longing walk a fine, often tangled line.

If forced to choose, I’d say I’m relieved Zack decided for me.

He could sense that while my omega nature desires Callisto, I don’t want a relationship based on obligations. I’m too much of a free spirit for that.

After another five minutes of circling on horseback, the ground doesn’t feel so far away, and I can ride without the groom leading my horse. I can steer my own direction now, on a horse and in life.

Once the chief animal officer’s satisfied, we get right back into filming, working fast to make up for lost time.

I don’t have energy to think about my alphas or my bruises, as I recite line after line.

At five p.m. Director Yun calls a close to shooting.

He claims the lighting is too low, but I think it’s because of me.

I don’t want him to regret choosing me as his lead actress, but it’s a relief because I’m struggling to walk properly on my bruised leg.

A hot bath is looking real attractive right around now.

I thank the assistant who kept an eye on me all day and say goodbye to Callie, who orders me to pass her love along to my Rick-en . Bless her.

I arrive at the gateway before I remember I don’t have a ride home, but it’s too late.

Paparazzi gather around the racing track’s big metal gates, along with curious pedestrians who try to catch glimpses of the celebrity cast. Bradley Jacks is a household name, and so is Sebastien Cho, for that matter.

And me? Well, I’m the shocking actress who stripped at the Spring Film Festival and leads her alpha around on a leash. Everyone wants to know more about me.

“Ready to leave, Ms Jones?” the security guard asks, hand hovering over the gate button on his remote control.

I hesitate, and as I do, a gust of wind brings me a noseful of a dark, oversweet scent. Licorice.

A shudder runs through me. Mentally I know one of the crew has a similar scent, but my body locks down, turning icy. Fuck. One whiff and it’s like I’m strapped down on the bed with that bastard towering over me.

I stagger backward.

Hands close around my upper arms. “Red?”

I squeal and thrash out of the person’s grip, spinning, but it’s only Brad.

He looks concerned. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I press a hand to my chest and pivot to face the crowd, searching each face. A tall alpha like Ray would stand out clearly, wouldn’t he? But so many cameras and phones wave over the crowd that I can’t be sure.

Brad cradles my elbow in his hand. “You look really pale, Red. Let me take you home.”

Never in a million years would I accept an offer from Brad . . . if it weren’t for that licorice scent burning in my nostrils. No way can I walk myself out into that crowd now. I nod mutely.

Brad rests a hand behind my back and guides me toward the parking lot. I feel like laughing as he stops by a red Lamborghini and opens the door for me. It’s such a classic Brad car, screaming money and power. But the internal humor at least thaws some of the choking terror clinging to my throat.

“Does she have a name?” I ask as I climb in, grasping for a safe topic.

“Who?”

“The car?”

“Oh.” He laughs. “No. Guys giving their cars a feminine name is a cliché, right?”

I shrug. “Guess it is, but I wouldn’t know from experience.” I never thought to ask Callisto if he named his car, but at least he drives a more sensible black sedan. Could be just as expensive, though, now that I think about the leather interior and driver assist functions.

“Did something happen back there?” Brad asks, resting his hand on my headrest as he looks over his shoulder to reverse. Totally unnecessary since he has a reversing camera in the dash.

“Um, just a bad memory, I guess.” I click in my seat belt and rest my elbow on the windowsill, wanting to forget about what just happened.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, still probing. “I can be a good listener.”

I seriously doubt that, but no wonder he’s fooled half the world into thinking he’s charming with this sugary demeanor. “No thanks,” I mutter into my palm. I can sense him looking at me, but I ignore him.

“No worries. We all have things we’d rather not talk about.” He turns the car stereo on but swivels the volume down low. “It’s just that I’m curious about you. No one knows where you came from or what you’re going to do next.”

“To be fair, I don’t even know what I’m going to do next.”

He laughs, the pleasant sound rolling easily through the car as we drive slowly through the gate.

I grin despite my desire not to talk to him.

The crowd parts reluctantly around the car, reporters holding up cameras as we pass.

I hope the tinting is dark enough to stop them getting pictures, but I realize too late that all these press people saw us walking toward the parking lot together.

But they can’t see around the brick walls to know I got in Brad’s car, can they? That could spark all kinds of rumors.

I shudder and fold my hands over my lap.

As the car slips through the crowds and I scan their faces, a strange chill settles over me.

Even if Ray was out there, would I recognize him?

A couple of taller people stand out in the crowd, their heads turning as we pass.

One with sunglasses, another with a broad-brimmed hat.

One black-skinned, another with shoulder-length blond hair. Alphas? Hard to say from this distance.

I wouldn’t know if Ray’s among them.

Because the truth is, I can’t recall his face. Not because I never saw it, but because my brain has blanked it out like some kind of protective censoring. Some things are just too painful.