Page 151 of Traded

The urge to shake my head, to throw her off, tolie, wraps around my throat in a vice.

So I don’t say anything at all.

“The dinner,” she says, almost to herself. “Liam’s asshole dad uses a bark on his omega. In public. Probably more at home.”

I draw in a quiet breath, watching her. And I saynothing.

“A pack should be a safe space,” Lauren says eventually. “I don’t think this pack is safe for you anymore.”

It feels as though we’re on a precipice, my sister wife and me. And I can’t tell her everything, but I can tell her something. And something else tells me that it won’t go any further than this room.

In a few days all of this will be over. My hand reaches for hers. “I need him not to find out about this, Lauren.”

“But he needs to know—”

“We’re leaving.” The quiet confession eases my soul, as if voicing it makes it more real. “Carter and me. He’s dissolving the pack structure, filing for separation with the NOC. The last game of the regular season is on Saturday. And then we are… done.”

Two days, and that’s it.

I swallow. “He doesn’t know everything. But enough.”

Enough to get me out.

Her deep sigh sounds very much like… relief. And something else that I can’t put my finger on. Her gaze shifts from my face. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that.”

“At least you can have your scent matches all to yourself, right?” I try to smile. “It should make things easier.”

I might despise them with every inch of my blanket-loving soul, but they don’t treat her like they treat me.

She’ll… be fine. Right?

A heavy stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach.

But she doesn’t smile back. My eyes fly wide in growing horror as a sob shakes in her chest. “Lauren?”

She shakes her head, almost frantic, and pushes herself upright. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Realization smacks me in the face like a wet fish.

You’re an idiot, Rosie.

“Oh my god,” I breathe in shock. “You don’t want them.”

She doesn’t look at me. “But they’re yourscent matches.”

“I know.” Lauren tucks her hair back, trying to tidy it. But her hands are shaking. “That’s how it goes. Meet your scent matches. Have the happy ever after, right? Nobody ever tells you what to do if your scent matches are assholes.”

She glances at me. “More than I know, I suspect.”

This isn’t just about me. Not anymore.

“Every omega wants this.” Her voice cracks. Crawling upright, I bat her hands out of the way, seize the hair tie she’s attempting to use to plait her dark hair back and take over, braiding the tangled strands into place. “I mean, they’re hockey players. NPHL. Good looking. That’s thedream.”

Except it sounds more like a nightmare.

She runs her hand over the fishtail braid when I’m done. “I have two choices. It’s them or a facility, Rosie. If I reject the match, my body’s going to start giving up on me in a year. Two or three if I’m lucky. I’mtwenty-seven. What would you do?”

I’m getting out. But she can’t leave.