Page 73 of Examining the Bond

Pain throbs through my skull as I groan and pry open my swollen eyes. My head spins, my body buzzing.

What the fuck happened?It’s the only thing I can think as I assess the damage around me.

The hotel room is a fucking wreck; everything is destroyed.

I’m curled up butt ass naked on the floor, clutching the empty champagne bottle. I vaguely remember the shock of returning to consciousness after I blacked out. The first thing I did was grab the bottle to make myself feel ten times worse.

Memories from before I slipped into the rut slam into me all at once. Skylar and I curled up together. Her fingers fucking me until I cried out and came. Her kissing me until she stole my breath.

Me begging for her bite.

Her denying me.

Me telling her to leave.

Fuck.

I screwed up big time.

And while this time wasn’tentirelymy fault—I couldn’t control the alpha urges beating through me—I’m still the one who hurt her. I said awful, spiteful things trying to force her to bend to my will, trying to get my way.

She left because of me.

My whole body aches as I struggle to my feet. Nausea hits me right in the gut as I lift myself up. I find my cell phone face down on the floor beneath the toppled table, clinging to its last bit of charge.

“Shit,” I mutter as the time flashes on the screen.

It’s already past eleven.

I only have a few hours left before I’m supposed to be at the airport, and I still have so much to do. I have to shower and pack. I have to call an Uber and check out of the hotel. Most importantly, I have to decide if I’m going to buck up the courage to go find Skylar at the Buchanan Center before I leave.

I don’t even know if it’s worth it—what could I possibly say to make up for the way I reacted?

However, the thought of boarding my plane and leaving Boston without saying goodbye stirs the empty pit inside me, and I swallow down the bile burning up the back of my throat.

That could also be the alcohol talking…

I groan as I force myself across the room, carefully avoiding bits of broken glass.

If I can see Skylar one more time and at least try to apologize, maybe we can end things on a better note. Even if she rips into me for being a fucking bitch, at least I can say I tried.

Or maybe I’m just being selfish by trying to force myself on her.

As I stumble toward the bathroom, her face flashes through my hazy mind. That dead look in her eyes, the overwhelming disappointment that followed.

I fucking ruined everything…

The bouquet of flowers lies on the floor next to the shattered table, wilted from not being placed in water. I bend down to scoop them up and sniff them, admiring their delicate petals. They aren’t as beautiful or bright as they were last night, and they embody how I feel more than I want to admit.

Showering is my top priority. My bottle of body wash is too big to bring on the plane, so I want to drench myself in it one last time before takeoff. It hardly compares to the real thing, a cheap store imitation of Skylar's delicious scent, but I want to wear it anyway.

I flinch at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It takes a few seconds for my hungover brain to realize that the homeless-looking goblin in the mirror is me.

My eyes are puffy and red from crying all night, my skin blotchy. My hair sticks out at odd angles, a total mess from fucking Skylar last night. I almost abandon the idea of going to see her at the clinic—I don’t want her to see me this way—but I cling to the hope that a shower will do the trick.

I bathe, starting with the water scalding hot like I normally would, but I quickly turn down the temperature. The cooler water helps cut through my grogginess, and by the time I step out, washed head to toe and smelling like crisp winter pine, I feel a little better.

Physically anyway.