Chapter 7

Dallas POV:

The drop of blood bloomed on the white silk like a red rose opening in fast motion.

I touched my forehead, my fingers coming away slick and crimson. The pain was a sharp throb, but the silence in the room was louder.

Desmond was staring at the blood. His eyes had shifted color, the amber of his wolf bleeding into his irises. His chest heaved. The scent of my blood was triggering something primal in him, a protective instinct that fought against his logic. He dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as they hovered over me. "Dallas... what is this smell? It's... it's divine."

Antone, too, looked dazed. He licked his lips, swayed by the potency of the blood. "You're bleeding."

For a second, just a second, I thought they would help me. I thought the pack instinct-the duty to protect the injured-would override their greed.

"Desmond!" Chelsea shrieked, but he ignored her, his nose practically brushing my neck.

Realizing she was losing him to biology, Chelsea didn't just faint. She smashed a bottle of perfume from the display table onto the floor.

The glass shattered. A wave of synthetic, chemical rose scent assaulted the room, choking and overpowering the delicate aroma of my blood.

"My eyes!" Chelsea screamed, rubbing at her face, though the liquid hadn't touched her. "The glass! Desmond, help me!"

The spell broke. The chemical stench burned Desmond's sensitive nose, snapping him out of the trance.

Desmond stopped. He looked at me, bleeding on the floor, and then at Chelsea, who was wailing on the other side of the room.

The conflict on his face lasted less than a heartbeat.

"Chelsea!" Desmond turned his back on me. He rushed to her side, scooping her up in his arms. "Breathe, darling. I've got you."

"Get her out of here!" Chelsea sobbed into his shirt, pointing a shaking finger at me. "She ruined the dress! She's ruining everything! Her scent is making me sick!"

"Antone, get the car!" Desmond barked.

Antone looked at me one last time. He looked at the blood dripping onto the floor. Then, he looked at his brother carrying the ticket to the family's fortune.

"Right away," Antone said.

They left.

They actually left.

The bell chimed cheerfully as the door closed behind them, leaving me sitting in a pile of ruined tulle and my own blood.

The shop assistants stared at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. In the werewolf world, being abandoned by your Alpha while injured was the ultimate sign of worthlessness. It meant you were lower than a Rogue.

"Miss," one of the assistants said coldly. "You'll have to pay for that dress. And the cleaning of the carpet."

I didn't cry. The tears had dried up days ago.

I slowly stood up, using the mirror for support. My reflection was a stranger. Pale, bloody, wearing a gown meant for a celebration of love, now stained with the evidence of my rejection.

"I'll take it," I said, my voice hollow.

"Excuse me?"

"The dress," I said, wiping the blood from my cheek with the back of my hand. "I'll buy it. Pack it up. Don't bother cleaning it."

I pulled out the emergency credit card the pack had given me for 'travel expenses.' It was hush money, really.

I walked out of the store ten minutes later, a garment bag over my shoulder and a bandage on my forehead. I wasn't buying a wedding dress. I was buying a burial shroud for the girl I used to be.

Dallas Cole died on that floor.

I hailed a taxi. I wasn't going back to the estate. I was going to the harbor.