Page 89 of Knot a Bad Idea

“I’m not her,” she says carefully, still looking at the floor.

I frown. “What?”

“The other night, you talked about how you couldn’t save me. There’s no one here to save, Donovan.” She looks back up at me, her eyes shining. “I know you couldn’t save your mother. But…I’m not her.”

There’s a roaring in my ears and a pounding in my chest I’ve never experienced before.

There’s not enough oxygen in this room, suddenly.

This must be how Liam feels constantly.

“Don’t.”

It’s a simple word, one syllable, and I barely grit it out.

But April doesn’t listen.

“I don’t know what I would do if I were in your shoes,” she says softly, with a gentleness I don’t deserve. “Hunter and Liam told me about what you went through. I can’t imagine it, Donovan. And I’m so sorry.”

Something flashes in those caramel eyes that I can’t stand.

It’spity.

“April—”

“You don’t have to save me, Donovan. And you didn’t even have to save her.”

Her eyes are glossy with sincerity, and is…is shecrying?

No.

I won’t have this conversation, ever.

I don’t want her sympathy, her apologies, or her tears for something I couldn’t do.

The misplaced grief in her eyes is too much to bear, and whatever is left of my heart fractures.

I can’t do this, not with her looking at me likethat.

With putrid, disgusting,vilepity.

I’m a lit match that’s about to blow up the room. My inner Alpha roars in agony, ready to burn the packhouse down and take all four of us down with it.

She says something else, but the roaring in my ears is too loud to hear through.

I turn and leave the room, shutting the door behind me.

“Donovan!”

But the conversation won’t be done for her, and I know she’ll push until I break. Then she’ll see the monster inside me that everyone hates.

Pulling the keyring out of my pocket, I lock the door to her bedroom and head down the hallway. She won’t be able to unlock it from the other side—I just need a few minutes to cool down, then I’ll let her out.

I just can’t have her following me. I fuckingcan’t.

The roaring lingers in my head as I make my way to the bar, pour myself a glass of whiskey, and down it. My bandaged hand still burns from the cut as I grasp the glass.

Good. I use the pain to ground myself.