High Alpha
With a roar, I flipped the table over, frustration erupting like a geyser.
Beakers fell over, fluids spilling on the ground and onto the fallen tome—its leather-bound pages corroding and hissing.
Running an agitated, shaking hand through my hair, I tried to calm myself and reach her again without the tome's particularly useless instructions.
I envision silver hair, her skin, her mouth—nothing. I had begun to forget the color of her eyes. I bit into my tongue to stop from screaming.
Nothing was working; the connection had been severed completely and utterly for almost a month now.
It was no longer just a spotty connection that returned briefly after a few hours; there was nothing but a void greeting me anytime I tried to reach out to her.
She is fucking mine.
The words rang hollow in my head.
"She has done it, hasn't she?" I snarled at the book still dissolving on my pristine floor. "She let him mark her." And it rendered my brand on her skin useless.
