Villainess Marked For Her Alpha-Chapter 68: How Did I Miss This?

I shoved the Pokémon plushies into a trash bag with frantic shoves—Pikachu tumbling, Eevee squished, Snivy last, her diva smirk now tainted poison. My favourite, ruined—by me.

Fucking ruined by that cursed dream—Hellen’s phantom touch turning innocent fluff to erotic shrapnel. Bag knotted tight, hauled to the storeroom, door slammed shut like banishing ghosts. I ruined them—how could I?

I ripped off the Pikachu onesie like it burned—as it was completely wet by my... just guess it—yellow plush slithering down my skin with a final, accusing whisper as it balled into the laundry hamper, leaving me shivering bare.

Phantom heat from the dream prickled every inch—nipples peaking hard and traitorous against the sudden air, core clenching empty ache. Why did I dream that?! Hellen is my best friend, and I dreamt such a degrading dream about her! Not just that, why was I thinking myself as an omega?

No, I wasn’t thinking—I was believing. In my dream, I was an omega, even if I am an alpha.

And why Hellen had such a big... dick? I am sure that alphas don’t have dicks in this world—I mean, female ones. Most novels have given female alphas—blessed them with dicks, but there are some novels where female alphas lack them, right? Maybe this world works on the same principle. Also, I don’t like women... right? No, I am sure. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Black cotton shirt dove on next, light and loose draping my curves like a casual shield, sleeves shoved hasty to elbows for freedom; gray cotton shorts slid snug up my thighs.

Barefoot toes curled cold on the hardwood floor, sending grounding chill up my legs as I raked shaky fingers through sleep-mussed raven hair—stray curls springing defiant wild no matter the frantic comb-through.

Phone snatched desperate from the nightstand charger, cord whipping as my thumb stabbed Olle’s contact vicious—kitchen march began deliberate, bare feet slapping tile in rising tempo, morning sun slashing harsh gold across counters littered with the ’real’ breakfast crime scene—cold omelette congealed yellow, fries limp-soggy, coffee mugs ringed brown.

Fridge handle bit icy under white-knuckled grip mid-pace, anchoring the spiral.

"Olle? Take them back—all the Pokémon shit," I blurted mid-stride, voice splintering raw-edged panic, free hand clawing fridge door like lifeline while Pikachu’s floppy-eared grin seared memory-nightmare, yellow poison now.

"Emily? Slow—what’re you—"

"Plushies, hoodies, the avalanche horde—everything. Can’t even glance at them anymore; one peek and it acting as straight poison in my veins. Please, just take them."

"What the hell happened?"

"Nothing—just take them, please," I begged, voice fraying thin as I paced tighter circles around the kitchen island, gray shorts riding up my thighs with each desperate pivot, bare feet slapping cold tile like a metronome of panic.

"Why, Emily?"

"I’ll stuff every last plushie and hoodie into bags, drive straight to your studio today. Done. Please, Olle."

The heavy pause stretched endless, my phone slick with sweat in my tight grip, pulse thundering loud in my ears.

"Emily... it’s time that I tell you the truth," Olle said finally, her director’s voice dropping that no-nonsense weight, like she was framing a shot and I’d just stepped out of focus.

My knuckles bleached bone-white, crushing the phone case near-crack, breath snagging barbed in my throat as dread pooled ice in my gut. "Hold up—they’re not yours? Whose crap-stash is this haul?" For some reason, my brain told me that.

"Yes, they belong to Hellen." Olle’s words landed like a gut-punch ice cube, casual as confetti at a party I hadn’t been invited to.

Hellen? My brain blue-screened hard—vivid dream-flash slamming me—her low rumble vibrating through my core, strong hands peeling panda undies slow, eyes devouring—but no, real. But she was the one who planned this.

"She masterminded the whole drop," Olle rolled on smooth, wry-affectionate like spilling hot tea over brunch mimosas, background clink of her coffee mug faint. "Last year, that Pokémon collab shoot overflowed—crates stacked warehouse-high with plushies, hoodies, keychains, the works. Neither of us knew what to do with the mountain."

"Why did she give me these then? Through you?"

"Because you geeked hard on Pokémon over wine at that dim bar dinner—Snivy your ’diva queen,’ you called her, all grass-snake sass matching your fire perfect."

"Me?"

"You were drunk. But Hellen’s eyes lit up when she heard your words, and planned this. She told me to give them to you."

"Is that so? Thank you..." I mumbled hoarse into the phone, voice cracking thin as Olle’s words sank claws deep—Hellen’s hidden care, now my private poison.

Eyes welled hot sudden, tears spilling free down flushed cheeks as I stabbed end call, phone clattering abandoned to the counter amid cold omelette ruins.

Bare feet dragged slow to the storeroom door, gray shorts whispering thighs, black shirt loose over pounding heart—hand trembling on the knob before shoving it open to the dim chaos—trash bag slumped against shelves, Pokémon plushies peeking guilty from the black plastic mouth.

I dropped to my knees, fingers clawing the bag open frantic—Pikachu tumbling first, then Eevee, Snivy last, her sleek green smirk staring up innocent.

Pressed her hard to my face, inhaled deep shuddering—and there it hit—Hellen’s scent, faint but unmistakable, honey-citrus bright laced with clean linen crisp, soaked into them. How the hell did I miss this? Blind trust in her, in Olle—blissfully blind, nose skipping the tell because they were safe, my people.

I shoved the plushies back into the trash bag with shaky hands—Snivy last, her scent still clinging traitor-close—knotted it tight double, hauled the heavy lump downstairs step by heavy step, gray shorts riding up sweaty thighs, black shirt sticking to my back in the midday heat seeping through windows.

Phone trembled in my grip as I stabbed Hellen’s contact, collapsing onto the sectional—heart jackhammering loud, emerald eyes puffy-red from tears, raven curls a wild mess framing my blotchy face.

It rang once, twice—voice mail? No, pick up. Was she trying to ignore me? Did she think it was funny? Am I reacting too much? Yes, I am! And I will!