Mikaela~~

And I, Iris Blackwood, Expired, a Raggioet, kiss the Preeminence of Elleany in front of the Society until they can have no doubt that I am very very much alive.

I fall back against my seat, staring at my computer screen. That's the end. I finally reached the end after eight years.

I frown. But is it really the end? There's the rewrites and epilogues and Engaged.

I yawn, sinking deeper into the seat at my desk. I just need to enjoy this milestone. Then I can think about what to start working on next.

*****

When I wake, there's an ache in my neck and my hands are numb. I peel myself up from the desk, the bones in my neck and back cracking, only to freeze.

I'm no longer facing the white wall my desk has always been pushed up against. Before me are three bookshelves, turned to the side to create rows. Beyond them is a wall that I swear is a shade of light blue.

I blink and look back down at the desk I awoke on and suck in a harsh breath.

This is not the desk I fell asleep on—this is not my desk.

It's larger, sturdier, more expensive than the desk I bought on Walmart.com. This probably comes from an Ashleys or wherever people buy furniture that they don't have to build themselves.

Panic makes my heart pound until I feel it in my throat, and I grip the edge of the desk to steady myself. Either I was kidnapped—though I have a hard time believing my crossfitter roommate would have let that happen—or I'm dreaming.

Dreaming. That's it. That's the simplest, most plausible explanation.

On the desk is a navy-blue pen outlined in gold, a notepad with no notes scratched onto it, and two mass-market sized books, the spines of which are bent and creased. They're both werewolf novels, the spines of both featuring a wolf's head, and the cover on top displaying a damsel in distress in front of a shirtless man with a full moon in the background.

I've seen this room before. Not in person or even in a photograph but in my mind's eye.

It's how I've pictured Colton's office.

Okay so I really must be dreaming.

Even though in the eight years I've been writing about Expiration Date I've only managed to dream about it maybe twice?

But if I'm not dreaming, does that mean I . . . I died and transmigrated into one of my book characters?

I look down, turning my arms over for any sign of a Mark.

Both arms are bare of any tattoos.

I let out a sigh, slouching back in the chair—Colton's chair. Why on earth did I write a series where people knew when they're going to die? That's terrible—not to mention stressful.

I'm not wearing the clothes I had been wearing—pajama pants and a sweatshirt. I've somehow found my way into a green gown embroidered with leaf motifs. One must always be fancy at the Estate I suppose. Wasn't it I who made that rule?

I need to find a mirror, confirm my face is still my face and that I didn't become a character like Vienna.

I didn't just write about a world with Expiration Dates though. I wrote about a government led by twelve men who are supposed to be terrifying to anyone who doesn't know them.

I quickly stand. I need to leave before Colton shows up—if this really is his office and not some sort of giant impractical joke. The Beta isn't known for being kind to trespassers.

I push open the office door and step out into the hall, a hall that's as glistening and glimmering as I always imagined the Estate to be.

Thankfully, there's no one around to see me step out of the Beta's office. For all I know, this world—if I really am in another world—has no other souls save me. It could be empty of life. Or perhaps it's a world buried deep down in my subconscious.

Every ounce of the halls takes my breath away: the doorknobs, the artwork, the silver that veins through the walls—hell the molding looks like it would probably cost more than I'll make in my life. How one earth do they pay for any of this?

Taxes?

What date is it? Has Iris come to the Estate yet? Colton would have had an office before becoming Beta so the presence of that doesn't tell me much.

Ahead a door opens, and I tense.

A man steps out of the doorway. He's taller than me by at least a foot and a half, and his black hair is tousled like he's been running his hand through it. A five o'clock shadow frames his cheeks and jaw. His skin though white is not pale like mine. There's a bit of a tan to it.

As I'm the only one in the hallway, his eyes land on me immediately. They're a light brown, not purple, so he's not an Amoris. I have no idea who he is though.

His eyes narrow. "It's you."

My mouth opens to say something and promptly closes. Do I not look like myself? My arms and hands seemed the same. But there's no way he'd know who I am if I look like me.

The man strides toward me, and instinct takes over, and I start backing up. Thankfully, it's the hallway behind me and not a wall. But that fact only makes him walk faster. I could break into a run . . . but he's so attractive—no, stop being distracted. He's a Society member. But why did I have to go and make the Society so attractive?

The man's hands clamp down on my shoulders.

"You don't belong here."

The Society has how many people, and he thinks he knows all of them?

"Why do you say that?" I know I don't belong here, but how does he know that?

Can I ever get home to my family, my friends, my pets?

He shakes his head and looks as if he's coming out of a daze. "I'm sorry, I—" His eyes land where his hands hold tightly to my shoulders, and he releases them like I've burned him. "Forgive me. I don't know what came over me."

"Is that your excuse every time you manhandle someone?"

He stills.

I wait for him to say something because honestly, I've got no clue what I'm supposed to be doing.

He steps toward me, bringing him far too close for comfort and forcing me to look up to match his gaze. "I've just now realized you've yet to curtsy or at the very least dip your head."

"You practically just chased me down and grabbed hold of me. When during that time was I supposed to grovel at your feet?"

"Who are you?"

"Who are you?"

He tilts his head, taking a step back. "It's not often I get asked who I am in my own home."

"Well, that's what happens when you live with too many cousins."

The corner of his lips curls up. "True but when you're one of the important ones, people tend not to forget you."

I silently curse. Based on everything he's said, he sounds as if he's an Order member, but which one?

Not Jonas, or Colton, or Erik or Gwen, not the Delta or the Epsilon, and while Bently has brown hair, this is not how I've pictured him. He's not—

He lets out a sigh. "Your Douze is waiting."

"You're Enzo," I blurt out before slapping a hand over my mouth. This is what Enzo looks like? I guess it's my luck that the Order member whose always been more or less a footnote would be the one to find me.

He gives me a quizzical look. "So you do know me. But I in fact still don't know you."

If he's the Douze, that means Iris has already come to the Estate, but that's all I can infer. It would be my luck that today's the day that Erik attacks.

"You seemed certain you knew who I was a moment ago," I say.

"I was mistaken."

I flip back through what knowledge I do have on Enzo, and it's not much. The one glaring fact is that he's the Order member who is most likely to believe the Matrix is real.

The one who is secretly convinced they're all living in a book . . .

If I tell him who I am I won't have the hardest time convincing him, but if I do convince him, he may just kill me for all the trouble I've put them through.

So maybe I'll hold off on that part.

"I'm Mikaela," I say, dipping into the best curtsy I can pull forth from my years of ballet. "I'm not entirely sure how I got here." I turn over my arm, letting him see that it's bare, letting it intrigue him enough not to walk away. "Perhaps you can help me."

So definitely an unusual bonus chapter, but I've of course often imagined myself being in this world, so I though it might be fun to make it happen.

What would you do if you woke up at the Estate? Who would you try to see first?