Chapter 16 - Ava
I wait until Emily is out of sight, heading for her shift at the library while Ronan upgrades the security on her place, before I rush back to my room and begin throwing a few essentials into my tote bag.
Maddox knows. Or at least thinks he knows, and I can’t risk him running his mouth off to Ronan or anyone else. I have to get out of here.
I don’t blame Emily. Well, maybe a little, but I get it; she didn’t see the danger.
She thought they were on the same side in loving Ronan and wanting the best for him.
She didn’t tell Maddox it was a fact, but she told him enough, and from what she said, he thinks Sophie’s existence is important.
For what? Leverage? Revenge? Or simply to undermine Ronan and his choices at a critical time before he officially becomes alpha?
My fears for Sophie’s safety, already teetering on the edge, completely collapsed last night.
I spent hours telling Emily all about my beautiful daughter and, for a moment, it felt as though a weight had been lifted.
Being able to talk about her for the first time in weeks was both a relief and a crushing blow.
I let myself really feel all the emotions that I’ve been stuffing down ever since my parents took her and forced me to come here.
I’ve tried to repress my heat to keep focused on escaping, even though it has felt pointless, and I’ve battled my feelings for Ronan.
But talking freely about Sophie opened the door to everything I’d tried to keep a lid on.
Long after I’d made up the spare room and we’d said goodnight, I lay awake imagining Sophie’s sweet face and all the fears I’d tried to keep locked away spiraled out of control.
My parents are so cruel. What if they’re not looking after her or feeding her?
She must be so scared without me. What if Maddox goes there, kidnaps her, or hurts her?
What if he tells Ronan?
The potential scenarios all bleed into one another, each worse than the last. By the time morning arrived, I knew I had to do something.
It’s now or never. I felt bad taking the car keys from Emily’s bag before she left, but I knew she probably wouldn’t miss them; Ronan sent one of his betas to drive her to the library, just in case Maddox was stupid enough to approach her again.
Thankfully, she didn’t even check her bag, but I still held my breath until she was safely in the beta’s truck and on her way, the keys burning a hole in my pocket the entire time. Now, I know I will only have one chance to make this plan work.
I keep an eye on the clock, nerves stretched so taut that I flinch at every creak of the house.
The beta assigned to “keep me company,” as Ronan put it, as if I were a lonely shut-in instead of a liability in heat, always leaves for exactly ten minutes at 11:50 a.m. Never fails.
I’ve seen him do it every day from the window in the upstairs hall.
He jogs down the street to the little coffee stand where his mate works.
Sometimes he heads back alone with his coffee and pastry, and sometimes she’s with him, and they sit chatting for an hour.
Today, I count down the seconds to his break like I’m running a prison escape.
My plan is simple. I have less than ten minutes comfortably to wait until he’s out of range, run over to the edge of Ronan’s property where Emily’s place is, and steal her car.
I still know the streets well and, as long as no one spots me driving her car, I can be out on the country roads quickly.
I have to assume my parents will have Sophie at the house.
I can park the car at a safe distance, try to grab her, bundle her into the car, and just drive.
I’m going to drive far, far away from all of this.
The thought of never seeing Ronan again makes my wolf cry out, but I’ve become very good at stuffing down emotions I can’t face, so I force myself to replace the picture of his face in my mind with one of Sophie instead.
She needs me. Ronan will become alpha, and he will find a new mate.
Part of me suspects he feels our connection too, that there are real feelings beneath our back and forth.
Though I thought that before and lost everything.
With that thought, my wolf reacts more strongly, and I’m reminded of the main problem with my plan—the clawing sensation that is coming in increasing waves, the rise and fall of my temperature, and the slick that is ruining yet another dress. My heat is about to peak.
I grab another dress and change. This one is thinner, and the instant relief on my skin is welcome…for about thirty seconds before it too feels too hot, too much.
I know that the only positive is that once the heat peaks, there’s a narrow window of fertility, and then I should feel some relief.
If I can just get through this, by the time I’ve grabbed Sophie, I should start to feel better.
But I know my scent will be stronger, much stronger.
And that puts me at a greater risk of being discovered.
Hell, the way I’m burning up, any unmated males will be able to scent me from the street.
I head into the kitchen and ransack the cupboards for herbs, compiling a small collection on the counter.
I don’t even know if this will work, but if I’m going to sneak through half the county while in full heat, it’s the only idea I’ve got to at least mask my scent a little.
I start with rosemary, sage, and juniper.
The old women in the pack used to say that if you boiled them together and dabbed it on your pulse points, it would mask your scent for a little while.
I always thought it sounded like bullshit, a folk remedy for desperate girls trying to hide their cycles from unwanted attention, but now I’m the desperate one, and I’ll try anything.
The smell is sharp and bitter, filling the kitchen as I crush the leaves with the side of a chef’s knife, then dump them all into an old glass jar.
I don’t even remember the exact recipe, but I pour in boiling water and swirl it, watching the concoction dissolve and change color.
My hands shake so badly that I nearly drop the jar, and the hot water sloshes out onto my hand, but I barely notice the burn.
For a second, the steam actually helps as the humidity swamps the subtler undertones of my own scent, and I almost convince myself the folk remedy might work.
I’m so focused on making the mixture that I have forgotten to keep track of my guard.
I glance out the window as I continue to mix the jar slowly, but have to do a double-take when I notice he’s gone.
He can’t be gone. I strain my eyes as I stare at the empty spot where his truck is usually parked.
He doesn’t even usually take his truck for the coffee run, so why would it be gone now?
I check the time; it’s barely past ten a.m. Panic surges through me, and I fumble the jar again, nearly emptying it onto the counter as I dart closer to the window, squinting into the harsh light, hoping to see some sign of him. Nothing.
Shit. He’s left early. Or something’s happened.
The eruption of terror is so strong it nearly overrides my heat, but not quite.
I choke down the panic and abandon the jar, bolting for the stairs to grab my things.
Each step jars my body, the ache in my core clawing up my spine and down my thighs, and nearly buckling my knees.
There is a feral edge to the need now, a greedy, consuming tunnel that wants nothing but to throw me to the ground and let a male take me.
Breed me. I grit my teeth, fighting to keep my head above the red tide, but my thighs are slick already, and the air shimmers with the scent of desperation.
At the top of the stairs, my body gives out, and I fall to the floor, palms scraping the carpet as I try to drag myself toward my room.
My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears, and the pressure building low in my belly is so intense I can’t even breathe.
For a moment, I stay there, crouched and panting, forehead pressed to the floor.
I can hear the distant roar of my blood, the animal panic and longing ricocheting through me, and I know if I don’t get up, I’ll never make it out the door.
I force myself upright, clutching the banister, and that’s when I hear it.
The front door opens.
No. No, no, no.
Every muscle locks, my wolf’s howl ringing high in my skull.
The scent hits me next: male and not Ronan.
I force myself into motion, the mother in me screaming to run and still try to find a way out of this, while the rest of me is too dizzy to even stand.
I lurch for my bedroom, using the last shreds of willpower to half-crawl, half-stagger down the hall and slam the door behind me.
My hands are shaking so badly I nearly miss the lock, but I manage to slide the flimsy bolt across just as heavy footsteps reach the hardwood stairs.
There’s no time to think, only to pant through the wave of white-hot need tearing my body in two. I back away from the door, eyes locked on the handle, as if that alone could hold out against a determined male wolf who scents an omega in heat and primed.
My wolf is frantic, clawing to be let out, to meet the intruder head-on, to submit, spread her legs, and be filled.
I grit my teeth, hating how quickly my body has betrayed me.
My thighs are so slick I can easily smell my pheromones over the stench of the herbal mixture.
It’s a shameful, desperate smell, and I know that whoever is on the other side of that door will smell it, too.