Chapter 17 – FELIX
Chapter
Seventeen
FELIX
C onsciousness slams into me like a freight train made of confusion and Juniper's weight on my chest. My eyes crack open to find her straddling me, brown hair falling around her face like a curtain, and she's holding something that smells like stale breakfast cereal.
"Open up," she commands, pressing the granola bar against my lips like she's trying to feed a stubborn toddler.
"What the fuck?—"
She shoves the bar into my mouth the second I part my lips, and I nearly choke on dry oats and what tastes like cardboard pretending to be chocolate chips. My hands find her hips automatically, steadying her as she grins down at me.
"Eat," she insists, breaking off another piece and forcing it past my lips. "You need your strength."
I chew mechanically, trying to process what's happening through the fog of sleep and lingering pain medication. The medical bay's fluorescent lights stab into my retinas, and my wounds throb with each movement, but Juniper's warmth against me makes everything else fade to background noise.
She watches me swallow with the intensity of someone monitoring a science experiment, then leans down and crushes her mouth against mine. Her tongue slides past my lips, and I taste granola and coffee and something else—something bitter that she passes from her mouth to mine with practiced ease.
A pill.
I swallow reflexively, pulling back just enough to breathe. "How did you?—"
She silences me with another kiss, deeper this time, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Shut up and be grateful," she murmurs against my mouth, then attacks my lips again like she's trying to devour me.
"Clever girl," I manage between kisses, my hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer.
The suppressant—because that's what it has to be—slides down my throat, buying us time I desperately need.
And with this not-so-subtle delivery method, our captors who may be watching will get a show, but not the one I've been afraid of since we were captured.
Time is a bit hazy still, but without the suppressants, my omega scent would start bleeding through within hours, and these alphas are too observant to miss that particular revelation.
Juniper grinds against me, making a soft sound that goes straight to my cock despite the stitches pulling in my thigh.
Her hands map my chest through the thin hospital gown, nails dragging just hard enough to leave marks, and I forget about the pain, forget about our captivity, forget everything except the way she feels pressed against me.
Someone clears their throat.
We freeze like we've both been caught with our hand in the cookie jar, and I look past Juniper's shoulder to find Bane standing in the doorway, filling it with his mountain-sized frame.
His expression is neutral, but I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his scarred lip that suggests he's fighting amusement. Or maybe ire.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Just wanted to let you know we're heading out on a mission. Should be back in a few hours."
Juniper doesn't move off me, just turns her head to glare at him over her shoulder. "And you needed to tell us this why? Want us to water your plants while you're gone?"
That eyebrow of his climbs toward his hairline. "Thought you should know there'll be guards stationed outside if you need anything." His tone is conversational, but the message is clear: You're being watched. Don't try anything stupid.
"How thoughtful," I say flatly, my hands still on Juniper's hips, making no effort to appear less compromised. Let him see what he's interrupting. Let him know she's mine, even if we're trapped in his cage.
"Try not to burn the place down while we're gone," Bane says, and there's definite amusement in his voice now. He backs out of the room, pulling the door shut with a click.
The second he's gone, Juniper's entire demeanor shifts. The playfulness vanishes, replaced by that sharp focus that appears when she's planning something dangerous.
"They're leaving," she whispers, though we both know they're probably listening. "This is our chance."
I sit up despite the protest from my wounds, studying her face.
The shadows under her eyes have gotten darker, and there's a tremor in her hands that wasn't there yesterday.
The hallucinations are getting worse—I can see it in the way her gaze keeps darting to empty corners, tracking things that aren't there.
"The vents," she continues, voice barely audible. "I loosened the screws yesterday. I can fit through them, find a way out."
It's risky. Insane, even. But staying here until my synthetic pheromones completely fade is a death sentence of a different kind. Once they realize what I am—an omega masquerading as an alpha—everything changes.
"Be careful," I tell her, pressing my forehead against hers. "If they catch you?—"
"They won't." She kisses me quick and hard, then slides off the bed like water.
For the first time, I notice the clothes she's wearing.
Pants that barely fit—and look like half of some guard's uniform—and a black shirt that might as well be a dress.
It's clean, but beneath the laundry soap, I can smell the big scarred one.
Bane. Clearly a message meant for me. The faint scent clinging to her fills me with possessive rage and something else I'd rather not examine.
"Give me twenty minutes, then create a distraction. "
I watch her stand on the bed, working the ventilation grate free with fingers that know exactly where to apply pressure.
The metal comes away silently, and she pulls herself up into the darkness above with the fluid motion of someone who's done this before.
The grate slides back into place, leaving only one missing screw as evidence of her escape.
I force myself out of bed, ignoring the way my leg screams in protest. The stitches pull with each step, and I can feel fresh blood seeping through the bandages, but I've worked through worse.
I dig through the drawers in the dresser across the room until I find scrubs that almost fit.
The fabric catches on my bandages, and I bite back a groan as I pull them on.
The door opens easily—not locked, because why bother when they have guards and cameras everywhere?
The hallway beyond is industrial concrete and exposed pipes, underground bunker aesthetic that screams paramilitary with suspicious funding.
The air tastes recycled, confirming we're deep enough that escape on foot will be a bitch.
Two guards stand at the end of the corridor, trying to look casual while obviously stationed there to watch us. They straighten when they see me, hands drifting toward weapons they're trying not to obviously reach for.
"Just stretching my legs," I tell them, injecting enough exhaustion into my voice to seem harmless. "Doc says I need to move around."
They exchange glances but don't stop me as I shuffle past, playing up the injury more than necessary. Let them think I'm weaker than I am. Let them underestimate the damaged alpha who can barely walk.
The common area beyond is spartan but functional—couches that have seen better days, a coffee table covered in tactical gear magazines, and a kitchenette that smells like burnt coffee. I collapse onto the nearest couch with a theatrical groan, scanning the space while pretending to catch my breath.
Above, I hear Juniper moving through the vents, subtle shifts of weight that anyone else would dismiss as the building settling. She's good at this, my clever girl. The shadows whisper secrets to her that sometimes turn out to be true, and right now I hope they're guiding her toward an exit.
My fingers trail along the coffee table's surface, finding the worn spines of books someone left behind. Military thrillers, mostly, the kind of aggressive masculine fiction that?—
Something sharp bites into my finger.
I pull the book closer, casual as examining the cover, and nearly laugh at what I find.
One of Juniper's ceramic knives, tucked between pages like the world's deadliest bookmark.
Either someone's keeping it as a trophy or they're even more arrogant than I thought, leaving weapons where their prisoners might find them.
The knife disappears up my sleeve with practiced ease, resting against my forearm like a lover's touch. Through the observation window, I catch movement—a screw in the hallway vent slowly spinning free.
Time for that distraction.
I stand too quickly, letting my leg buckle with theatricality. The crash as I hit the floor is genuine enough. The pain makes sure of that. But the gasping and clutching at my chest is pure performance.
"Shit!" One guard rushes forward while the other fumbles with the door code. "He's having a seizure or something!"
I convulse convincingly, making sure to knock over the coffee table in the process, scattering magazines and creating enough chaos to cover the sound of Juniper dropping from the ceiling like an avenging angel in borrowed clothes.
The guard by the door never sees her coming. She flows up behind him like smoke, arms wrapping around his throat in a blood choke that has him unconscious in seconds, just after the door pops open. No permanent damage—she's gotten soft about collateral damage lately—but effective enough.
The second guard spins toward her, hand going for his weapon, but I'm already moving through the open door.
The knife slides from my sleeve to my hand, and I drive the handle into his temple with enough force to drop him without killing him since I'm sure Juniper will have something to say about that.
He crumples like wet paper, gun clattering across the concrete.
"Good job," I tell Juniper, pulling her in for a quick, fierce kiss. She grins against my mouth, pupils blown wide with adrenaline and pride.
"I'm awesome," she agrees, then drops to search the unconscious guards. Keys jingle as she pulls them free, along with keycards and one semi-automatic that she passes to me. "There's an exit two levels up, but it's crawling with security."
"When has that ever stopped us?" I check the gun's magazine—full, safety off, ready to paint walls with anyone who gets between us and freedom. But when I start toward the door, Juniper catches my arm.
"Try not to kill them," she says, and I can see the conflict in her eyes. "These aren't our usual targets."
I sigh. I knew this was coming. She's not wrong, exactly. These are... something else. Not good, exactly, but not the monsters we're used to hunting.
"Juniper—"
"Please." The word seems to stick in her throat. "Just... try."
I want to argue, want to point out that mercy gets you killed in our world, but those hazel eyes are pleading with me in a way that bypasses all my logical circuits and goes straight to the part of me that would burn the world to ash if she asked me nicely.
"Fine," I growl, switching my grip on the gun to use it as a club instead of its intended purpose. "But if they kill us because you've gone soft, I'm haunting your ass."
She laughs, bright and manic, and produces her recovered knife with a flourish. "Race you to the exit."
We move through the compound like ghosts, Juniper leading the way through maintenance corridors and service passages she mapped during her reconnaissance.
Three more guards cross our path, and I take them down with precise strikes that leave them breathing but unconscious.
Each time I don't pull the trigger, Juniper's smile gets a little wider.
The exit appears ahead, a heavy steel door with multiple locks and a keypad that should be impossible to crack. I set to work, which is easier said than done without any of my equipment. But not impossible. Drugged and injured or not, I still have my skills.
The lock disengages with a satisfying beep, and we stumble out into mountain air that tastes like freedom. We're on a narrow ledge carved into granite, the compound built into the mountain itself. The sun blinds me after days of fluorescent light.
"There," Juniper points to a dirt road winding down the mountain to what looks like a garage, if not another bunker. "If we can find a vehicle?—"
Alarms shriek behind us, the compound vomiting red light and angry voices. So much for our head start.
"Fuck the vehicle." I grab her hand, pulling her toward the tree line. "We run."
We plunge into the forest, branches tearing at our clothes, roots trying to trip us with every step.
My leg screams with each impact, stitches definitely tearing now, leaving a blood trail any competent tracker could follow blindfolded.
But Juniper's hand in mine keeps me moving, her presence the only anchor I need in this world.
Behind us, voices echo through the trees, professional and organized. They're not shooting—yet—which means they want us alive. That's both good and bad. Good because we're not immediately dead. Bad because it means they'll keep coming.
"Felix," Juniper gasps, pulling me behind a massive pine trunk. "Your leg?—"
"Is fine," I lie through gritted teeth, though the warm blood soaking through the scrubs suggests otherwise. "We need to keep moving."
She studies my face with those eyes that see too much, then nods. No arguments, no insisting we stop. She knows what I know—stopping means capture, and capture means discovery, and discovery means something worse than death for someone like me.
So we run, deeper into the wilderness, two damaged souls doing what we do best.
Surviving.