Chapter 23 – JUNIPER
Chapter
Twenty-Three
JUNIPER
F elix is reading some military thriller he found on the shelf, sprawled across the bed in a way that makes him look almost relaxed.
Almost. I know better. His muscles are coiled tight under that casual facade, ready to spring at the first sign of danger.
But right now, in this moment, he's just Felix. Reading. Existing.
And fuck me if I don't love the way he smells now.
Not the sharp chemical tang of artificial alpha pheromones that used to make my nose itch if I got too close.
Not even the omega scent that would probably drive these alphas insane if he wasn't still on suppressants.
Just... him. Winter mornings and diamonds and something indefinable that makes my chest do stupid things every time I breathe him in.
I'm curled in the chair by the window, watching him over the edge of my own book. The heroine keeps fainting at convenient moments, which seems like a design flaw if you're trying to survive in a world full of rakish dukes and dragons.
"You're staring," Felix says without looking up from his page.
"You're pretty," I shoot back, and he snorts.
"I look like someone fed me through a meat grinder."
"A very attractive meat grinder."
He finally glances up, silver eyes catching the afternoon light filtering through the window. There's amusement there, buried under layers of exhaustion and pain he won't admit to feeling. "Your standards are concerning."
"My standards are exactly where they should be." I close my book with a snap, not even pretending to read anymore. "Which is why I picked you."
"You didn't pick me," he reminds me, voice going soft in that way that means he's thinking about the past. About the Serpents' Den and his brother and all the things we don't talk about in daylight. "We picked each other."
The shadows in the corner murmur their agreement, shapes shifting like smoke given form.
They've been quieter lately, less insistent with their warnings.
Like maybe they approve of this place, these alphas who should be our enemies but keep acting like.
.. I don't even know what. Not quite friends. Not quite captors anymore.
My stomach is actually full. Felix made me eat real food, not just coffee and whatever sugar packets I could scavenge, but actual protein and vegetables and all that nutritious shit that supposedly keeps bodies functioning.
I'd rolled my eyes and called him a mother hen, but I ate it anyway because he gets this look when I don't take care of myself. Like I'm hurting him by hurting me.
It's manipulative as fuck and it works every time.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Soft, almost hesitant. Like whoever's on the other side is asking permission instead of demanding entry. Which is weird, considering they own this place and could walk in whenever they damn well please.
"Come in," Felix calls, not bothering to sit up properly.
The door opens and Archer steps through, all six-foot-whatever of him trying to look non-threatening. It's like watching a wolf attempt to convince sheep he's vegetarian. Technically possible, but nobody's buying it.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, and the fucker actually sounds like he means it. Those warm brown eyes flick between us, assessing, probably noting that we're both relatively calm and nobody's bleeding. Progress. "We were hoping we could discuss something with you both."
Felix finally sits up, setting his book aside with deliberate care. "Discuss?"
"The team would like to talk. About... the situation." Archer shifts his weight, and I realize he's nervous. This massive alpha who could snap both our necks without breaking a sweat is actually nervous about asking us to a meeting.
The shadows perk up, interested now. Whispering.
"Shut up," I mutter at them, then realize Archer's looking at me with concern. "Not you. The... never mind."
Felix and I exchange a look, one of those wordless conversations we've perfected over the years.
His eyebrow raises a fraction: Your call.
I shrug: Might as well see what they want.
He nods: But we bail if it gets weird.
"Fine," Felix says, swinging his legs off the bed with only a slight wince. He's healing faster than he should be, probably because Doctor Actually-Is-A-Doctor keeps pumping him full of the good drugs instead of whatever back-alley cocktails we usually make do with. "Lead the way."
Archer looks relieved, like he expected us to tell him to fuck off. Which, to be fair, was definitely on the table as an option.
We follow him through hallways I've started memorizing despite myself.
Third door on the left leads to a supply closet with cleaning chemicals that could be weaponized if necessary.
Fifth door is usually locked but the hinges are on the outside.
Total rookie mistake. The kitchen is exactly seven steps from our room, twenty-three from the main exit that's always guarded.
Not that I'm planning another escape or anything. Just... old habits.
Archer opens a door at the end of the hall, and Carlisle's voice drifts out, dripping with that particular brand of British sarcasm that makes everything sound like an insult wrapped in a silk ascot.
"Welcome to the war room," he announces with a flourish as we enter, spreading his arms wide like a game show host revealing the grand prize. "Where we plan our daring raids and argue about whose turn it is to buy coffee."
"It's not called the war room," Bane growls in a tone that suggests he's lying through his teeth from his position at the head of a massive oak table that looks like it was stolen from some medieval castle. His hazel eyes narrow at Carlisle in clear annoyance. "It's just the briefing room."
"You literally called it the war room last week," Carlisle points out, examining his nails with studied disinterest. "I have it on good authority. That authority being my functioning ears and the fucking leaflet you printed out."
"Can we not do this right now?" Elias interjects from his seat, looking tired but alert in that way that suggests he's running on caffeine and fumes. I guess he has been treating Felix round the clock, while trying to be unobtrusive.
The room itself is exactly what you'd expect from a bunch of militaristic alphas with too much money and a hero complex.
Maps covering the walls, marked with red pins and string like they're tracking serial killers.
Weapons displayed in cases, even though they probably weren't obtained legally.
Books on strategy and warfare and other testosterone-fueled topics that would make perfect kindling if we needed to start a fire.
My eyes catch on something in one of the display cases and I practically freeze mid-step. "Holy shit, is that a Miller-Borne Tactical RK-59?" I breathe, pressing my face against the glass like a kid at a candy store. "With the integrated suppressor system?"
Carlisle perks up immediately, that dangerous smile of his shifting into something genuinely delighted.
"You know your firearms," he says, already moving to unlock the case.
"Most people have never even heard of Miller-Borne.
They only manufactured seventy-three of these before the company went under. "
"Because the ATF shut them down," I say eagerly, watching him lift it with reverent hands. "The burst-fire mechanism was technically illegal but God, the engineering on that selective trigger system..."
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Carlisle agrees, checking the chamber before offering it to me. "Three-round burst with less than a millimeter of trigger travel between semi and burst mode. The recoil compensation alone?—"
I take it reverently, feeling the perfect weight distribution.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the other alphas shifting nervously.
You'd think I'd tried to kill them or something.
"Carbon fiber lower, titanium upper," I breathe, trying not to drool as I caress the barrel in a way that probably looks like it's something else, judging from the way Carlisle's eyes darken a fraction. "It's beautiful."
"She certainly is," he purrs, his gaze locked on mine in a way that makes my heart do a stupid little flip flop in my chest for no fucking reason.
Archer makes a strangled sound from across the room. "Maybe we save the geeking out over illegal weapons for another day." His face has gone pale. "That's literally a war crime in gun form."
"Only if you use it in war," Carlisle corrects cheerfully. "In private hands, it's merely felonious."
Archer narrows his eyes.
"I'd be happy to let you try it out sometime," Carlisle continues, watching me sight down the barrel with obvious approval. "I have a lovely range setup in the basement. Completely soundproofed."
Bane clears his throat loudly. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Fine," I pout, reluctantly handing the gun back to Carlisle, who locks it away in that case it's now my life's goal to break into. I need to know how that metal tastes.
Felix takes a seat, and I drop into his lap, my arms draped around his neck. I look at the alphas to see if they'll take the bait, but they all keep neutral expressions. All but Carlisle, who's smirking as if he enjoys me toying with his pack mates every bit as much as I do.
At least one of them is fun.
"How are you both feeling?" Bane asks, and there's something in his tone that makes my hackles rise. Too gentle. Too careful. Like he's about to deliver bad news and wants to soften the blow.
"Cut the shit," Felix says, because he's never met a social nicety he didn't want to murder. "What do you want?"
The four alphas exchange looks. One of those annoying silent conversations that people who've worked together too long always do. Finally, Elias clears his throat, those blue eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.
"You're both our scent matches," he says, ripping the bandaid off with medical efficiency.