TWENTY #2
But then the pilot coughs halfway across the bridge, and the sound echoes.
Below, several Zeds turn toward the sound and my scent spikes.
It’s not fear exactly, because fear has become such a constant background noise in my life that I should consider charging rent.
This is worse. It’s hotter. Lower in my body.
My skin tightens, too small over muscle and bone, and for one dreadful second, the bridge seems too open, too wet, and too exposed.
The wind tears through the broken glass frame, and it catches my scent and pulls. Every Alpha head turns toward me. Not by much, not dramatically or theatrically, but enough.
My stomach drops.
Kaito still stands behind me. I know without looking because his scent sharpens, burning wood flaring through the rain. He doesn’t step closer or touch me. He only speaks low enough that it barely reaches me. “Breathe out.”
I want to tell him to choke on a filing cabinet. Instead, because apparently survival instincts have decided betrayal is acceptable if it’s practical, I breathe out. Slowly. Through my teeth.
The scent spike fades fast enough to let me move, and I hate that it works. I hate how he knows it works. I’m so tired of hating things.
I cross the bridge with my knife in hand, my body screaming old, stupid things at me.
Safe.
Alpha.
Shelter.
Scent.
No, no, no. Nope.
The last few steps are the hardest. My knees wobble and my hand snaps to the metal frame before I can stop it. Pain flares through my injured arm when my weight pulls at the bandage, and I grit my teeth through it.
Kaito moves behind me. It’s only one fast step, then he stops himself.
I hear the sound of his boot hitting the metal, and I hear the restraint after.
The pause, the choice. I don’t look back, though.
Because I know if I look back, I might see his hands open again.
Honestly? I’m not surviving that twice in one day. I’m barely surviving it now.
I manage to make it across only barely. The far side of the skybridge opens into another office floor, this one darker than the last. Rows of desks sit abandoned under dust, rainwater, and ceiling tiles that quit on life sometime before the world did.
Ewan steps through behind me, reaches into his pack, and tosses a half-full bottle of water onto the nearest desk as if it’s offended him and he’s getting rid of it. It rolls, bumps into my boot, and then stops.
I look at it, then I look at him.
The jackass is staring intently at the ceiling with deep, unearned interest, almost like he’s trying to figure out the number of tiles that were used to fill the entire space.
“Did you just throw water at me?” I ask bluntly.
“What? Me? I’d never,” he answers, almost looking offended enough to be believable.
I narrow my eyes on him. “It hit my boot.”
He shrugs. “Ever considered your boot might be thirsty?”
“We just came out of the rain,” I remind him. “And my boot is very emotionally unavailable.”
“Damn. That’s a shame,” he sighs. “I’m pretty keen on challenges.”
My narrowed eyes turn into a glare, but he continues to look at the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen on this side of the apocalypse.
I glance back down at the bottle, only to find it sealed. My throat is hurting enough that I pick it up, and nobody dares utter a thing when I take a drink. Good. Because if someone comments, I will become the biggest problem they have ever seen.
The room beyond the skybridge is some kind of executive suite.
Looks like something that used to be expensive but is now completely pointless.
Glass walls, black desks, dead plants, leather chairs that have mold crawling up the sides.
One office still has curtains. Thick ones, too.
Dark gray and dry where the roof has held.
My gaze sticks to them for a long moment.
Fabric.
Walls.
One door.
A desk that could be shoved across the entrance if needed.
I want to pull the curtains down. I want to drag one of the chairs into the corner, strip the dry upholstery from it, and curl up somewhere dim with my knife and Maine’s hat and maybe something that smells like smoke-warm flannel. Hell, my whole body is leaning toward the thought.
I damn near growl at myself.
Absolutely not. We’re not becoming a damp little cave creature because four Alphas are breathing close by and one of them knows how to say the word “okay” without being a complete bastard.
Fletcher steps past me and drops a folded thermal sheet on the closest desk. It’s silver, dry, and compact.
“For the pilot,” he says without glancing at me.
The pilot is currently on the other side of the fucking room.
I stare at the scarred Alpha, but he doesn’t look back, and I call him a big, fat, filthy liar loudly in my head.
The thermal sheet sits there shining faintly in the gray light, and I ignore it. I’m doing a pretty good job, too… for all of eight seconds until I crack like an egg on a hot pan. A shiver crawls across my spine hard enough to hurt, and I snatch the thermal up with an attitude I can’t shift.
“Still for the pilot,” I mutter.
“Sure thing,” Fletcher replies.
I consider stabbing him with eye contact alone, but thankfully for him, he remains tragically alive.
Xeon opens the door to the adjoining conference room and glances inside. “We can give him five minutes in here. Covered windows. Two exits. Less wind.”
Less wind. Less scent getting loose. Less open air. Privacy.
He doesn’t say any of that.
I hate him, too.
The pilot is carried in first, and Fletcher clears the glass from the floor with his boot. Ewan checks the second exit, and Kaito remains in the outer office, near enough that I know where he is but far enough that I can pretend I don’t.
Shaking my head, I wrap the thermal sheet around my shoulders, mainly because being cold is inefficient. Only, the fucking thing crinkles loudly. Yep, so subtle. Amazing survival fabric. Nothing screams stealth like dressing as a chip packet.
Ewan leans against the doorframe and nods. “Very chic.”
“Say another word,” I warn. “And I’ll make you wear it internally.”
He nods. “Strong look. Very you.”
Despite myself, a sound escapes me. It’s small. Tiny, even. Not quite a laugh, more of a defective exhale. Ewan’s eyes warm, but he looks away before I can hurt him for witnessing it. A smart move on his part.
I sit on the edge of the conference table because my knee has started making threats in the form of finger paintings. Heat is pulsing low in my stomach, dull and restless, and then it climbs under my skin again like it’s not willing to give me a break.
My scent flickers with it and Fletcher’s jaw tightens. Xeon lowers his eyes to the pilot’s bandage. Ewan turns his head toward the hallway, giving me his profile instead of his attention. And Kaito remains out of the room, hand pressed against his wounded side.
That one hurts, which means it helps. It means I hate it.
My body wants him closer, but my mind wants him in another country.
Neither one of those things are useful, so I focus on the pilot instead.
He looks worse, with graying skin and lips cracked bloody from fever.
His breathing is shallow and he looks as though he’s knocking on death’s door and is simply awaiting an answer.