Chapter 6 Jo
six
Jo
Not-Cheddar stirs in my pocket as I make myself comfortable for "Circle Time".
My dream last night had me waking up all out of sorts.
After I killed Daddy, I had nightmares for months.
And every time, Declan would be there to make the screaming stop.
I was grateful that he had housed me in the room next to him, as embarrassing as it was to have him ease my fears every night.
The dream had me so on edge that when some asshole beta tried to cop a feel during kitchen duty this morning, I slammed his hand onto the wooden counter and plunged a knife through it.
I was very prepared to get reprimanded, or kicked off kitchen duty all-together, but the cook, an older, gruff, no-nonsense alpha with a slight belly named "Fuzzy"—though honestly, I'm not too sure that's his real name—barked at the beta to, "Quit fucking around and get back to work".
I might have thought I was just that sneaky, but then Fuzzy shot me a wink and told me to go wash dishes.
Now, that's an alpha that will be safe from my wrath when I burn this place to the ground.
My eyes scan the other patients settling into the circle of about twenty chairs. This morning at breakfast, Adela told me she has afternoon group-therapy, so I don't have anyone to sit next to. A little disappointing, but fine.
I’m definitely not checking to see if a certain pyromaniac alpha is in my group.
Nope. Because even if he was, it would mean absolutely nothing to me.
Definitely not a thing.
Beta McGrabby-Hands from this morning scowls at me with a bandaged hand, interrupting my scan of the seats, so I just give him a little wave.
Suddenly, a hushed silence falls over the room, and I feel a presence next to me.
I don't pay it any mind, though, simply taking in the wide and fearful eyes of the other patients with a smile. McGrabby-Hands gives me a malicious grin, like I’ve wandered into the wolves’ den but don’t realize it yet.
"You're in my seat." The deep, rich voice is thick with a Russian accent. The faint smell of gunpowder tickles my nose, and I lift my face up…and up…and up.
The alpha—because even without the orange jumpsuit, it's blatantly obvious that's what he is, the guy has to be at least six foot five and as wide as a damn tank—stares down at me with momentary confusion.
Vibrant blue eyes pierce through me, and my gaze trails over the scar that runs from the top of his left eyebrow, across his face over his right cheek.
His shaggy black hair is pushed back from his face, and every inch of him—minus his face—is covered in black tattoos.
Some tribal, some more traditional, but all sexy as hell.
The only reason I can see them is because his top half is free of his jumpsuit, the arms of the suit wrapped in a knot around his waist, while a white wife-beater clings to every dip and curve of his very muscular torso—
Wait.
Fuck.
The alpha's expression turns from confusion to a smirk, and I realize I've just been blatantly staring at the guy like he was selling tickets to a peep show.
I clear my throat, willing my heart to stop racing. I don't have time for this. "I'm sorry? I didn't catch that."
"I said, you are in my seat, Little Fox." His accent does funny things to my body, but his words have me bristling.
Little Fox?
My saccharine sweet smile takes over as I tilt my head up at him, blinking innocently. "Sorry, Sugar, I didn't see your name on it. There are plenty of other open seats." Then I turn my attention back to the rest of the circle, where everyone is looking at me like I'm the craziest person in here.
Which, at this moment, I might be.
But I'm not moving. I can't. Not when I've just started to establish my reputation as the classy-as-hell-omega-you-don't-want-to-fuck-with.
A strong hand grips the back of my hair, making me stiffen. He doesn’t pull, just gently grasps the strands as he puts his face right next to my ear. "Sugar? I have a feeling you're just as sweet as I am, Lisichka."
I turn back to him, our noses almost touching. "Why don't you test me and find out, Sugar?"
A hint of a smile tilts on his full lips. "I hope you have the bite to follow up with that bark."
"I hate to sound like a broken record, but why don't you test me and find out?" On the second half of my sentence, all the honey leaves my tone, leaving only poison. "You lay one hand on me and I'll carve your precious knot off with a rusty kitchen knife."
A little yelp sounds from across the circle, and I don't have to look to see who it is. "Hush up, McGrabby-Hands," I say without taking my eyes off the Russian giant. "That knife was far from rusty."
The alpha's eyes dart between me and the beta briefly, and then he's turning and walking away without another word.
An uneasy feeling takes over me, and suddenly I'm not sure if I won that altercation or not.
"Okay, everyone, settle down!" A gentle, peaceful voice calls out as a tall, willowy beta woman approaches the circle, her floor length peasant skirt barely brushing the floor. Her top is billowy and loose, and her long brown hair is held back by a blue scarf.
Where the fuck am I?
"Ah, you must be Jo," she crosses the circle and hands me a rain stick with feathers glued to the top. I take it with a confused look. "My name is Meadow. This is the talking stick. You may take the floor."
I sit, my mouth gaped open, unsure of what to do.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Introduce yourself," she gives me a loony smile, "don't be nervous."
"I'm not nervous," I snap, resisting the urge to beat her over the head with the talking stick.
"Oh, of course you are. Your aura…it's the same color as your hair." She wiggles her fingers toward said hair. “All…orange.” She gives me what I'm sure is supposed to be an understanding smile before she takes a seat and waits expectantly.
There's a laugh from a few seats over, and I scowl at Paige Lawson, who looks like she got hit in the face with a table.
Oh, yeah, that was me.
Her entire nose is covered by a huge bandage, but that doesn't stop me from spotting the bruising that is spreading out from under it, effectively giving her two black eyes.
Well goodie. Now her outsides match her insides.
"Um, my name is Jo." I start lamely. "I killed my Daddy by stabbin’ him in the neck, and then lit his trailer on fire. Then I went on to kill twelve more alphas." Multiple pairs of wide eyes are on me, and Meadow simply gives me an encouraging nod, a weird-as-fuck smile on her face.
"Very good," she claps her hands, "Now Jo, why don't you go ahead and pass the talking stick along and everyone else will introduce themselves."
Dumbstruck, I pass the talking stick across the empty seat next to me, where a wiry beta with glasses sits. "I'm Jeremiah," his voice is surprisingly deep, "and I locked a shit-ton of demons in my cellar, but they found me before I could send them back to hell."
"Now, now, Jeremiah, we've talked about this," Meadow tuts, "they weren't demons, they were your neighbors."
Jeremiah huffs a breath, breathing out through his nose. He grits his teeth. "And I've told you, they were demons! Do you know how hard it is, seeing all the demons in this facility and not doing anything about it?"
An eerie feeling travels through my stomach as I listen to him, and I realize these people are legitimately insane.
"Jeremiah," Meadow says in a warning voice. "You know the rules. Do you really want to be pulled out of this program when you worked so hard to get out of the Cathedral?"
I swallow. The Cathedral. That must be the actual name for Zombieland.
Jeremiah grumbles, passing the stick on.
We have people whose influential parents thought they might be "cured" of their minor aggressions, like shoplifting, and then we have people who were so delusional they thought they could talk to the dead.
Gods, I am not looking forward to dealing with that again.
It looks like the Cathedral is where they keep the ones that won't stay in line, but if you promise to be good, you can take the experimental drug and get entered into the program, no matter the severity of your crime.
My question is…why isn't this public knowledge? Why does the rest of the world still think that Thornfield is one big hard-ass facility?
I guess I'm gonna have to do some digging.
It really shouldn't be a surprise to me at this point, getting thrown against walls by alphas.
Well, this one didn't throw me, so much as he backed me into it.
I'd been on my way to therapy when the Russian giant from circle time caught me off guard. Now he has one arm braced above my head, his other hand tilting my chin up to him as my back digs into the brick wall behind me.
"What the fuck?" I hiss, my hand going to the pocket of the jumpsuit that does not have Not-Cheddar, where I stored my swiped paring knife from when I was washing dishes earlier.
Fuzzy didn't even check my pockets when I left.
I glare at the bastard caging me. I don't care how hot this guy is, nobody manhandles me like this.
"Tell me, Lisichka," he murmurs, his eyes dark and dangerous. He takes a step closer so his body is nearly pressed into mine. He goes to press further, but his eyes widen and he looks down when he feels the tip of my knife. Instead of backing off like he should, he leans into it.
Baiting me.
Testing me.
I don't pull it back, I keep it right where it is. If they ask why this guy has a knife wound, I can honestly tell them he walked into it.
"What is it about you that has everyone so intrigued?" he asks, his head tilting.
"Must be my sparklin' personality, Sugar," I grit out, ignoring the squeak of Not-Cheddar in my pocket.
His eyes suddenly turn black, and my heart drops.
His nose falls to the crook of my neck, and he impales himself on my short knife.
"Fuck," he gasps, and then I realize it's not from the pain.
"I've always loved apple pie. It is not a treat we have in Russia.
Sharlotka is the closest thing we have, but you…
" He inhales again, and my heart stutters.
I'm frozen. He shouldn't be able to scent me. I'm like a deer in damn headlights as the alpha scents me like he might be able to eat the apple pie straight from the source.
What's worse? I like it.
I can feel my omega peeking one eye open, preening at the attention of this alpha who I now realize smells like gunpowder and fresh rain.
So, so good.
The warmth of the blood dripping from his side onto my hand has me snapping out of it, and on instinct, I draw my knee up, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, manage to get an alpha to back off by going for the precious bits.
He grunts, his eyes going wide as his hand moves off my chin to cup his balls, and I rush out from underneath him, leaving the knife lodged in his side. My heart pounds wildly as I run down the hall, too on edge to care that running away looks anything but badass.
He could scent me.
That means, undoubtedly, that every other alpha in this facility will be able to as well.