Chapter 7
seven
“Get fucked.”
Atlas shoots me one of his Looks from the driver’s seat. I know we’ve only been in the car for half an hour, but it’s been a looooooong drive.
“There is nothing to be nervous about,” he insists, nodding at the derelict building behind him. “We’ll be back in the car in ten minutes.”
Nothing to be nervous about, my fine ass. This place is creepy with a capital K. Just like everything else that has anything to do with Gideon’s insane family.
Hell, shit like this makes my particular brand of childhood trauma look good.
Oddly enough, most of the ride here was decent. Lavender fields, rolling hills, sprawling estates, wildflowers, tiny villages dotting the horizon.
Until we tumbled into this town.
Something shitty must have happened here, because I haven’t seen a single soul since Atlas pulled off the winding country road. A quick glance at the map on my phone tells me there aren’t any open businesses, either.
It makes sense. I don’t see any cars or people. All the storefronts are boarded up. Dandelions have sprouted through cracks in the brick streets and crumbling sidewalks, swaying in the early-summer breeze.
The weather almost seems rude, here. Golden and idyllic—like it’s taunting this haunted patch of dingy stone with how lovely the rest of the world is.
Especially this building. Jesus. Not only is it old, with dried vines snaking over the once-gray limestone, it’s also covered in patches of black fuzz. Mold, maybe? Or dead moss? Plain old dirt?
Either way, it is not my aesthetic.
“There’s no way I’m going in there,” I snort. “These shorts are silk.”
Atlas narrows his dark eyes, but stays calm. That’s his superpower, after all. “There are more important things than your dry-cleaning bill,” he claims. “This property will be repossessed on Monday and this is our last opportunity to get into it. Let’s go.”
My Alpha flinches, pressing hard into my diaphragm. Reminding me that this is our leader, and, deep down, we respect him.
Pouting, I tilt my head to peer out the window at the ugly-ass building.
As much as I wish we could tell the Reigning Blackwood Pack to fuck off, walking into this abandoned property really doesn’t seem like a huge ask…
considering we made an oopsie and sort of let Ryker burn down one of their safehouses.
With two of them inside it.
Everyone lived, but, yeah.
Like I said: Oopsie.
And then there’s the matter of my balls, which I would very much like to keep attached to my body.
So.
I mutter complaints as I step onto the faded concrete walkway, kicking my suede loafer at a patch of spiky weeds. Atlas joins me a moment later, straightening his tweed blazer and running a hand through his thick black hair.
Pumping out pack leader dominance, he faces our assignment with a grim sort of determination. “I’m going to take the bottom five floors,” he says. “I’d like to stay close to the car, in case Gideon calls me.”
That’s possibly the worst thing about Atlas—he’s a constant reminder of how stupidly inadequate I would be if I ever decided I did want an omega after all.
Which won’t happen, of course. But it’s like he makes it his mission to show me it couldn’t happen even if I wanted it to.
I might not share Atlas’s protective instincts, but I can’t exactly argue with them. Gritting out one final grumble, I stomp toward the building.
There are several notices taped to the flaking front door, bold red letters spelling out words that still make my stomach sink. It’s been a long time since I was on the receiving end of an eviction notice, but the sight hits me on a visceral level, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
Or maybe that’s this whole place. The loose lock on the front door, where some looter clearly broke in, the layer of dust under my leather soles. I turn in a circle, grimacing as I take in the dark wood and ugly beige walls.
Sheesh. Whoever picked this paint color should be shot.
Atlas strides in behind me, his bearing stiff. A waft of his uniquely bittersweet scent follows—a bit stronger than I would expect in this situation. Then again, I’m also pumping out luxurious citrus musk like crazy.
It must be stress, in my case. There definitely isn’t anything sexy about this place, and I don’t have a cute omega waiting for me back home.
Atlas and I both wander deeper into the main floor. He hums under his breath.
“Someone clearly cleared out in a hurry,” he notes, casting a critical eye over the shattered glass and the scrapes marking the laminate floors. “It looks like it’s been empty for a very long time, though. Judging by the dust alone, I’d say no one’s walked in for months.”
I nod, pulling off my aviators and flattening my lips around one of the stalks. Summing up the situation. “It’s a shithole. And there definitely isn’t anyone here.”
At first, I think Atlas is scowling at my opinion. But his gaze flickers behind his glasses, skirting to the yellowed ceiling every few seconds. A sharper waft of over-roasted espresso slices across the room as his mouth quirks down further.
“You’d better go check the top five levels,” he finally mumbles. “I want to get us out of here as soon as possible.”
Fuck. Atlas really is our pack leader—the second I see how uneasy he is, my own anxiety doubles. A pit forms in my stomach, my instincts scrambling to the surface and shoving me toward the stairs with urgency I can’t deny.
I don’t know why, but I shut the hell up and start climbing. The higher I go, the emptier each level feels. By the tenth, the whole floor is nothing but boarded-up windows and rat droppings.
Thank God the stairs end here.
The seethe at my center still spurs me on, though, forcing me to open all the closets in each room and check them for false backs. Which is insane, obviously, because this isn’t a damn—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
The last door on the far left isn’t a closet. There are more steps there—an iron spiral staircase with chipped black paint.
A new scent crashes into me, followed by a bolt of roaring urgency. I rear back, my chest heaving as I drag indistinct sweetness into my lungs. Turning my head to shout over the tingly vibrations squirming in my throat.
“ATLAS!”
I’m not sure what I’ve found, but my Alpha knows it’s important. He practically body-slams me up the steps, unconcerned by the whole metal structure shuddering under my weight.
I barely notice. The stairs spit me onto a small landing full of empty, molded boxes. There’s just enough room for me to snake my way to the narrow door between piles.
An attic?
It has to be. What else could possibly be up—
Oh holy God.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
Is there an omega in there?
It can’t be. Yet my hand is on the door handle. My arm flexes, using every bit of strength I possess to twist the rusted lever until it snaps, disengaging the lower lock altogether.
The smell of wild honey thickens, hazing my mind. My body moves of its own volition, angling my shoulder and ramming the wooden slab, splintering it around the four deadbolts that kept it locked shut.
My entire left side is bruised and aching by the time I finally knock the damn thing down, but I don’t care. Suddenly, I wonder whether I’ve ever cared about anything else in my entire life.
Because of her.
My mind reels, skipping over memories like a stone across still water.
Tapping each person I’ve known, trying to recall if I was drawn to anybody the way I’m drawn to the woman lying ten feet away, sprawled limply across a sweat-stained cot.
A single shaft of sunlight peeks through a crack in the shuttered window, falling across the omega passed out on her bed.
Her dark, musty room; the hundreds of pencil etchings on its walls; this whole filthy building—the entire damn world—blurs into background noise.
I’m frozen. Awestruck. Staring at her slack features. The gaunt hollows under her eyes and cheekbones. Her delicate frame, her freckled face.
And her hair.
So much. Seemingly endless swaths of golden blonde. Tangled around her slender shoulders. Tangled over her waist. Tangled all the way down to the knobs of her knees.
It’s unbrushed. And unwashed.
And beautiful.
Just like her.
What did Atlas say about the dust on the floor downstairs? That it hadn’t been disturbed for months? Which would means she’s been locked up here and left for dead that whole time. Who knows how or why, but—
Jesus. Even dirty and unconscious, she’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. And that’s before I breathe.
Sugared perfection streaks into my lungs. Lighting every synapse under my skin. Setting off sparklers in my fucking soul.
Because I don’t know who she is or why she’s here…
But I know she’s mine.
The thought reverberates inside my head, sending me into motion. I lunge forward, but my ankle catches on… a string?
I don’t care—can’t care—as long as I keep moving. So I chance another step…
Only to be greeted by a flat flying object that swings from the eaves of the attic. Sailing right toward my face. Leaving me just enough time to see that it’s—
A frying pan?
Before it knocks me on my ass. And everything goes dark.