CHAPTER THREE - BIRDIE
Baggage.
The drunk is a comedian.
Or maybe a philosopher.
It’s hard to decide with a face like that.
Even with unwashed hair, he’s poster-boy attractive, with sharp cheekbones, eyes the color of new denim, and dimples that never disappear all the way into his golden scruff.
But the curve of his generous mouth is caught somewhere between a smirk and a sneer, and I’ve seen enough entitled brats to know he’s more of a bully than a clown.
To my surprise, the alphas don’t talk on our drive up the mountain.
No chitchat, no battle plans. The heater is cranked all the way up, but the dust on the radio buttons is left undisturbed, and I pretend to study the landscape while I listen to their silence.
The car reeks, and not just of liquor. Grief sits on them like moldy winter coats.
As if I’ve summoned it with my thoughts, a jacket lands in my lap, tossed from the back seat in a tight bundle.
When I unravel it, I discover it’s an old camo pattern and big enough to cover me like a tent.
“It’s Hog’s,” the pretty drunk tells me.
“You probably think I skinned a yeti to get it, but no. Poor guy can’t even shop in the big and tall store.
The military has to get his stuff specially made. ”
The pretty drunk slurs every second word, which would normally be annoying, but in this instance might work in my favor.
A drunk alpha can be dangerous, but this one seems mellow, even with the shit-eating glint in his eyes.
If I threw open the door and tumbled out, I’m guessing he’d just laugh his ass off and start calling me roadkill instead of baggage.
The guy next to me is another matter. He’s early thirties at a guess, with an overgrown brown buzzcut, brown eyes, and a jaw built to break knuckles.
There’s a little wear and tear around the edges, but there’s no way you’d mistake him for anything but a soldier.
Buttoned up, squared away, and so tightly strung I can taste his vibrations in the air.
The pretty drunk will be easy, but getting past Gung Ho could be a challenge.
I pull the heavy coat over me, breathing in a scent like smoke rising off hickory wood.
It’s so damn good, my mouth falls open, and I squirm on the seat.
I take another gulp and the scent fills my lungs, rich and compelling, and I feel something stir in my hindbrain.
Something primitive and hungry, like a bear staggering out of its cave after a winter’s hibernation.
What the hell? I am most definitely not the kind of omega who gets giddy over an alpha’s scent, but I can’t resist bringing the jacket up to my nose.
I take another curious sniff, earning me a scowling glance from the driver.
“Bit of advice, Birdie. Stay away from Hog.” I lower the jacket, my cheeks burning, and he clears his throat.
“I just mean he’s not exactly the sociable type. ”
Sociable type? With a name like Hog, he’s probably a cross between a lumberjack and a doomsday prepper, and all the better if he’s a loner.
I’m tempted to tell Gung Ho he’ll have to introduce the guy before I can avoid him, but small talk isn’t really an option with the trigger switch in my throat.
Besides, there’s no point in riling the alpha up more than he already is.
Mellow soldiers are the objective, not ones that twitch every time they catch sight of my bare toes.
I scowl down at my numb digits. Fuck Reeves for not giving me shoes. I was lucky to get any clothes at all before I was dumped on that platform by his goons. He wanted me to look traumatized, and they’d spent every moment from the lab to the train station making sure I could act the part with ease.
I roll my shoulders, wincing at the burn of new wounds.
Motherfuckers.
Swallowing down the nausea lapping at my throat, I try to focus on the landscape.
We’ve left the mountain road and are bumping over a trail, the frosty trees scratching the paintwork as we pass.
It’s like being swallowed by winter, and even though I ache all over, I have to bite my lip to keep in my smile.
Yes, it’s going to suck to take on Mother Nature when she’s at her frostiest, but I don’t plan on leaving until I have everything I need.
And who better to steal from than a bunch of military recluses?
They’ll have weapons, survival gear, and maybe even an offroad vehicle tucked away somewhere, just waiting for me to point its nose at the nearest escape route.
“We’re here.”
I blink at the driver, confused, until the overgrown track finally widens, and we pull up outside a large log cabin.
A lot of trees perished to make it, with two sprawling floors, a sharply pointed attic, and a front porch complete with matching rocking chairs.
It has the pitched roofline of an alpine chalet, and an exposed fireplace running down the side like a stony spine.
Rustic, but well put together, at least on the outside.
I scan the windows and doors that I can see, filing away the exit points in my head.
Somehow, I don’t think I’ll be waltzing out the front door when I make my escape.
I reluctantly leave Hog’s jacket folded on the seat and climb out, one alpha in front and one behind as we head to the porch.
My skin is buzzing from more than just the cold, and I have to fight to put one shaking foot in front of the other.
After six months caged in a white box, the colors and scents are almost painful.
Even half buried by winter, there’s the ruddy glow of timbers peeking through snow piles and the scent of pine needles and sawdust hanging in the chilly air.
It’s a lot to process, but it’s so much better than the hood the doctor made me wear, his sour scent soaked into the rough cotton.
The alphas around me smell like the terrain – trees and soil, with a dash of animal musk – and I take a few big gulps as we mount the stairs.
The door opens with a key from the driver’s pocket, and then we’re inside.
While the alphas sling off their boots and coats, I try to take it all in - the wood floors, exposed beams, and mismatched furniture – but I’m still turning in a slow circle when the driver snaps his fingers under my nose.
“Hey, Birdie. Are you focused?” I stare up into his hard face, and his lips turn down into a scowl.
“I’m Axel. This is Colt. We were your brother’s mates.
” A knot appears on his jaw, his nostrils flaring until they’re white at the edges.
“He’d want us to look out for you, so just remember that, okay? We’re doing this for your own good.”
I stiffen, since he’s not the first alpha to trot out that lie. But instead of reaching for me, he points at a door next to the kitchen. “Through there. Let’s get you set up, and then we can see what’s next.”
His tone is a long way from welcoming, but wedged between the alphas, I don’t have much choice but to do what I’m told.
As we step through the door and head down the steep staircase, tension crawls up my spine.
It’s narrow and dimly lit, and I grip the railing until we reach the bottom.
When a bright light snaps on, my heart drops.
We’re standing in a large, sparsely furnished basement.
No. I can’t say the word, but I can shake my head pretty damn hard.
I try to back up, but there’s no room to maneuver and I bounce off the pretty drunk’s chest. Rum-soaked flannel flaps against my face, and bile burns in the back of my throat.
He makes a happy oof sound as I push away, and I stumble back, turning to dart towards the door.
Again, chest meets rum-soaked chest, and I curse.
Even bombed, the pretty asshole is freaking quick.
If I want to put him on his ass, I’ll need to scoop his leg, maybe kick him in the balls.
But then what? Punch Gung Ho in the throat - and assuming he doesn’t shake it off and kill me - bolt into the frozen wilderness, barefoot and completely unprepared?
“Whoa. Stop!” Gung Ho doesn’t touch me, but the authority in his alpha bark grinds me to a halt.
This is the part I hate most about my designation.
Every inch of me is straining to escape, but my stupid omega feet might as well have turned into blocks of ice.
“We’re not going to hurt you, Birdie. Take a breath and look around.
There’s a cot and a mini fridge, fully stocked for your use.
It’s just a typical basement, but with the advantage of central heating. ”
I stare at him. Is this guy really trying to sell me on their bomb shelter amenities?
No.
I shake my head harder, pointing to the wall. No window. No way out. Especially if they lock the door behind them.
A room is a room until it becomes a cage.
But Gung Ho ignores my frantic gesture, stepping up close and staring down into my eyes. I can see the judgment as clearly as if he’d pinned tiny red flags to his chocolate brown irises. “How long since your last hit?”
No.
I don’t do drugs.
They fucking suck the life out of you, and any hint of their use in the compound earned you a week in the isolation silo.
Although… there’s the doctor’s morning cocktail still worming through my blood. He told me it was a super booster of nutrients, but who the fuck knows?
Gung Ho must see me waver, because his lips tighten, his hands clenching on his hips. “Right. Then you need to stay here until you get it out of your system.”
The words have barely left his lips before I lunge for the door, driven more by panic than strategy.
The drunk alpha makes another oof sound as I collide with his chest, surprisingly strong hands wrapping around my wrists. I try to shake him off, but he sticks like a hungry tick. “Fuck!” he huffs as we wrestle. “She’s a slippery sucker. Thank my lightning-fast reflexes, Boss.”