CHAPTER ELEVEN - BIRDIE
Despite my resolve to escape, exhaustion pulls at me like chains.
I nap away half of the next day before familiar sounds jerk me awake: a chair scraping across the downstairs floorboards, followed by the scratch-plop, scratch-plop of a shovel digging through heavy snowdrifts.
Sure enough, Colt is outside, looking a little less gray than yesterday.
He’s halfway to the treeline now, the path behind him only sprinkled with a light dusting of fresh snow.
The weather is easing off, and I’m guessing that in a few days, nature will start to clear the road for him.
And for me.
He pauses to stretch and turns his head in my direction, like he can feel my gaze.
I push the window open, watching as he jogs back towards me, his shovel propped on a shoulder.
He’s wearing a battered puffer vest over another ragged Henley, the sleeves pushed up to show sleek, brown forearms. With his hair sticking up every which way, he looks like a sexy scarecrow, but as I lean on the ledge, I give him my most unimpressed face.
“Hey, Baggage.” He beams up at me, one eye screwed shut against the glare. “What do you think of my progress?” When I give a lazy shrug, he pouts. “Uh, a little more enthusiasm, please. I’m basically digging your way to freedom. Doesn’t that at least deserve an attempt at a smile?”
I consider rolling my eyes, but I cup my face instead, offering up my most charming smile.
It makes my cheeks ache, and I’m pretty sure I look like a brainless idiot, but his mouth drops open and he thunks the shovel into a snowdrift.
“Well, shit, Baggage! Maybe my eyeballs are just frosted over, but I think you might have the prettiest damn smile I’ve ever seen. ”
I let my eyes roll all the way around this time, but my lips are still twitching as I push the window closed and plop back onto the bed.
It’s freshly made with the sheets Colt gave me, and I feel a glimmer of warmth under my ribs as I wrap myself in the woolen blanket.
It’s a pretty shade of mossy green, and while it’s not quite as soft as the one in Charlie’s hope chest, it still feels amazing against my skin.
I sigh, rubbing the silky edge of the blanket against my cheek.
My eyes are still heavy, and I have to fight the urge to curl up, warm and cozy in my attic cocoon.
I grimace, because these little comforts are just going to soften me up when I need to be as sharp as a blade.
The cold isn’t going to take pity on me, and even if the snow clears, I’ll still be at the mercy of the mountain when I make my escape.
I shiver, and wrapping the blanket more tightly around me, reach into the nightstand for a magazine.
I also grab Charlie’s calligraphy pen, flicking through the pages to the quiz I started last night.
This one is about selecting the perfect location for your next heatmoon.
It’s a new term for me, but in the fantasy world of magazines, it seems that a pack is expected to not only spend days knotting their omega through a heat, but then to accompany them on a relaxing vacation of their choosing.
Charlie clearly had a preference for expensive hotels in big cities, but I find myself staring at a picture of a beach.
Or, to be specific, at a pair of sandy feet, the foamy water curling over brightly painted toes.
I’ve never even seen the ocean, so why does it appeal to me so much?
The feet look nothing like mine, and I can’t even tell if it’s a good beach or the kind of place where deadly creatures lurk beneath the surface, waiting to take a bite out of you.
Still, I stare at the picture for a long time, then reach over to grab Hog’s knife.
Pressing the tip of the blade against the top of the page, I cut it free in a long, clean slice and tuck it into my pocket.
I finish the quiz and then flip to the back page, carefully unglue the freebie insert I spied earlier.
It’s a sample bottle of pink nail polish called Flamingo Flush, and beside it is a picture of a beautiful, smiling woman, her painted fingernails fanned over her flawless cheek.
I study the image, then kick my feet out from under the blanket.
They don’t look like the ones in the beach picture, but then, the only time they’ve seen water recently, it was the icy, frozen kind.
I should probably just ask Colt for a pair of socks so they’re out of sight, out of mind, but I can’t resist unscrewing the lid and carefully dipping the brush in the polish.
Ten minutes later, my cheeks are hot with irritation, and the tips of my toes are so pink, I look like I have an early case of frostbite.
Fuck, what a mess.
I don’t think I managed to polish anything, and now I’ve got bright, pink smears everywhere but where I wanted them. I glare at the little bottle, tempted to hurl it out the window, when I’m distracted by a knock at the door.
“Birdie?” Hog calls, his raspy voice rattling the doorframe. “Is it okay if I come in? I’ve got you something to eat.”
As much as I’d like to stick my head back under the blanket, my stomach gives a hopeful whine, and I slide reluctantly off the bed.
As I hobble towards the door, my sweatpants hitched above my toes, I avoid looking at the portraits lining the wall.
Still, the sense of defeat is strong. Somehow, Charlie managed to bring those masterpieces to life, while I can’t even get a dab of nail polish to sit right.
When I open the door, Hog’s gaze sweeps me from head to toe, his lips twitching as he lingers on my handiwork. I’m tempted to kick him in a very unamusing place but dig my fingernails into the doorframe instead. I don’t have to speak to communicate my irritation.
“Freshly made smoothie,” he says, holding out a chilled glass that’s a couple of shades lighter than my toes. “Plus, a pair of boots. They’re a little big, but they’re better than nothing.”
The drink looks delicious, but my eyes widen as they latch onto the boots.
They’re pale brown leather, with a ruff of black fur at the top and a sturdy rubber sole.
They’re definitely a couple of sizes too big, but Hog plucks a pair of thick socks from his pocket.
He tucks them in the top of the boots and hands them over.
They’re heavier than I expect, which doesn’t make sense.
Why has he given me proper snow boots? As much as alphas might talk about omega autonomy, I’ve never met one who didn’t retract it as soon as an omega got itchy feet.
“Ah, do you want me to clean up your nails before they dry like that?” I narrow my eyes at Hog, who’s now smirking at my feet. “Give me a sec. I’ve got just the thing.”
While he heads back downstairs, I take the smoothie and give it a tentative sniff.
Strawberries and banana waft up at me, along with the sweetness of honey and yogurt.
As I stir the straw through the mixture, my stomach clenches hungrily, but it’s about the same consistency as the banana pudding, and I’m not really in the mood to wear another meal.
I’m still debating whether the temptation is worth the risk when Hog returns with a bottle of hand sanitizer and a wad of cotton balls.
As he steps into the room, he stops abruptly, and I turn to find him frowning at the maze of furniture.
I assume he’s pissed about the drop sheets I piled in the corner until he rubs his chin and says, “Looks like I need to move some of this stuff out of here. You can’t live in all this clutter. ”
I glance at the nearest chest of drawers.
They’re a buttery red-brown wood with brass handles and beautiful scrollwork on the corners.
The attic could do with some organization, maybe, but the furniture is pretty to look at and now that they’re not covered by dusty sheets, they fill the air with a comforting, woody scent.
Or maybe that’s just Hog, himself.
An alpha? Comforting?
It’s a dangerous thought, especially when he suddenly wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me to perch atop the dresser.
I’m so surprised by the move, I don’t think to object until my butt hits the glossy wood.
I try to twist away, to shove him back, but Hog drops his hands to my knees, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“Relax, Omega. I made it, so it ain't gonna break because you’re sitting on it.”
It takes me a moment to realize what he means, and I know the surprise is painted on my face. You?
A slow, almost shy smile spreads under his bushy beard. “Mm-hmm. Charlie set up a website and was selling all this stuff for me. Most of it’s meant to go to some fancy store in Butte Falls, but I haven’t booked the pickup yet.”
I look around the room, seeing all the beautifully carved furniture with new eyes. I’m a little stunned to think that this guy – with his brute strength and alpha dominance – could have created something so elegant, but then I remember how his hands played me.
Oh, yeah. This guy really knows how to buff off the rough edges.
I squirm at the flush of heat on the back of my neck, and Hog uses my distraction to dab a soaked cotton ball against my big toe.
I jerk back at the touch, and he gives a soothing rumble.
The sound skips down my spine, settling in my belly, and I curl my fingers around the edge of the dresser and watch him warily.
One wrong move and I’m ready to kick him in the face, but he removes the messy polish with impersonal precision.
The sanitizer stings where it skims over a few of my cuts, but his touch is surprisingly gentle.
When he’s cleaned everything, including the smears I managed to get on my ankles, he picks up the nail polish and reads the label.
The bottle looks ridiculously tiny in his big hand, but his voice is full of confidence as he asks, “How about I give it a go?”