Chapter 22
BIANCA
The French door shuts behind me, cutting off the smell of breakfast. My stomach rumbles in protest. I should be letting Weller feed me sausage and eggs instead of walking away hungry and pissed off.
I make it halfway down the boardwalk before I look back. Weller’s on the deck, gripping the railing. Tristan is standing next to him, and neither of them comes after me.
Good. It pisses me off that they saw me check.
I turn toward the beach and keep walking. The morning wind shoves my shirt against my body and whips my hair across my mouth. Farther down the shore, waves break in hard white lines instead of the lazy curl they had yesterday, and the tide has already covered most of the smooth sand.
My thighs ache, and so does everything between them.
Assholes.
Beautiful, lying assholes.
I start jogging.
Sweat gathers at the back of my neck even though the air isn’t that hot, and my lower stomach keeps tightening with a dull, restless pull that has nothing to do with sore muscles.
My body wants to turn around and crawl into the nest. Apparently betrayal doesn’t matter when there are four alphas willing to pet us through it.
No.
I breathe in for four steps and out for four. Again. By the time I reach the next public access, I can fill my lungs without wanting to scream.
A red flag snaps above the dunes. Beneath it, a weathered sign warns of dangerous currents in letters large enough to read from the beach.
Two men are taking down a stack of rental chairs while a family argues with a little boy who wants to swim.
He keeps pointing toward the water. His mother keeps shaking her head.
The boy frowns at the ocean in disappointment.
I get it, kid.
I follow the next access path between the dunes and onto another stretch of boardwalk under the trees.
The shade feels good, and the packed boards are easier on my sore feet than sand.
Palmettos and live oaks crowd both sides.
Narrow golf-cart lanes cross the boardwalk, and I catch pieces of houses through the leaves.
I wanted to be alone. Now I’ve got it, and I keep thinking about the breakfast I left behind.
I’m really fucking hungry.
A few turns later, I hear music and voices, then smell coffee. The trees thin at the far edge of the marina village. I recognize the brick paths, the grocery store, and the restaurant patio where a gull is stalking a man’s meal from the railing.
People are eating breakfast beneath striped umbrellas.
A woman pushes a stroller with one hand and holds her partner’s fingers with the other.
Two girls in bathing suits share something covered in powdered sugar while they sit on the edge of a fountain.
An older couple pedals past on matching bicycles, moving slowly enough to argue about where they parked without either of them losing balance.
God. I want to be pissed off about something as mundane as parking.
The bakery door opens, and warm sugar and cinnamon hit me from across the path. My stomach cramps and I press a hand against it. I scold myself for leaving without money. Being angry is one thing. Being stupid is another.
Freddie would be horrified. I want him here with a bakery bag in each hand and that worried line between his eyebrows he gets when my stomach growls. The door swings shut, and most of the cinnamon goes with it. I keep walking.
Cold air blasts through the open door of a souvenir shop beside the pharmacy. I step inside and pretend for a minute that I’m here to shop.
Racks of bright clothes crowd the front room.
Shells and postcards fill shallow baskets near the register, and a display of tiny glass dolphins turns slowly beneath the ceiling vent.
I trail my fingers over a rack of soft T-shirts without checking the sizes.
I can’t buy one, and I don’t really want a shirt with a cartoon crab pinching the words Wrecker’s Point has me by the tits precariously close to where my nipples would be.
I move deeper into the shop.
Then I smell it.
Alpha, and not one of mine.
It’s faint under sunscreen, coffee, fried food, and salt. Stale cigar smoke. Worn leather. A rough alpha scent that makes me want to breathe through my mouth. My shoulders pull in. My hands go cold while the rest of me burns hotter.
The shop fades into the background.
Rotor blades pound overhead. A strap bites into my wrists.
Three older alphas pack the helicopter with their big bodies, stale cigars, and scents that make the back of my throat itch.
They talk about golf, an overseas hunting trip, and stock portfolios while I try not to think about their sons waiting at the other end. I close my eyes and count.
I blink until the glass dolphins stop blurring in front of me.
I look into the long mirror behind it.
A man stands outside the shop window, watching me. He’s broad enough to fill half the window, with gray in his beard and a face cooked by the sun.
One of the Havershams. Not anyone I was expecting to see.
His eyes stay on mine in the mirror.
My hand slips into my back pocket and closes around the prepaid phone. I keep my eyes on a row of postcards while I wake the screen. There are a bunch of missed calls but I didn’t feel it vibrate. Oh god, I hope Freddie and Owen aren’t hurt.
Havershams in the village.
The message hangs. I have no bars.
I lift my head and check the mirror again. The man’s already headed for the door. A second waits beside a dark golf cart at the edge of the brick path, heavier through the chest and stomach, with a faded hunting cap pulled low. The third stands near the path leading back into the trees.
The bell above the front door rings.
“Bianca.”
He says my name like we’re friends. A woman comparing beach hats glances at him, then at me, and goes back to turning the display. He keeps his distance. Too many people. Too much glass.
I step around the end of a clothing rack. He takes his time following me.
“Your family has been very worried.”
I don’t answer. The back of the shop narrows between shelves of towels and boxes waiting to be unpacked. I remember the delivery alley from the first time we came through, the narrow strip running behind this row of stores. The gray door is behind a curtain covered in sea turtles.
He follows my eyes, and his smile drops, so I run.
The curtain catches on my shoulder. I tear free, hit the bar on the gray door, and burst into hard sunlight.
The alley smells like hot brick, old fryer oil, and garbage waiting for pickup.
I don’t make it to the alley mouth before one thick arm crushes my ribs and another locks over my stomach.
He lifts me clean off the ground. The phone nearly flies out of my hand, and I clamp down on it while his chest presses hard against my back.
“Got you,” he says, laughing into my hair.
His beard scrapes my temple when he buries his face in my hair and breathes me in. Up close, he smells bitter and smoky, and my stomach rolls. His forearm tightens beneath my breasts until my next breath won’t come all the way in.
“You feel good in my arms, Omega.” His mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “This will be fun.”
My right hand’s pinned against my hip, inches from the knife in my pocket. I let my body sag. He hikes me higher against him, and I work two fingers into my pocket. The handle catches against the fabric as he starts turning me toward the alley mouth.
“The others are going to?—”
I wrench the knife free and drive it backward into his thigh.
He screams right against my ear and drops me. I land on both feet, twisting before he can grab me again. The knife comes out wet and red. He stares at it, then at me, one hand clamped over the dark stain spreading down his pants.
“We had to bury our sons because of you, you fucking bitch.”
The golf cart shoots across the alley entrance. I throw myself sideways. My shoulder hits the ground hard enough to scrape skin through my shirt. The phone flies from my left hand, strikes the brick, skids beneath the front wheel, and disappears with a brittle crunch.
I’m relieved when the broken screen still glows beneath the tire, cracked all the way across, but then it goes dark.
The cart starts backing up with a soft electric whine. I’m back on my feet before it finishes, the bloody knife tight in my hand as I run for the boardwalk before they can close the alley again.
The boardwalk is loud under my feet. My shoulder burns every time my left arm swings, but the alley is already behind me and the house is somewhere ahead, through the trees and back along the beach.
The soft whine of the golf cart follows me around the first turn.
It can’t fit on the boardwalk, but they don’t need it to.
Narrow lanes cut through the trees every few hundred feet, and the cart keeps disappearing behind walls of brush only to come back louder on the other side.
Someone shouts to my left. Another voice answers from behind me. They’re spreading out again.
Did they get my message? I only have to keep moving until they find me, but my legs don’t seem impressed by this plan.
The ache between my thighs has sharpened into something hot and heavy, and sweat runs beneath my shirt as I take the next turn too fast. I’m struggling to calm myself down and my scent reeks of distress, but it’s basically a calling card to irate alphas.
The electric whine cuts out, and I push myself to run harder.
The path bends around a live oak, and the golf cart glides across the next intersection ahead of me. The man in the hunting cap is driving. The one I stabbed is folded into the passenger seat with both hands clamped over his thigh, his face gray beneath the sunburn.
He sees me and starts trying to get out before the cart has stopped.
I go over the side of the boardwalk.
Palmetto fronds scrape my face and arms. My foot sinks past the ankle in loose sand, and the sudden drop pitches me onto one knee. I crawl deeper beneath the leaves before forcing myself back up.
“She’s off the path.”
No shit.
Blood warms my shin. Sand sticks to it immediately, grinding into the torn skin as I shove between two trunks. The space is too narrow for their shoulders. It barely has room for mine, but that doesn’t stop a hand from catching the back of my shirt.
The collar bites into my throat. I twist, bringing the knife up between us, and slash at whatever I can reach.
The man jerks away with a curse. A red line opens across the back of his hand.
“Keep touching me,” I tell him. “See what happens.”
His face changes but it’s not fear I see there. It’s pure hatred. If they get their hands on me...
I don’t wait for him to reach through again.
The ground slopes beneath the brush. I half run, half slide until I hit another narrow path and turn toward the sound of the surf. Going through the trees should bring me out on the beach closer to the house. I can circle back without crossing another cart lane.
A branch catches my hair. I rip free, leaving strands behind, and keep going.
The roar of the waves grows until I can’t hear them anymore. This private stretch of beach is empty. No families. No rental chairs. No one close enough to stop them.
The red flag above the access snaps so hard the rope knocks against the pole.
I turn in the direction of the house.
The golf cart rolls out from a farther path and stops across the access ahead of me.
Hunting Cap jumps down and starts across the sand.
Behind me, the man with the bleeding hand comes through the path I used.
The one I stabbed limps over the dune between them, one leg dragging and his pants dark to the knee.
The house is too far, and I’m exhausted.
I tighten my grip on the knife and back toward the water.
“You have a debt to pay,” Hunting Cap says. “And you’re coming with us.”
“You’re not my type.”
The man I stabbed bares his teeth. He looks worse than he did in the alley.
Wet sand gives beneath my heels. Cold water rushes around my ankles and pulls away again, dragging sand from under my feet. The three men spread across the beach, leaving enough room between them to make me choose which one gets to grab me.
None. I choose none.
Hunting Cap lunges first. I throw a fistful of wet sand into his face, duck under his arm, and cut across the outside of his forearm when he swings back.
He bellows and catches a handful of my shirt.
The fabric yanks tight beneath my armpit.
I turn into him instead of away and drive my knee between his legs.
His grip loosens. I wrench free, but the man behind me gets his hand into my hair.
My head snaps back, and tears flood my eyes. He pulls me against his chest. Hot breath hits my cheek.
“They deserved to die,” I grit out. “And so do you.”
He roars and tries to drag me up the beach.
I drop with the next wave. My scalp burns as hair tears free, but his fingers slide, and the water hits him, knocking him off balance. He stumbles and I shove the knife in his direction. It catches in fabric but the next wave knocks us apart, and the handle twists out of my hand.
I reach for it, but the knife flashes once beneath the foam and then it’s gone.
So is the man who had his hand in my hair.
My knee is aching. I make it two limping steps before the one in the cap comes after me, one arm bleeding and his face streaked with wet sand.
The water reaches my thighs, then my waist.
“Get back here.”
I push off and swim deeper before he can touch me.
Cold closes over my shoulders, stealing the heat from my skin so fast my chest locks. I come up beyond the first break and drag in air.
He wades in and then dives when the water reaches his waist, swimming hard toward me. Another one runs down the beach trying to get ahead of where the water is carrying me.
Then someone shouts. Not at me this time.
There’s another shout, but I can’t see anyone anymore.
I swim in the direction I think the house is in, but my arms are burning. The beach should move closer, but it doesn’t.
The current catches my legs and pulls me under. There’s a cramp in my stomach that pulls tighter every time I kick.
I float on my back to catch my breath. My mouth clears the surface just as a wave slaps my face. Salt burns down my throat, and I start coughing.
Someone is shouting again. I saw something about swimming parallel on a warning sign.
The next wave rolls me. Sky, water, sand - then water again. My shoulder strikes something soft and solid, and an arm hooks around my waist.
I claw viciously before I can tell which one it is, but he doesn’t let go.
A rough palm grabs at my skin, pulling me closer. I kick backward until my heel connects, and he lets go. The current pulls him away from me.
I don’t know which direction is parallel.
I follow the pale blur above my head and break the surface long enough to cough. My arms are going numb.
I kick to reach the surface, but my legs are difficult to move.
I gasp for air and get water.