Beneath the Ground
Ares
The symbol of the Desert Storm Pack is almost buried under the overgrown weeds.
Good. Shit like that doesn’t need to be remembered.
I stop the car a few metres past the broken sign, killing the engine. Silence fills the car, which is wise.
I’m pretty pissed at her for calling me a coward, and my wolf is pacing beneath my skin like he wants to argue with her, too.
She didn’t use the word gently either.
Only a coward would run from it.
I grip the wheel for a second longer before letting go.
I am not running from anything.
I am avoiding unnecessary complications. There’s a big difference. A mate in the middle of a war is a liability, a blade someone else gets to hold against your throat. That isn’t cowardice; that’s fucking smart, and she ain’t got any ground to say shit otherwise.
Charlotte unclips her seatbelt. “Shall we go?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“What do you think? We’re not here to sit in the car and admire the fucking rain,” I growl.
She rolls her eyes in the most annoyingly infuriating way possible. “No, but I had to ask since you were just sitting there glaring at the steering wheel.”
“I wasn’t glaring.”
“You were.”
“You obsessed with my face, Arden?”
“No,” she says, opening the door. “It’s simply difficult to ignore when it is scowling at everything in sight.”
She gets out before I can reply, and I inhale, clenching my jaw. She’s so fucking annoying.
I get out, shutting my door harder than necessary and look across the overgrown route to the pack that has long since been dead.
It’s weird; it feels as if this place stopped breathing years ago, and the further we move towards the pack living quarters, the more it feels as if time fucking stopped.
The road beneath our boots is cracked and half-swallowed by weeds.
In the dark, you can see the old fencing still standing.
Farther ahead, past the skeletal remains of what was once a sturdy gate, the packhouse sits in ruins, its windows dark, its roofline uneven, its bricks crumbled in places.
I heard it was pretty run-down when Grandad and Grandma came here years ago.
“What are you looking at?” I ask Charlotte, sensing her watching me.
“Nothing.”
“You always this bad at pretending not to be nosy?”
She looks ahead, her expression composed in the rain. “Are you always this defensive when someone sees through you?” she asks coolly.
My jaw tightens. “You don’t know shit.”
“If you say so.”
I pick up the pace and walk ahead before I say something that gives her the satisfaction of being right.
We pass what looks like a training ground, and rust covers the metal posts.
I hate it here; it’s as if the weight of Zidane’s sins still holds something over me.
I try not to think about the people who once lived here. The ones who followed him. The ones who feared him. The ones who couldn’t leave.
The ones he murdered.
Not my ghosts.
Not my guilt.
It was a long time ago… The horrors of this place have been recorded, and some – maybe the worst of it – hasn’t. But I’ve heard about the way he tortured Grandma… The things she survived…
Charlotte slows near the courtyard and crouches, pressing her gloved fingers lightly to the ground.
I stop beside her, grateful for the distraction. “Anything?”
“There’s water, but barely… Spotting a drain is probably our best bet. According to the maps, there’s a large manhole in the garden of the old Alpha mansion.”
I hold her gaze for a second. The Alpha mansion – do I really want to go there?
“Are you ok?” Charlotte asks, her voice softer than I want it to be.
“Don’t I look ok?” She opens her mouth, and I narrow my eyes. “Don’t answer that shit.”
“Fine, I won’t.”
Charlotte spreads her fingers as she begins walking beside me, her aura glowing around her fingertips as it spreads to the ground. She closes her eyes. Earth and water elements, I think... Yeah, that’s it.
Convenient.
It spreads to the falling rain as if forging a connection. Then her eyes snap open, glowing as she looks at me.
“We need to get under the pack grounds once we locate that manhole,” she says.
I glance at the ruined courtyard, then the broken packhouse beyond it. “Alright, let’s find this manhole.”
Charlotte turns her head slowly. “We could have waited until tomorrow…”
“No, Princess, you have a carriage to catch to your precious ball, remember? So the sooner this shit is over with, the better,” I drawl mockingly, even though the dark grounds could be seen as pretty ominous.
“Besides, we’re fucking wolves; we thrive beneath the moon.
Oh shit, you hold the sun in higher regard, right? ”
“Westwood?”
“Yeah?”
“Please shut up.”
“I’m right though, init?”
“Please do not use ‘init’. It’s so… urgh.”
“Alright, forgive me for not speaking like a posh Londoner,” I mockingly imitate her accent. She opens her mouth, but this time I beat her to it. “Don’t tell me to shut it, Arden, or I’ll become even more annoying.”
“At least you admit you’re annoying,” she mutters.
We walk towards the mansion, Charlotte leading the way since she actually studied the maps Leo gave us. Well, good, she had to be useful for something.
When we finally reach the building that has mostly collapsed into itself, nothing more than a ruin, I stop, my gaze flicking around the garden towards the garage, which I know Grandma set fire to. The place he used to torture her in… That fucking bastard; just the thought makes me fucking enraged.
Charlotte walks past me, and I see her heading towards the garage.
Without thinking, I catch her arm, stopping her.
She looks down at my hand on her sleeve, then slowly up at me.
“What is it?” she asks, all traces of arrogance gone, but she’s smart enough to show concern – not that she should be concerned.
“Nothing. We’d best go together; it’s an old place, don’t want you getting crushed by a ton of bricks.”
“How thoughtful,” she responds sarcastically. “But I was just going to cross through the wreckage to get to the back, for the manhole?”
I glance towards the way she’s pointing and let go of her.
“Right, let’s go.” I lead the way, heading towards the remains of the garage. My wolf prowls on edge, my eyes glowing silver.
“The mansion ruins are dangerous. Where are you going, Westwood?”
“Just follow, woman,” I growl, leading the way around the mansion on the opposite side of the garage.
I hate this mission already.
It takes another ten minutes to find the access point, buried beneath layers of weeds, overgrown grass and dirt – a circular manhole cover, old and rusted. I yank off the rest of the weeds until it’s clear, crouch down, grab the rusted gaps on it, lift it clean off and toss it aside.
She winces as the harsh sound echoes through the darkness. “Can you keep it down, Westwood?” she growls.
Cold air seems to come up from below, damp and stale, carrying the smell of old water, stone, rot, and something metallic beneath it.
Charlotte leans forward.
I put my arm in front of her before she can get too close.
“Ares.”
“What?” I glance at her.
“I do not need you to block me from it.”
“You better not fucking fall in then.”
“Worried?”
“No, I’m legit tempted to shove you headfirst in myself,” I lie, scoffing.
“Right. For a second there, I was thinking that was genuine concern,” she says mockingly.
“Yeah, I don’t do that shit,” I respond as I peer down into the dark hole. A narrow ladder descends into darkness; old metal rungs covered in rust are fixed on one side, and twenty feet below, the light catches a curved tunnel floor and a shallow stream running along one side.
Not a sewer exactly. I think it’s part drainage tunnel, part underground waterway, something the pack probably built over and forgot about.
“I’ll go first,” I say.
Charlotte’s eyebrow lifts. “Because you think I can’t?”
“No. Because if something’s down there, I think I’ll handle it better; besides, I’m in charge.”
“Self-appointed; it was a partnership, meaning we work together,” she counters.
I’m already swinging my legs down, finding the first rusty rung and testing my weight slowly. They hold, although they creak like they might give in at any fucking moment. I descend the ladder, the rust flaking as I go lower.
“Are they sturdy enough?” Charlotte asks dryly from above.
“So far so good,” I grunt, lowering myself another step.
The rung beneath my boot snaps.
For fuck’s sake.
My leg drops, scraping down the jagged edge of broken metal before I catch myself on the side of the ladder. Pain burns up my shin, sharp and irritating, and I hear Charlotte inhale above me.
“Ares?”
“I’m fine,” I growl, annoyed more at the fact that I’m paying attention to the way she says my name.
Blood runs warm beneath my jeans, already mixing with rainwater and rust, and the ladder groans again like it is considering giving up entirely.
Brilliant.
I shove away from it and drop the rest of the way down. My boots hit the tunnel floor hard, water splashing around my ankles. The sound echoes through the tunnel.
I glance down at my leg. The tear in my jeans is long, the skin beneath scraped raw and bleeding, but it is already beginning to sting less. It’ll heal quickly enough.
“Ares, I can smell blood,” Charlotte’s voice comes again.
“The ladder’s fucked; I’m fine, just a scrape. So you’re going to have to jump.”
“Jump?” she repeats.
I nod and motion for her to come down. “Drop,” I say, holding out my arms.
She blinks and stares at me. “I am perfectly capable of landing.”
“Good. Then land in my arms.”
“You are remarkably arrogant. Who said I need you to catch me?”
“I don’t want to catch you, if that helps.”
“Then move,” she orders before she stands up, steps back, and jumps.
I don’t move back and catch her clean around the waist. The force of her landing pushes me back half a step through the shallow water.
She grips my shoulders on instinct, fingers tightening against my jacket, and for one stupid second, the tunnel, the rain, the mission, all of it fades until all I can focus on is the woman in my arms.
The smell of her shampoo, the feel of her hair against my cheek, and her scent that drowns out the putrid smell of the tunnel.
She’s close.
Too close.
Grey eyes lift to mine, and I hear the quick hitch in her breathing as our eyes lock.
I’ve got to admit she’s a pretty thing.
Wait, what?
I should put her down.
Obviously.
Then I realise I haven’t, and quickly place her down unceremoniously, a little roughly, as she stumbles backwards, and I almost grab hold of her, but she raises her hand, stopping me.
“I told you I could manage.” She frowns.
“Yeah, I heard.”
“Hmph,” she says airily, as if trying to regain some kind of ground.
She smooths her coat as if nothing happened, but we both felt it. And I don’t fucking like it.
“Right, let’s begin,” she says, turning her back on me.
“Yeah,” I grunt.
I definitely do not need to think about how she felt in my hands.
Na, I definitely don’t.