CHAPTER SEVEN - BIRDIE
I twist the lock hard enough to make my fingers burn and drop onto my trembling haunches, pressing my back to the attic door.
So much for showing Colt my teeth. My heart heaves in my chest, a cramp twisting in my side, and I grimace as I look around the room.
It’s a maze of draped sheets, some of the objects beneath them big enough to scrape the sloping roof.
The air is heavy, undisturbed, but there are faint undertones of oil, chalk, and something that reminds me of cinnamon.
I feel exactly like a rat scurrying for a hole, only instead of the safety of shadows, I’ve stumbled upon a room streaked with sunlight.
It turns the dusty drop sheets a pale gold and gives the rafters a subtle glow behind the lacy loops of spiderweb.
I lean against the door for a total of sixty frantic heartbeats.
No one follows me, and while I can hear the rumble of voices through the floor, they don’t sound like they’re getting any closer.
I spare a faint smile for the memory of Colt dangling in Hog’s giant arms, his feet kicking and his gasping face a perfect shade of puce.
As for Axel tearing through the door like it was wet cardboard, that’s a good reminder of exactly what it’s like to be prey in a room of determined predators.
Not that I’ll let any of them corner me again in a hurry.
Pushing away from the door, I edge through the maze, careful to avoid touching the trailing sheets.
Most of the shapes they’re concealing look like furniture, and I catch a whiff of wood polish as I slip past. There’s also the distinctive oily aroma of paint, although as far as I can tell, the walls and low-hanging rafters are unvarnished.
With so little free space to maneuver, the air feels heavy, and I find myself holding my breath.
If I believed in ghosts, I’d swear I could see one flitting past out of the corner of my eye, so I keep my gaze fixed firmly forward.
Chasing the light, because an arched window comes into view.
It nestles under the sloping roof like a lazy eye, the bed beneath it washed in winter gold.
It has a sturdy brass frame, and the comforter that spills onto the floor is such a rich brown, it reminds me of molten chocolate.
Pillows of all sizes tumble across the mattress, begging to be lolled against - or whatever it is that people do with an abundance of pillows.
The whole effect is charming, inviting, a little oasis in the midst of forgotten things.
But as I step closer, I frown at the rumpled sheets.
I can still see the shape of a body under their furrows and creases.
The room doesn’t smell of alpha, so maybe it really does belong to a ghost. Charlie, maybe?
Or some long-ago guest who deserved more than the bare basement with its serial killer décor.
I curl my lip as I study the bed. I’m still sniffing for a whiff of alpha, but the comforter is also covered in a thin layer of dust. I curl the edge back carefully, and while there’s a hint of that sweet cinnamon aroma, I can’t pick up any musky undertones.
Turning my attention to the nightstand, I find three art theory books, each one thick enough to break a toe, and a smudged glass with a drowned fly floating in an inch of water.
A gray rag, streaked with charcoal, hangs off the edge of the tabletop, and there is a pair of glasses with thick black frames shoved back against the wall.
Despite clearly being untouched for a while, the space gives off a preserved vibe, like the bed is frozen in time.
Shaking my head at the whimsical thought, I cross to the window, staring out at the view.
The pane is streaked with weather more than grime, ice crystals clinging to the frame.
Beyond it is the sharp line of the mountains, a bunch of trees, and endless white, broken only by the tracks of Maggie’s snowmobile.
I make a mental note of their direction, then redirect my attention to the sharp slope of the roof.
Reaching forward, I unlatch the window and push it open.
I ignore the blast of frigid air as I lean out to take a closer look at the pitched roof.
It’s steep, but the snow looks well-packed, and the distance from the window to the chimney is less than five feet.
It would make a good anchor point if I can get my hands on some rope, but in the meantime, I’ll just have to wing it.
I smirk at the expression, because despite my nickname, I’ve never felt less like a bird. In fact, as I hook my leg out the window, I have to grab the frame to stop myself from toppling over. Graceful, I’m not, but no guts, no glory, as the saying goes.
I complete my awkward dismount from the window ledge, my toes curling in protest as they make contact with the snow.
I really have to wrangle some decent footwear sometime soon, but right now I’m too focused on not sliding off the damn roof.
I take a cautious step, shuddering at the bite of ice crystals against my bare soles.
I inch forward, my thigh muscles protesting as I balance my weight against the pull of gravity.
When I finally reach the edge, I drop into a crouch.
Brushing the snow aside, I smile at the sturdy wooden eaves.
It’s only a short drop to the balcony below, and well worth the splinter I get as I swing myself over the edge.
During my short foray into Colt’s bedroom, I noticed a couple of things. First, he stores his belongings as sloppily as he wears his clothes, and second, Hog didn’t latch the window after he snuck inside to rescue me.
I drop onto the balcony, raising my brows at the crater-sized boot prints in the snow.
How long did Hog stand outside the window, watching Colt toss me around on his bed?
I’d caught the flicker of movement only seconds before he grabbed his packmate in a reverse chokehold, but I’d smelled him as soon as he cracked the window.
Hickory smoke, even though the rafters are pine and the floorboards are cedar.
Shaking off the memory, I peer through the window, taking in the gaping hole in the bedroom door.
Doesn’t look like anyone is rushing to fix it, and as I inch the window pane open, I’m begrudgingly impressed by the damage.
Guess their pack alpha has a lot of volatility under that fraying gung-ho exterior.
It’s another good reminder to step carefully, and I pause as soon as I plant my icy feet on Colt’s navy-blue rug.
Straining my ears, I catch the rumble of voices from the living room.
Good. Maybe the pack alpha is setting down new rules of engagement.
It should give me a few minutes of cover, even if I’m pretty sure Colt will break those rules as soon as Hog is out of sight.
I glance at the bed as I edge through the window.
It’s a solid dark wood with a heavy navy and white comforter.
Even without the rum fumes in the air, it would give off a masculine vibe, and I narrow my eyes on the rumpled sheets.
Colt is a dick, but it wasn’t the worst feeling to have his weight bearing down on me, blue eyes sparkling and that sloppy grin hanging off his face.
If any other alpha tried to wrestle me like that, I’d take out an eye, but there’s something almost desperate about the way he harasses me.
It’s like he can’t resist rubbing up against something sharp and prickly, even though he knows he’s going to come away with contact burns.
There’s no other way to describe it. This pack is a freaking mess.
Just like Colt’s room, which is littered with coffee cups and dirty clothes.
Surprisingly, the air doesn’t smell bad, and I pause to scoop a sweatshirt off the floor.
It’s well-worn, the fabric washed to a fine softness, but it’s the scent that catches me off guard.
Like freshly turned soil, warmed by the sun.
Earthy, but somehow also crisp and bright, and I have to force myself to toss it aside and not press it to my face.
Annoyed with myself, I shake my head and tighten my focus. I’m looking for cash, weapons, and maps. Anything I can use when I make my date-to-be-determined escape.
I spend the next few minutes looking in all the obvious places.
The room is sparsely furnished, so it doesn’t take long, and the offerings are minimal.
I peel off two twenties from a crumpled roll I find in his sock drawer, then make my way over to the nightstand.
It has the usual stuff – breath mints, loose change, lube – but there’s also a photo album, half buried by the other junk.
I know it’s just a pointless distraction, but I can’t resist digging it out.
After casting a quick glance at the ruined door, I flip it open.
There’s a single picture, nestled inside the plastic sheath.
Blue sky, so bright it looks painted on, and a spiky palm tree leaning in from the side, framing the two men.
Their arms are around each other and they’re sporting sandy chests and sloppy grins.
Their noses are both pink with sunburn, although Colt has a darker, deeper tan, and the gleam in his eyes is almost electric.
As pretty as he looks, I can’t help staring at the other guy.
I’ve never seen him before, but it has to be Charlie.
He’s a few inches shorter than Colt, with expressive green eyes and a wide, smiling mouth.
His muscles are lean, his bone structure more delicate than the alpha’s, but he’s tilting his head, like he’s proud of the mating bites circling his throat, big enough to overlap at the corners.