CHAPTER NINE - BIRDIE
As soon as I’m back in the attic, I lock the door and navigate through the maze of drop sheets, Hog’s knife still gripped in my hand.
When I reach the bed, I lay it carefully on the nightstand, right beside the brass key and the crumpled wad of twenties from my pocket.
It’s not a bad haul for my first supply run, even if I lost Colt’s extra clothes sliding off the damn roof.
I just need a little food, a local area map, and maybe a pair of those fancy skis in the workshop to get me at least part way down the mountain.
It’s not perfect, as far as plans go, but it’s a start.
Just imagine what I could accomplish after a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast.
My mood sours right as my stomach gives a mournful clench. It’s a stark reminder that even when you’ve been hollowed out by pain and misery, your body still craves sustenance. And I need sustenance, or I won’t have the strength to leave the cabin, let alone run for my life.
Leaning against the edge of the bed, I push my ragged hair back and run my fingers carefully over my throat.
It feels swollen, the skin raised and hot to the touch.
I press hard enough to make me flinch, but I can’t tell if the inhibitor is just under the surface or deeper inside.
The urge to scratch the skin - to pry it open and tear the fucking thing out – is almost overwhelming, but I force my hand away.
It’s not the first time the doctor has messed with my scent gland, after all.
Last time, he injected some kind of stimulant right into the sensitive patch of skin.
It burned, worse than if he’d wrapped my throat in poison ivy, except that the itch was deep on the inside.
I’d almost clawed my own throat out until one of the doctor’s minions arrived with another needle and put me to sleep.
Fury ripples through me, making my chest throb.
How can I ever escape the devil if he’s buried in my head?
I wrap my arms around my middle, leaning forward to catch my breath.
My head spins and I stare down at the floorboards and the frozen footprints I’ve left in my wake.
They look small, fragile, ghost-like… Is it any wonder Hog took one look at my feet and tried to massage them back to life?
He’s right, damn it. I need to protect my fucking feet, or I won’t be running as far as the treeline.
Pushing off from the bed, I stalk over to the nearest drop sheet and grab the corner.
I try to tug it loose, but it catches on the edge of whatever it’s protecting, a puff of dust drifting down on my head.
I shake it away, and biting back a growl, give the sheet another angry yank.
It comes free with a faint ripping sound, and I stare up at the carved and gleaming behemoth.
It’s a huge wardrobe, the kind you could bury a dead body in.
The door has another brass key, but it doesn’t look like this one ever leaves its lock.
I turn it and the door swings open, a heavy darkwood that creaks at the disruption and emits a now familiar cinnamon scent.
I’m expecting clothes, maybe a couple of pairs of shoes, but what I get is a row of faces, all staring directly at me.
I take an abrupt step back, but their eyes follow me, or at least that’s what it feels like to my overloaded brain.
Paint and paper shouldn’t be allowed to look so real. Not that I know anything about artistic talent. The compound viewed anything beyond a basic education as a waste of time, and it’s not like there was a lot of inspiration amongst the hard, brutal faces of the militia.
But this is different.
This is reality painted as a dream.
Because how could anyone look at the three alphas downstairs and see what is staring back at me from these canvases?
I wrap my arms around myself and force myself to study the portraits, one by one.
The first is Axel, his cheeks clean-shaven and his hair high and tight.
He’s leaning against a wall, the tie of his tux dangling around his neck and a hand gripping his nape.
The next is Colt, a wet suit peeled down to his waist, and his head thrown back mid-laugh.
The third is Hog, dressed in a plain white tee that strains across his massive chest, his face in profile, but a tiny smile curving under his beard.
All three of them are washed in sunlight, and there’s so much joy radiating from their faces, it’s like I’m staring at a row of strangers.
Is it infatuation? Intoxication? Was the artist high when he painted them?
I don’t realize I’ve moved until my fingers are pressing against the curve of paint, tracing the curl of Hog’s lips.
Something about the way he is looking up through his lashes, caught just as his smile is blooming, makes my chest ache.
Was this him before? Is this the face Charlie saw when he watched Hog tinkering in the workshop?
Because based on the matching signatures in the corner of each canvas, this is Charlie’s artwork.
Even if I couldn’t see his hand in Hog’s portrait, it’s glaringly obvious in the loving detail of the other two.
Because as handsome as Hog looks, Axel and Colt’s beauty could rival angels.
They’re not just glowing, they’re radiant, and those extra-careful brush strokes make my chest pinch for their largest packmate.
I’m guessing there’s no more painful game than Odd Mate Out.
Not my problem.
And any imbalance in their pack relationships hardly matters now, anyway.
But it feels wrong to leave the portraits shoved in the back of the closet, so I take them out, carrying them over to the wall by the bed.
When I have them lined up, I step back to study the loving brushstrokes, the detailed curves and subtle shadows that look so real, even in the bright light of day.
I don’t know how long I perch on the side of the bed, staring at the portraits, when I hear a loud grating sound downstairs.
Picking up Hog’s knife, I make my way back to the door.
Cracking it open an inch, I listen to more of the same heavy bumping sounds.
The low murmur of voices tells me nothing, and I carefully close the door.
For all I know, they’re dragging some other poor asshole down to the basement, but I shrug.
Not my problem, either.
I’m drawn back to the window by some deep, pained grunts, followed by a couple of spicy curses.
I peer through the glass to find Colt right below me, shoveling snow away from the porch.
He pauses every now and then to dry retch, swishing water from a bottle and wiping his clammy face on the edge of his ratty Henley.
Tanned abs flash every time he lifts it, and I can’t help feeling an answering flutter in my core.
He’s just that damned pretty to look at, even gray with a hangover and his hair sticking up like it’s glued to a rooster’s ass.
I push the window open, waiting until he glances up and spots me.
“You spying on me, little bird?” What I wouldn’t give for a pair of wings right now, but I just tuck my chin on my folded arms and stare down at him.
He sighs, some of the cockiness draining out of him as he leans on his shovel.
“I’d put a show on for you, but I feel like a cup of warmed-up crap. ”
I wrinkle my nose, and he snorts. “Yeah, this is the boss’ idea of a pre-mission workout.
I have to shovel all the way to the road, assuming I don’t freeze to death first. I call it punishment detail, but he calls it getting back into shape.
Tomatoes potatoes.” I smirk and he gives me a sloppy grin.
“I was thinking, maybe you could reward my hard work with a rubdown. Hot towels, warm massage oil, and your pinchy little fingers.” He waggles his brows at me.
“What do you say, Baggage? Want to offload some of your angry energy my way?”
It’s tempting, especially since I can see the wicked glint in his eyes from three floors away.
But fraternizing with the enemy isn’t going to get me where I need to be, so I shoot him the bird and close the window with a thud.
He curses as it dislodges a chunk of snow from the eaves and I bite back a grin.
It’s only as I catch his painted smile staring back at me from the wall that I frown. If he wasn’t such an asshole, I’d probably feel sorry for that guy in the portrait.
He has no idea how low he’s going to fall.
Now that the alphas are all otherwise occupied, I begin a methodical search of the attic.
I start by stripping away all the dust sheets and tossing them into the corner.
When I’m done, I plant my hands on my hips and frown at what I’ve uncovered.
Most of it is furniture, the same heavy, beautifully carved wood as the wardrobe.
Why is it up here, hidden away, when the stuff downstairs is basic and functional, at best?
Maybe it’s the same as the portraits. Maybe they can’t face anything that’s beautiful now that their omega has been taken away from them.
Shaking my head, I start searching every door and drawer.
They’re empty, and I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed that I don’t find more soul-wrenching portraits.
The last piece of furniture is a box about the size of a footlocker, and I feel a flicker of nostalgia.
My mom had something like this, but she called it… a hope chest?
Naturally, my stepfather smashed it to pieces after she died.
Pushing the disturbing memory aside, I settle back on my haunches and stroke the lid.
It’s beautifully carved, with climbing roses and buzzing bees nestled at each corner.
I grip the gold latch at the front and open it carefully, almost holding my breath.
Cinnamon and lavender waft out at me and I sit back, taking a moment to let it settle.