CHAPTER NINE - BIRDIE #2
When my head has cleared, I lean forward and look inside.
I’m a little disappointed to find only one item - a folded blanket in the palest shade of blue.
My fingers itch to touch it, and I can’t resist drawing it out, revealing a pile of magazines in the bottom of the chest. Porn, I assume, until I flip the top magazine over and read the cover.
Omega Allure. There’s a picture of a beaming woman on the front – all glowing skin and flashing white teeth – her head thrown back so that her long blonde curls reach half way down her spine.
Three handsome men encircle her, staring at her vibrant face like she’s bewitched them. Bright eyes, smiling mouths…
I can’t help glancing over at the portraits lined up against the wall.
Huh.
Maybe some lucky omegas get to see the world in a whole different light.
I’m about to return the magazine to the chest when I spy a teaser on the corner of the front page: Your Perfect Alpha Scent.
I feel my lips curl with scorn. Is there really such a thing?
Most alphas smell like meat or metal to me, neither of which could be mistaken for a perfect scent.
But I’m still intrigued by the article, and climb onto the bed, sitting criss-cross on the comforter as I thumb through to the page.
When I lay it flat, I realize the quiz has already been filled in, a bold cross marked in each box.
I skim the answers to find a key at the bottom, explaining your results.
Mostly A’s, then your preference is for a woody scent, earthy, grounding, with a touch of spice.
Mostly B’s and you want an alpha who smells zesty and bright, like freshly cut grass, or a whiff of the sea.
Mostly C’s and a leather jacket will turn your head, because you’re tuned into smoky suedes and rich, dark resins.
Mostly D’s and you need to be on the lookout for an alpha in the baked goods aisle, because apparently you like nutmeg, cloves, and all things cookie dough.
I wrinkle my nose. It’s stupid. In my experience, leather jackets usually stink of sweat and road grit, and I don’t know any alpha who smells like apple pie. But woody scents, though… It’s not like they’re repulsive, or anything…
Scooting off the bed, I grab a pen out of the nightstand and return to the bed.
As I stretch out on my stomach, I brush a tentative hand over the glossy page.
It feels wrong to mark up Charlie’s magazine, but it’s not like he’s around to object.
And it’s just a stupid quiz, anyway. No one takes these things seriously.
The older girls at the compound would sometimes smuggle a magazine in, oohing and aahing over the clothes and makeup, but they always rolled their eyes at the quizzes.
Who cares about the best place to make a nest, when your heats are spent in a concrete room with a bunch of alphas who make your skin crawl?
Still, it’s a good way to pass the time, and I’m halfway through the third magazine and my fourth quiz when there’s a knock at the door.
I stuff the pile of magazines under the comforter and rise carefully to my feet.
I can’t exactly tell whoever it is to go away, so I cross to the door, Hog’s knife placed close at hand on a nearby dresser.
When I crack it an inch, Axel is standing there with a dinner tray in his hands.
He’s wearing black jeans and a dark-wash denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose the curves and dips of his thick forearms. There’s a fresh glow to his tanned cheeks, and it takes me a moment to realize that he’s cut his hair.
It’s high and tight like in his portrait with a perfect line of tiny baby hairs clinging to his toned neck.
The precision is impressive, and I have to wonder if he did it himself, contorted with a hand mirror and pair of hair clippers in the bathroom.
Or did he rope Colt in to help, risking his glazed eyes and boozy tremors?
I prefer to think it was Hog, looming over him with a monster knife and a take-no-prisoners attitude.
I must have been staring, because Axel’s brows have drawn together, and he shuffles his feet.
“Hey, Birdie. Hog said you were having trouble with your throat, so I dug out the blender.” He holds out a wooden tray, and I blink, because he’s brought dinner to my door.
When I don’t reach out to take it, he steps back and places the tray carefully on the floor.
“It’s chicken and vegetable soup, but you should drink some water, too.
Dehydration can creep up on you, and it’s a long drive to the nearest hospital. ”
I pull a face, and maybe he mistakes it for a flash of pain, because he stoops towards me as I bend to collect the tray.
I rear back in alarm, and he grabs my arms, pulling me close.
I’m now wedged against his chest, and I’m about to knee him in the balls when he says in a soothing tone, “Don’t move, Birdie.
I got too close and your hair got caught on my shirt button. ”
Like hell it did… But a sharp jerk backwards has me biting my tongue. Fuck. How can tugging on a few strands of hair feel like you’re having your toenails ripped off?
“Damn, hold still.” The back of Axel’s fingers brush my cheek as he works on the button and he goes still. “Fuck... I made you cry.”
I want to deny it, but having my hair pulled was a regular punishment at the compound when I was a kid. I don’t know if it’s just muscle memory, but it’s like there’s a permanent connection between my scalp and my tear ducts.
I try to duck my head, but I’m still tethered to Axel’s button, and his thumb suddenly swipes over my damp cheek. “My mom died when I was pretty young,” he says quietly, “but I remember her telling me that tears hurt less if someone else wipes them away.”
I want to laugh in his face. Tell him that pain is pain, and it takes more than a soft touch to soothe away a bitter sting…
But his scent is rising around me, and some tiny part of me leans into it.
It’s both sweet and woody, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m dizzy with fatigue and hunger, but I swear I can taste his skin on the back of my tongue…
“Just give me a second… You’re free now.” I step back so abruptly, he blinks. “Want me to carry the tray in?”
I shake my head, glad for once, that I can’t make a sound. He backs down a couple of stairs before he pauses, one hand splayed on the wall. His dark eyes search mine. “You need anything else, Birdie, just come find me, okay?”
I don’t bother replying, motionless in the doorway until his thudding steps hit the landing.
When I’m certain he’s not going to return, I step forward and retrieve the tray.
It’s heavier than I expected, and I place it on a carved dresser while I relock the door and pocket the key.
My stomach begrudges every second that I delay, but safety comes first, and it wouldn’t be the first time that someone used the promise of food to lower my defenses.
It takes some maneuvering to navigate around the furniture, but I eventually set the tray down on the bed, my mouth watering as I study the bowls.
There’s soup, like Axel promised, and something that looks like rice pudding but smells like bananas.
A bread roll and a little curl of butter rest in another bowl, and he’s included a glass of juice and a sealed bottle of water.
There’s a spoon for the soup, a knife for the butter, and a napkin for my lap.
I stare at the tray so hard, I can feel tears burning the back of my eyes.
God, I want to rip into it like a wild animal. Slurp it all up and run down to the kitchen for seconds.
But what if it’s drugged?
What if this is all just some ruse to get me back in the goddamn basement?
I recall the look Hog gave me when he pressed the attic key into my hand, but trust is a brittle, volatile thing. Right when you’re thinking about handing it over, it can explode in your face.
But I’m almost beyond caring, my stomach cramping so hard a tear trickles down my cheek.
Wiping it away with my sleeve, I pick up the spoon and scoop up a small mouthful of soup.
I swallow it carefully, my lashes fluttering closed at the taste.
Oh god. It’s soup, but it’s somehow so much more.
And as much as I want to grab the bowl in both hands, I take my time, savoring the salty, earthy flavor.
The only thing stopping me from devouring the bread roll is the way my scent gland hums in warning every time I swallow.
I eye the bottle of water, but the pudding is calling to me, and I pick up the bowl, breathing in the scent of bananas and cinnamon.
Desserts have always been my weakness, and my hand shakes as I dig into the creamy pudding and lift the spoon to my lips.
I manage one mouthful of the sugary delight before I gulp too greedily, triggering the sensor in my throat.
Oh, fuck.
The keening sound that squeezes out of my chest would probably shock me out of my shoes, if I had any.
Lightning tears through my brain, my mouth opening on a strangled cry.
I’m vaguely aware of the bowl flying from my hand, but the next moment I’m arching backwards, almost braining myself on the nightstand as the floor reaches up to grab me in a crushing embrace.