CHAPTER FIFTEEN - BIRDIE
Fuck.
As his scent wafts across the room towards me, I unlock my frozen limbs and grab Hog’s knife from the pillowcase. Axel begins to rise from his chair, so I thrust it threateningly in his direction. “Stay where you are. And if you try to command me, I’ll slit your damn throat.”
Axel’s brows lift an inch. “You got your voice back? How did that happen?”
I don’t bother answering. My throat still feels pleasantly numb, but I have no idea how long Colt’s lubricating trick will last and I’m not about to waste it on chitchat. “Where do you keep your zip ties?”
His eyes narrow in calculation, and I charge forward, only stopping when my hip hits the table.
He could still bark me into submission, but not before I lunge at him, and maybe even get off a lucky stab with the wickedly sharp blade.
“Don’t fuck around, Alpha. I will cut you if you don’t answer me. ”
His eyes darken and his scent surges between us, sour at the edges. “Kitchen drawer. Next to the dishwasher.”
I grab them as fast as I can, then dart behind him, the blade at his throat.
Given his alpha strength and speed, we both know he could probably disarm me, but he doesn’t move an inch as I force his wrists behind his back.
There’s something satisfying about using his own restraints against him, but once they’re in place, I catch a hint of amusement in his gaze.
“What’s next, Omega? You gonna waterboard me now? ”
“This isn’t a game!” I snap. “Where are the truck keys?”
“Left pocket. Jeans pocket,” he adds, and I look down at his thick thighs. Shit. I should have asked for them before I tied his hands behind his back.
I keep the knife under his nose as I lean down and slide my hand into his pocket.
His jeans are tight enough to outline every ridge of muscle, his skin so warm I can feel his heat against my palm.
I have to wriggle my fingers to get them all the way in, and I glare at his profile.
His lashes are lowered, but his nostrils flare, and I wonder if he can scent Colt on my skin.
I snatch my hand back, the keys clutched tight.
“I told you I’d give you a ride, Birdie,” he says as I stuff them in the pocket of my sweats. “It’s not safe to drive on these roads in the dark. You could run off the road and get hurt.”
I sneer at his misplaced concern. Although, let’s be honest, he’s probably just worried about his precious truck.
“Wait until morning and I’ll drive you down myself. It’s only a few hours difference.”
“And you just expect me to trust you?” I snort and back away. “I don’t know you, Alpha. We’re strangers, and I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”
His brow furrows. “You’re Charlie’s sister, Birdie. That makes you ours to protect…”
“Enough!” I grab the back of his shirt and slice it in two, the sharp blade only an inch from his spine.
The fabric flutters open, exposing the broad expanse of muscle.
It’s an impressive sight, but I’m distracted by a half dozen lines of scar tissue crisscrossing his back.
They’re as thin as papercuts, but deep enough to leave furrows in his skin. “What the hell is this?”
“You tell me.”
I blink at his flat tone. “It’s not from an accident. It’s too long and neat for that.”
“Box cutter. One for every week I was held captive.” I take a step away, but he turns his head to catch my gaze.
“Most of the time they just left me down a hole to stew, but my interrogator liked to redo his handiwork. He cut the same skin over and over. Said it taught me the futility of holding out.”
Shit. My stomach churns at the image, but I think the sick feeling is because I just sliced his shirt off without warning. He saw me step behind him with the knife, and yet he didn’t flinch, even though I was an inch from cutting his scars.
My gaze drops back to his ruined back. “You should’ve commanded him to bite his fucking tongue off.”
He lifts his shoulder in a slight shrug. “You’re not the only one who’s felt powerless, Birdie.”
“It’s different,” I mutter, although I’m not really sure it is. “Alphas will always dominate omegas. It’s in your nature.”
“Maybe, but so is the need to protect the ones we love,” he says. “Your brother’s death just about killed me, but I’m still pack alpha, and I’m doing everything I can to keep the rest of my pack members safe. And before you ask, I consider you one of them, even if you don’t.”
Something curls in my stomach. It’s a soft, warm feeling that also happens to be completely irrelevant. I don’t need anyone’s protection. I have a plan, supplies, and a getaway vehicle, which is a lot more than I had a couple of weeks ago.
“I’m not your responsibility.” I take the tattered remains of his t-shirt and wrap it around his head, securing a tight knot at his nape.
He doesn’t make a sound as I fit the gag over his mouth and take a step back.
“The people who did this shit to me, I was their responsibility. In my world, if someone says they’ll protect you, it’s usually either a lie or a trap. ”
His eyes darken and his jaw works under the gag, but I’ve wasted enough time on a conversation that will mean nothing in a couple of hours.
I cross to the counter and grab a banana, two oranges, and a half loaf of bread, adding them to the pillowcase.
I’m almost at the door when I catch a whiff of hickory smoke and notice a heavy winter coat hanging on the hook in the entryway.
Tension prickles down my spine and I glance back at Axel. “Where’s Hog?”
He raises a single brow then nods at the nearest window. The message is clear: Out there somewhere in the dark.
My chest tightens, but I shake off a flash of panic. I don’t care how good the hunter of gunmen is in the woods, he won’t have a hope of catching me if he’s on foot.
Grabbing the coat off the hook, I open the door, my cheeks prickling at the rush of chilly air.
Damn, but it’s a shock to the system after the warmth of the cabin and I grip the knife tighter as I peer into the darkness.
There’s no sign of Hog, but I can feel my pulse beating in my neck as I hurry to the truck.
Ironically, I’m thankful for his boots as they crunch over the brittle snow, but I put that out of my head as I unlock the driver’s door and toss the pillowcase onto the bench seat.
I slide behind the wheel and once the door is closed, place the knife on the dash.
I spare a minute I don’t have to adjust the seat and mirrors before I crank the engine, ice-cold needles spitting out of the heater.
I grimace as I adjust the temperature, then flick on the high beams, flooding the treeline with honey-gold light.
It’s been a long time since I was coached on driving a stick shift, but that was one life skill the older omegas in the compound shared with the younger ones.
Maybe they still harbored dreams of escape, or maybe it was just a small way for them to still feel in control.
Either way, I put their guidance to good use and manage to get the truck pointed down the road that Colt has cleared.
The truck is old but well maintained. Big, with wheels that easily churn through the layer of snow that coats the road.
As I gather a little speed, the air is as brittle and clear as black crystal.
The snow has stopped, but a thick layer of cloud obscures the moon.
It’s disconcerting, because as barren as the landscape was around the compound, the sky was always awash with stars.
Out here, the headlights bounce distractingly against the slippery blackness.
I clench my teeth, staring so hard through the windshield that my eyes prickle with strain.
I’m well past the end of the path Colt cleared, and while gravity is on my side, the snow is much thicker, and the engine is working harder.
Flurries of ice spit into the air, and despite the heat trickling from the vents, my fingers quickly go numb.
When I miss a sudden turn, they jerk on the wheel, but I’m too slow to correct my path.
I hit the snowbank at full speed, the seatbelt biting painfully into my chest. My breath comes out in a whoosh, and I stare dazedly at the windshield.
It’s like I’ve driven into a white tunnel, the front of the truck buried in the thick snow.
Shit.
I put the truck into reverse, but the wheels spin helplessly.
I rev it harder, praying for a little grip.
The engine whines, but I’m guessing the truck can’t find the road under all the snow.
I give it one last try, but my heart pounds in defeat.
It’s pretty clear that all I’m doing is digging myself in deeper.
I shut the motor off and take a shaky breath, leaning my head against the steering wheel.
I’m so damn tired, and not in a three-in-the-morning-on-a mountainside way.
I’m tired of always failing. Why does every step forward have to come with a kick in the butt?
Why, for once, can’t I just get a lucky break?
I’m not asking for much. I don’t need a bright, shiny life like those omegas in the magazines; I just need a chance to exist for one day where everything isn’t a goddamn struggle.
I push off the steering wheel, forcing myself to take a calming breath. As my mom liked to remind me, whining about a problem is just a waste of breath. I need to make a decision before my brain freezes the rest of the way, and I’m too cold to think.
If I sit here and do nothing, there’s a strong chance I’ll succumb to the cold and fall asleep.
I don’t know exactly when frostbite kicks in, but I don’t plan on losing any toes to find out.
Staying is dangerous, but if I leave the truck, I’m really on my own.
I’ll have zero protection from the elements, and if a storm decides to roll in…
I’m screwed, one way or the other.