Page 26 of Shared Omega

I’m about to curse Frostgrave, but I catch myself, remembering that Sloane’s neural implant is picking up everything we say and do, and Frostgrave is no doubt monitoring it closely.

As pissed off as I am at the man, we need to keep on his good side for now.

Another howl sounds off in the distance, and Sloane’s muscles tense. She draws close to me, as if by instinct.

“Come on,” I say, taking her by the hand and leading her out of the cockpit. “Let’s go find this house.”

“Wait!”

She turns around and takes something from the dead pilot—a small black flashlight, which she tucks into the belt of her shorts.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.”

Sloane and I make our way back down the ruined length of the craft, picking our way carefully over the flotsam and burnt body parts. I hop down onto the churned earth. Sloane doesn’t resist as I take her by the waist and lower her to the ground. By the dim light of the gibbous moon, I can see that her eyes are now dilated to near total blackness.

We have to hurry.

CHAPTER 8: SLOANE

Sometime just after midnight, we step into another clearing, and there is the house, right where Frostgrave told us it would be.

What he failed to tell us, however, is just how colossal the place is.

The massive, three-story structure is perched atop a slight rise, overlooking the chest-high jumble of grass and weeds that fills the clearing where yellow fireflies are blinking. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen fireflies in real life.

The mansion itself is beyond ancient. Its pale paint is peeling back like dead skin to reveal the wood beneath, and the shingled roof, which is drooping on one side, is sprouting tufts of grass.

It’s definitely seen better days, but the structure is mostly intact, even after all these years.

Dog and I pause for a moment at the edge of the woods, just staring at the pre-Cataclysmic home in awe.

More howls in the distance break the spell, however.

“Come on,” Dog says. “We need to get inside.”

I start to wade forward into the tall weeds, but Dog’s hand on my shoulder stops me.

“What is it?” I ask.

In the moonlight, I see the wings of his nostrils flare, and I realize that he’s breathing in my scent. Earlier, when the feral Alphas did that, it disgusted me. But somehow the idea of Dog breathing in my scent gives me a different feeling—a feeling like someone tickling my belly from inside.

“Your scent,” he says. “You’re going to spread it all over everything you touch. Your scent trail might lead other Alphas right up to the front door.”

“Shit,” I mutter.

Dog is right, of course. Traveling through the forest was one matter—there weren’t a lot of weeds or brambles to brush my body. But this clearing is choked with high weeds. If I walk through there, I’ll practically be smearing it with my scent.

I feel a flush of heat flaring through my neck and cheeks at the thought. It is less from embarrassment and more from anger. I’ve spent my whole life working my butt off to hold my own in a man’s world, only to be saddled with this most feminine of problems.

“What do you suggest?” I ask, though I already know the solution.

“I’ll carry you.”

Before I even have a chance to respond, Dog has picked me up and slung me over his heavily muscled shoulder.

He’s manhandling me.

He strides through the high grass and weeds, carrying me toward the house like a caveman bringing his latest catch back to his cave. I start to protest, but I hold my tongue. After all, Dog is right, we need to be careful not to leave a trail.