"Mabel…" he says softly for a moment before regarding me. "What's your name, Princess?"
I swallow roughly. "Jo."
"It's nice to meet you, Jo. I'm Declan."
Declan. He came. As she was on her death bed, Mama told us that we needed to go into her room, look at the note taped under her dresser drawer, and call the number. They would keep us safe.
But Daddy…he didn’t know about the note, but he was always so secretive, he wouldn't let us anywhere near the room, and threatened us with each other's safety if we tried to get in.
And then he took her away from me.
When Daddy left the house to get more beer, I picked the lock and nearly tore the drawer out, before finding a scribbled note that said "Declan—last resort!" and a phone number. With shaking fingers, I had dialed the number and left him a tear filled voicemail with our address.
I didn't expect him to show up.
But he did.
I take his hand, and he helps me up before leading me out of the house. Men swarm Daddy's trailer, pouring gasoline everywhere, and by the time we make it to the large, blacked out SUV, the trailer is going up in flames, taking all evidence of my crime with it.
six
Jo
Not-Cheddar stirs in my pocket as I make myself comfortable for "Circle Time". My dream last night had me waking up all out of sorts. After I killed Daddy, I had nightmares for months. And every time, Declan would be there to make the screaming stop. I was grateful that he had housed me in the room next to him, as embarrassing as it was to have him ease my fears every night.
The dream had me so on edge that when some asshole beta tried to cop a feel during kitchen duty this morning, I slammed his hand onto the wooden counter and plunged a knife through it.
I was very prepared to get reprimanded, or kicked off kitchen duty all-together, but the cook, an older, gruff, no-nonsense alpha with aslight belly named "Fuzzy"—though honestly, I'm not too sure that's his real name—barked at the beta to, "Quit fucking around and get back to work".
I might have thought I was just that sneaky, but then Fuzzy shot me a wink and told me to go wash dishes.
Now,that'san alpha that will be safe from my wrath when I burn this place to the ground.
My eyes scan the other patients settling into the circle of about twenty chairs. This morning at breakfast, Adela told me she has afternoon group-therapy, so I don't have anyone to sit next to. A little disappointing, but fine.
I’m definitely not checking to see if a certain pyromaniac alpha is in my group.
Nope. Because even if he was, it would mean absolutely nothing to me.
Definitely not a thing.
Beta McGrabby-Hands from this morning scowls at me with a bandaged hand, interrupting my scan of the seats, so I just give him a little wave.
Suddenly, a hushed silence falls over the room, and I feel a presence next to me. I don't pay it any mind, though, simply taking in the wide and fearful eyes of the other patients with a smile. McGrabby-Hands gives me a malicious grin, like I’ve wandered into the wolves’ den but don’t realize it yet.
"You're in my seat." The deep, rich voice is thick with a Russian accent. The faint smell of gunpowder tickles my nose, and I lift my face up…and up…and up.
The alpha—because even without the orange jumpsuit, it's blatantly obvious that's what he is, the guy has to be at least six foot five and as wide as a damn tank—stares down at me with momentaryconfusion. Vibrant blue eyes pierce through me, and my gaze trails over the scar that runs from the top of his left eyebrow, across his face over his right cheek. His shaggy black hair is pushed back from his face, and every inch of him—minus his face—is covered in black tattoos. Some tribal, some more traditional, but all sexy as hell. The only reason I can see them is because his top half is free of his jumpsuit, the arms of the suit wrapped in a knot around his waist, while a white wife-beater clings to every dip and curve of his very muscular torso—
Wait.
Fuck.
The alpha's expression turns from confusion to a smirk, and I realize I've just been blatantly staring at the guy like he was selling tickets to a peep show.
I clear my throat, willing my heart to stop racing. I don't have time for this. "I'm sorry? I didn't catch that."
"I said, you are in my seat, Little Fox." His accent does funny things to my body, but his words have me bristling.
