"Apologies for the trouble." Cliff's voice is flat as he turns to Anton, not an ounce of sorry in it. He’s clearly saying whatever he needs to in order to leave. "We'll be out of your way."
"Whoever you have in there needs to come out too." Anton jerks his chin toward the tent. “Do you hear me?” His voice rises, pitched past Cliff, aimed at the canvas walls. "If you work for this operation, you'd better show your face right now. Because when I find out who you are, and I will find out, you're done here. Pack your shit."
“No problem,” Cliff says. “She’s leaving with us.”
The tent flap moves again, and Adam steps out, shirtless and squinting against the sun. And pressed against his chest is some random woman. She's small with dark hair that's tangled and damp against her neck. She's drowning in Adam's T-shirt, the hem hitting her mid-thigh, and she's curled against him like she's trying to disappear inside his ribcage.
I try to get a look at her face, but it's hidden behind a curtain of hair, her head tucked low against Adam's shoulder.
She's trembling so hard I can see it from here.
Who the hell is she?
"Let's go." Cliff holds out his arm, beckoning Perrin to him.
Perrin moves immediately, falling into step at Cliff's side. Then Cliff lifts two fingers and points them forward, directing Adam to walk ahead of them.
Adam adjusts the woman against his chest and moves, keeping his head down and angling her face away from the guards.
Is there blood on her shoulder?
"Again, I apologize for the disruption," Cliff says over his shoulder, but Anton doesn’t say anything.
He's too busy staring at the woman.
Taking a single step forward, Anton's eyes sharpen and his chin drops. His head tilts as his gaze narrows at the girl. "Pérez?"
Her head lifts from Adam's shoulder a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough to show her face through the mess of damp hair. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused, her skin flushed with sweat.
"What the fuck?" Anton surges forward to cut past me, but Cliff is ready.
My pack alpha explodes in a blur of movement, cutting the distance to Anton in a single, aggressive lunge.
The impact is a dull, heavy thud of bodies colliding, two forces of nature meeting in the middle of a dusty clearing.
They grab each other simultaneously, fists twisting into the fabric of their shirts, yanking each other chest to chest until not an inch of space remains. They are a matched set of raw power. Their knuckles are white, the fabric stretched taut across their bunched shoulders.
"You don't touch her," Cliff snarls, his voice a low, guttural rasp I've only heard a handful of times.
His face is inches from Anton's, his dark brown eyes burning with a pure, animal rage.
Anton's own snarl is just as vicious, his lips peeled back from his teeth. "She works for me, motherfucker. I have every right to know what you did to her."
"I didn't do shit," Cliff shoots back, his grip tightening, the muscles in his forearms cording like steel cables. "Back the fuck off before I make you regret even looking at her." His voice drops even lower, a promise of violence so absolute it makes the air around them crackle. “She’s mine.”
My knuckles crack as I curl my fists, the sound loud enough to hear. I take half a step forward, my weight settling low, and that's when I hear it behind me.
The click of safeties being switched off.
I don't turn around. I don't need to. Connor and Buzz cut have their guns out, I can feel it. The air changes when weapons are drawn. It gets heavier. Quieter. Like the whole world takes a breath and holds it.
The third guard, the younger kid with the patchy beard, isn't drawing though. He's fumbling with his radio, fingers slipping on the dial, ready to call for backup the second Anton requests it.
I cut a look to my left at Perrin. His jaw is set, his body coiled tight. He looks calm, but I know him well enough to see the calculation running behind his eyes. He's measuring the distance to Adam, ready to haul his brother out of this the second things get ugly.
Angling my head to one side, I glance around Cliff. Adam is still holding the woman—Pérez…or whatever—against his chest, and he looks terrified.
His honey-brown eyes are too wide, his lipspressed into a thin line, his free hand gripping the back of her shirt like he needs something to hold onto. And the woman is worse. She's curled into Adam like she's trying to fold herself small enough to disappear, her face buried in his shoulder.
