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He puts his hand briefly over mine, smiling, then squeezes it.
His touch surprises me. How comfortable it is. Like we’ve touched like this a thousand times before. My breathing slows. Reality starts settling back in. I’m here with Max, Braxton, and Orson. I’m okay, but there’s tension in the air. A different kind of problem than the one in my mind. Orson’s hand drops away from mine, and he steps back to my side. I try not to miss his touch, and instead focus on the brewing tension.
“None of this Enforcer bullshit matters as much as us sleeping with her! Being with!” Braxton shouts, and this time his words filter into my mind.
I glance sidelong at Orson, trying to decide whether he caught that last remark. He doesn’t look the least bit surprised, which makes me wonder if we’ve been as careful about concealing our relationship as I’d thought. Him being in the know with this might add just another layer of complication to an already complicated situation.
“There still has to be a little discipline among this team,” Max insists, still angrier than I’ve ever seen him. “I can’t carry all of you.”
Braxton scoffs, only fanning the flame of Max’s anger. He shoves Braxton. It’s a little too hard, and Braxton stumbles back against the wall. Testosterone kicks in and he comes back with a shove of his own, but Max prepares, braces his legs, and clasps his hands around Braxton’s shoulders. The two grapple one another and I see their wolves raring to leap forth, their features teasing wolven traits.
I think to myself, fuck it, let them work it out in their own way. It’d be a nice distraction, but Orson shoves his way between them and forces them away from one another like a boxing judge. Everyone starts shouting at one another until the sputter of car engines shuts everybody up.
Max is first out the door, sprinting down the road, but we’re right at his heel. We pause in the middle of the street, where earlier a collection of abandoned cars sat, now all gone.
“Fuck,” Max curses. He charges up to me. “Was it the killers?” he asks.
I refuse to answer not just to protect my pack, but out of spite.
His gaze darkens, and I hold my breath, not sure what to expect. But when he lifts his phone to his ear, I have no choice. I can’t let him call this into the Enforcers, it’ll jeopardize my pack’s safety.
I grab hold of his arm. “It’s the prisoners, not the killer! It’s my pack members!”
He looks in my eyes, and I can see the process of evaluation unfolding in his.
“I have my secrets, but I’m not insane,” I plead.
His gaze softens, the hardness in them fading away. He trusts me. The phone lowers and he sighs. “You found them in the woods?”
“Yes.” I feel my shoulders fall. “I thought I could get them out here without you knowing.”
“And are they…?”
Like my brother? Like me?Luckily for all of us, they’re not.
“They haven’t been experimented on,” I tell him. “They’re harmless, Max. Let them go. You know what will happen to them if you tell the Enforcers about those cars. Please.”
Max cuts his eyes to the other members of our team. He’ll get no flak from Braxton, who only feels beholden to his brother, not their employers, so his gaze slides past him. His eyes light upon Orson, wary of his reaction, and I feel my own heartbeat picking up.
What does he think? This criminal turned team member.If he sells us out, then we’ll all be in more trouble than we can imagine.
Orson looks around at the rest of us and shrugs. “I was sent here to do whatever you tell me to do,” he says, nodding at Max. “That’s my job, not playing narc.”
I relax. He, at least, will keep it to himself, so now it’s all about Max. And this moment feels important, a moment I can see where his loyalties lie when it comes to the right thing, and the pack he suggested we create, versus the legal thing.
After a second, Max nods and pockets his phone. “Maybe there weren’t any cars here after all.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I can trust Max. I can trust all of these men, at least with the precious lives of the pack members who were here. It doesn’t mean I can tell them everything, but it does help.
“Thank you,” I tell him, fighting the urge to wrap him in a tight hug.
Then, Max looks at Orson. “Speaking of gratitude. Thank you, for back there, for helping her.”
Braxton stiffens, and it’s like I can see his wheels churning, but I don’t know what he’s thinking.
Orson gives his trademark shrug. “No worries. I’ve had a panic attack or two myself.”
I try not to feel ashamed as they talk, but the shame is there. A powerful enemy that seems to always be somewhere deep inside when I don’t have enough control over my emotions. I hate feeling weak, but some huge part of me is grateful that these men seem to understand at least a little of what I’m going through.
