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They all ran here for me, and instead of asking me to explain, all they do is shield me from the danger.
My heart thumps hard enough to slap me in the face.
Just what I need to get my head on straight.
Even in permanent whiplash mode, I’m solid on my most important facts.
One:
No one hurts my Meadows boys.
Two:
I’m never going back to that base.
The SUV parks beside the guys’ car. Undercover as a soccer mom in jeans and a sweater, Commander Fissure slides out of the passenger seat. Doctor Brandon and Silas pile out wearing polo shirts and poker faces that would let them pass as weekend warriors if Elyse didn’t roll from the third row like their evil step-daughter.
She can’t pass as anything but smug, quirking red-lined lips in an evil smile as she clinks a well-worn set of ankle cuffs.
Needles gnash my skin.
I keep down my scent, but either the guys feel my fear or they sense Elyse’s menace. They tighten around me, forming a solid wall of protection that makes it hard to swallow.
These two worlds were never supposed to collide.
“Who the fuck is this?” Bishop lifts his nose.
I step forward so I can be their shield. “They’re here to take me back.”
“No.” Dutch hauls me to his chest, clutching tight as a straitjacket.
“Shit.” Reese sizes up the agents crossing the field. “They’re packing. Should’ve grabbed my bat.”
“None of you brought a gun?” Jin’s shoulders tighten.
Bishop snorts. “Left mine in my cashmere robe.”
I wiggle free of Dutch and pass Jin the gun from my waist. I have a better weapon, and I want him armed if this turns into a firefight. “Let me do the talking.”
Jin knows what he’s doing when he palms the weapon. The flex of his forearms dries my throat.
But, I shut down my delusions, moving to Jin’s side while Dutch shadows my back. Bishop and Reese stick close, growling to mark territory. Aggressive alpha surrounds me, almost suffocating, but I don’t want to run.
Not from these alphas.
I want to enjoy our last time together.
Bridget halts her crew twenty feet away; exactly the limit of my kill range. My reluctant birth-giver folds her arms over her fuzzy sweater, but she’s so rigid, she’d scream military wearing a gown. “Twenty-Six. You broke our deal.”
Fuck. That. Shit.
“You abandoned me.” Again. “Everything after that was self-defense.”
“We’re recovering bodies from the fire,” Brandon says. “I’m sure the autopsies will elucidate whether you defended yourself or lashed out.”
Elyse doesn’t have the rank to speak, but she clanks the ankles cuffs to emphasize I’m screwed.
I’ve never been afraid of her.
