14. Jane

I brace myself when Drew comes back from the front door, but he's alone, with a big white cooler in his arms. He flicks his hair back and gives me a radiant grin as I follow him into the kitchen. "I thought you were napping."

I give him a sleepy smile in return. "Just woke up. What have you got in there?"

"Room service." He drops the cooler on the counter, his caramel eyes dancing as he starts to pry off the lid. "Isn't that what the fancy alphas call dining in?"

I shrug before I remember that, as a service omega, I should probably know the inner workings of alpha meal times. But Drew isn't expecting any kind of answer, distracted by the covered dishes he's pulling from the cooler. "Jackpot!" he crows, peeling back a lid to suck in a breath of aromatic steam. It's steak with butter-coated lobster tails – another first for my taste buds. As my mouth starts to water, Drew shoots me a sly look. "I bet Law meant to eat this with you before he got double booked."

I raise my brows, trying to hide the pinch of rejection that Law had better places to be tonight than in my company. Which is foolish, since I'd been rehearsing ways to let him down after my conversation with Travis.

Drew is almost dancing with excitement as he grabs a fork from the cutlery drawer and taps it on the top of a container. "Maybe we can sneak this up to my room?"

"Try it, and then tell me how it feels to be eating through a straw," Travis replies, and we turn to watch him stomp into the room. He grabs plates and flatware from the cabinet, elbowing Drew out of the way of the food. As he starts serving up, a single drop of water trickles down his neck from his damp hair. He's wearing an old sweater, and I watch as it reaches his collarbone and clings, my fingers twitching to wipe it away.

"Equal portions," Drew warns him, watching like a vulture as he cuts a steak in half. "Aves has a late engineering class, but he'll poison your breakfast if you don't save him some ribeye."

Travis just grunts, but he carefully fills each of the four plates. It's only as they head towards the table that I remember our mysterious housemate upstairs. "What about Cutter? Aren't we going to feed him, too?" When they exchange a long look, I start scooping half of my meal onto the last plate in the cabinet. "I'll just take it upstairs and see if he's hungry."

Travis holds out a hand, and I can see the veins bulging in his forearm, his tension muddying his scent. "It's not safe to go up there unannounced."

I keep a firm grip on the extra plate. "He's your housemate, right? And he needs to eat."

"He can have the leftovers," Drew says, already tucking into his ribeye. "He comes down when we're asleep and helps himself."

I cock a brow at him, since at the rate he's eating, we all know there won't be any leftovers. "I'm going up." I meet Travis' hard stare with a determined look. "If you want to come with me, fine, but your food will get cold."

"Touch my plate and you're dead meat," Travis tells Drew, scooping up a huge chunk of lobster while I grab a slice of the double chocolate cheesecake and a linen napkin from the cooler. Law really went all out on the meal, and I feel a pang of regret that he's not here to share it with us.

But I'm determined to at least offer some to Cutter. I've been in the house for a couple of days and haven't heard so much as a squeak from his room in the attic. "If I plan on using his name until I leave, the least I can do is introduce myself," I tell Travis as we head upstairs.

"Yeah, well, I've been thinking about how we get you out of here," he replies, his brow furrowed. "A guy in my biochemistry class has five sisters who are all coming to Family Day. It'll be easy to get lost in the middle of them, since they're annoyingly loud and no one has ever been able to get them to stand still for a headcount. You walk out with them, break off and head down to the main road, and then there's a bus that will take you to the city."

My head buzzes with the logistics of his plan, but I'm stuck on one part. "You take Biochemistry?"

He slants me a glance. "You don't think I look like the medical type?"

Does that mean he wants to be a doctor? It's not how I picture him, but then, these guys are all still strangers to me. "I think you can probably do anything you put your mind to."

It's not what he asked, but his face softens a fraction, those dark blue eyes gleaming in a way that makes my breath catch. The stairs to the attic are even narrower than the ones to the basement, and his body heat fills the passageway. His sleeves are pulled up to his elbows, and when he steadies me on a loose step, my gaze falls to the leather cuff on his wrist. I realize I've never seen him without it, except for when he's coming back from the shower or in boxing gloves, and I wonder what it means to him. I'm guessing it's more than just an accessory, since Travis doesn't seem to be the frivolous type.

"My brothers," he says quietly, his head resting back against the wall as he holds his wrist out. The shadows under his eyes are suddenly deeper, his fresh pine needle scent almost bitter. "We all wear one. A lot of stuff has been taken from us, but not this."

I look closer and realize it's not scratched, but engraved with five curved lines. It obviously means something to him, but before I can ask, he turns and bangs his fist on the door. It's so loud it makes me jump, his arm across my back the only thing stopping me from tumbling down the stairs. "Sorry," he mutters, his throat turning red. "My hand slipped."

"So did my heart," I murmur, but I'm one step behind him as he turns the doorknob and pushes his way inside.

With a name like Cutter, I'm expecting something grim, but my eyes widen as I take in the attic room. It has a sloping roof with a circular window at one end, the pane propped open above a padded bench. There's a bed at the other end, covered in a mound of tasseled cushions, and the space in between houses a crowded bookcase and an ornate birdcage. It's big enough for a dozen birds, but the door is open, the seed in its little bowl full to the brim. I expected the room to be dusty, but other than the tiny clumps of feathers scattered on the faded silk rug, everything is pristine.

It's also empty, although as I drift over to the window, a sweet scent tickles my nose. "Where do you think he is? "

Travis has crossed to the bed, his hand pressed against the gray comforter. "Still feels warm."

"You mean we just missed him?" Glass wind chimes hang in the window, but I look past them, searching for a clear path across the roof. From what I can see, it's a sheer drop to the untended garden below. "Do you think his birds carried him off?"

Travis grunts. "I seriously have no clue. I followed him one day when he first arrived, but he vanished near the library. I'm pretty sure he's inherited his dad's covert skills."

I raise my eyebrows at that, but he just shakes his head. "He's a spook, Jane. Doesn't go to class, never hangs out with any of us, and when I do catch a glimpse of him, he looks pretty bad."

I set the plate of food down on the window ledge, wondering if the birds will come back and eat it before Cutter does. "What do you mean? Do you think he's sick?"

Travis shrugs, but the furrow is back between his eyes as he looks around. "He's only a skinny guy. Small, with little bones like you, and the couple of times I've seen him, he's kind of faded into the background."

I'm guessing everyone probably looks that way to Travis.

"Except for the tattoos," he muses. "He's got them all over. Neck, hands, even one on his cheek."

"Really? And the college is okay with that?"

He scowls for a second, but as he fiddles with the leather cuff on his wrist, I can tell he's not angry at me. Travis has just spent his life fighting battles on every front, and everywhere he looks are little reminders of that endless war. "With some people, if you give them an inch, then you can take a mile."

I don't think that's how the saying goes, but Travis waves me away from the window. "Just don't come up here alone, okay? It might look like omega heaven, but Cutter's no angel."

Despite the strange events of the day, I sleep soundly, waking early enough to find Travis still stretched out on the couch. For a long while I just lie still and stare at him, taking in the square jaw, the hard cheekbones, and the long curl of lashes, so soft against all that hardness. When the need to go to the bathroom gets too much, I sneak out from under the covers and tiptoe upstairs to do my business. When I come back, Travis is sitting up and rubbing at his eyes, the muscles in his biceps as hard as rocks. To distract myself, I grab the boxing gloves off his weight bench. "Can you teach me a couple of moves?"

He blinks at me, still sleepy, and along with my admiration for his deep blue eyes, I also feel a pang of guilt. I've kicked him out of his bed, and now I'm messing with his morning routine. But he just slaps his hands on his knees and stands, stretching until his back pops. "Yeah. Of course. I should've thought of that myself."

I shake my head, because alphas don't teach omegas, period. But he doesn't hesitate to start rummaging through the equipment trunk in the corner. "Those gloves will swallow you whole. Let me get you something smaller." He pulls out a pair of pale blue gloves and inspects them. They're the right size, but they're heavily patched with silver industrial tape, and he grimaces. "Not the best, but we can make them work."

I nod, almost bouncing on my toes in excitement. "Do I just start punching the bag?"

He snorts. "Sure, if you want to break your wrist." He waves me over and fits my hands into the gloves. They smell like sweat, musk, and to my eager nose, freedom . But he gives me a warning look. "Remember, you get in a jam, the best thing to do is run. Most people you're gonna want to punch will be bigger and stronger than you, so get out of there and come find me."

I think of Carmen Van Ness hitting me in the chest, but then the disturbing image of Manson looming over me in his battle gear flickers through my mind. I'm going to have to come up with a plan to get out of game night on Friday, but I can't focus on that right now. "Okay, but this will help me when I leave, right? I'm not always going to have someone like you to run to."

His hands falter as he pulls the straps tight around my wrists. "You said you had people out there."

I scratch my chin with my gloved hand, feeling awkward. And like the worst kind of liar, because ever since I left the commune, I've been on my own. That's just the way it is for mercies. "Yeah, but I still want to learn how to knock an alpha on his butt."

He grunts a laugh, taking me by the shoulders and steering me to the middle of the room. He grabs a rectangular pad from the trunk and stops in front of me, legs braced apart. "Right. We're gonna work on the basics, starting with your hands up in front of your face like this. Good. Protecting your head is the priority, always. Move your feet out, balancing your weight. Now, angle your body. Yep, a little more. Less target for them to hit, plus extra power for your swing. As you punch, lock your wrist, extend your arm all the way, and then return your hand to your defensive position."

He watches me follow his instructions, correcting me as we go. When he thinks I'm ready, he lifts the pad and I land a punch. The satisfying smack of leather-on-leather runs through me like electricity. Travis is watching me so closely he can't miss it, and his lip curls up. "Good. Now, do fifty more."

He has me punch the pad with both fists, then shows me how to land a hook, first to the head, then to the body. When I've got the hang of that, he shows me the uppercut. I like that a lot . The power, the violence, and the way you can put your whole body into the move. I can imagine Travis driving his big fist up under someone's chin and nearly taking their head off…

"Okay," I pant, hands up as I take a step back. To be honest, I'm a little shaken by the ruthless turn to my thoughts. A week ago, the idea of hitting anyone would have never crossed my mind. "I think I've got it."

He snorts another laugh. "Sweet girl, you haven't got anything yet."

I tingle all over at the pet name, but he just waves me back into place. "You won't always have time to plan your attack, so remember to go for the weak spots. Even a big thug like me has ‘em." It's on my tongue to tell him that thugs don't help omegas when his fingers brush my neck. "Throat. Groin. Knee. That's where you focus. And use your heel, knee, fist, or elbow. Strike, retreat, and always remember to run if you can. Avoiding a fight is always the best way to protect yourself."

I stare at him, his gaze so intense it's like he's trying to rewire my brain. "Okay, Travis."

"Promise me, Jane. Nothing matters except living to see another day."

I frown, because there's a sour note in his scent, but nod my agreement. "I promise."

His shoulders relax an inch, and he thumps a fist into the pad. "Good. Now we put them together. This is an easy but effective combination. Jab, jab, hook. Twenty times. Let's go."

I gape at his lightning-fast demonstration, but he just punches the middle of his pad again and tells me to get on with it. I follow his instructions, changing the combinations to use different angles, different hands, going light on a jab and following with what he calls an R.I.P. hook. Oh, I really like that one. We practice it for a while, and he only calls a halt when I'm dripping with sweat and my arms feel like overcooked noodles.

"Good work," he says, tossing the pad back in the box and rubbing a hand over my bristly head. "I think you've got the makings of a real little scrapper."

Pride blooms in my chest, even as I duck away from his touch. His brows draw down and he snatches his hand back like I burned him. "Sorry. I shouldn't have touched you like that."

"It's okay." I can feel heat burning in my cheeks as I stare at my gloves. Even though they feel like they weigh ten pounds, I don't really want to take them off. "I liked the lesson. Thanks for teaching me."

"Sure thing." He grabs the straps on the gloves and peels them off without touching any other part of me. They go back into the equipment trunk, and he jerks his thumb upwards, avoiding my eyes. "You should grab the first shower."

I nod, but my feet are now stuck to the floor. "Travis, I didn't mind you touching me. It's just my hair… I hate the bristles."

He looks up, surprised. "But they're so soft."

I stare at him, waiting for a smirk that doesn't come. No one has ever called my hair soft. Wiry, wild, knotty, thick… That's what I'm used to, and I feel my cheeks go pink the longer he stares at my head. Reaching up, I gently run my palm over the bristles, surprised to find he's right. "I feel like a cat."

Holding my gaze, he steps forward and extends his hand, his fingers brushing mine as they pet my hair. Even though I know he's being gentle, there's a weight to his touch that feels good. "What's today's lesson, scrapper?"

I think about it for a moment, trying not to shiver as his palm rasps back and forth over the bristles. "Protect your head at all times." But then I remember what he said about avoiding the fight if I can. "And the safest option is to run."

To my complete shock, he leans forward and drops a kiss on my sweaty brow. "Good girl. Now go shower before I start breaking my own rules."