6. Jane

Cold.

Cramped.

Sick ….

I can taste it on the back of my tongue, like gunpowder and bile. I shy away from it, too exhausted to deal with a patient right now. But, no… I'm not on the ward. There's no way they'd let me go back to work after what happened. Which means the sickness rolling through my veins is all me …

My head is throbbing, and my legs ache like I've just climbed Citadel Mountain. Out of habit, my mind cycles through all the possible ailments that match my symptoms, but I shut it down fast. It doesn't matter. I'm being sent to the front, where the enemy picks off healers faster than officers. It's probably a blessing in disguise to arrive already halfway to the grave.

But a scent tickles my nose, and I groan. It's iron – an alpha – but there's a fresh edge to it that makes my mouth water. The closest I can think of is the water I used to drink on the commune. The cooks always added a squeeze of lemon to the rainwater they collected in metal barrels, and it left a tart, tingling sensation on my tongue.

I groan again, tears pricking the back of my eyes as I think of home. Growing up on a commune wasn't easy. Once upon a time they were dotted all over the countryside, little oases planted in fertile farming land, often with a strong clan alpha as a benefactor. But war, failed crops, and a desire for a more adventurous life have whittled down the numbers, so that most communes are now considered dusty relics of the past. And it was hard at times, with no corner store, only a few days off each month, and little chance of privacy. Life's pleasures were scarce, and farm work was unrelenting. But it's also true that adversity binds people together in a way privilege never can. You don't really know who your friends are until you've all suffered through a drought and a locust plague in the same year.

"Can you open your eyes, Omega?"

I jerk at the low alpha rumble. There's a hint of anger there, but it doesn't feel like it's directed at me. I wait for more, but he's silent, his scent unchanging. He's probably some babysitting grunt, I realize, forced to take charge of me until we reach the front.

"Yes," I whisper, blinking against the heaviness of my lashes. It takes a moment for the room to come into focus and then I'm confronted by peeling walls and a circle of mold eating away at the corner of the ceiling. I expected to find myself stuffed into a troop carrier, so I probably look quite startled as I meet the gaze of the alpha by my side.

I'm lying on a bed, my head cushioned on a pillow. The mattress is comfortable under me, and when I brush a hand over the comforter, it stirs up more of that citrusy perfume. But somehow, I know this bed – and that alluring scent - doesn't belong to the alpha leaning on the window ledge.

He's huge, like a mountain blocking out the sunlight filtering through the drab gray drapes. A soldier, which is what I'm expecting, only he's in a college uniform instead of military fatigues. His blazer doesn't fit – too tight all over – and his trousers are worn into shiny patches on his muscular thighs. But he gives off as much alpha dominance as any of the junior officers I've seen on the ward.

"There's water on the nightstand," he tells me. "And a donut. Do you like chocolate glaze?"

I nod, even though I've never tasted a donut before. The food at the Omega Center is designed to keep our energy levels up and is bland at best. But I don't reach for the treat, even though my belly feels like a hollowed-out stump.

"Who put you in a box, Omega?"

I shrink away from the flare of anger in his voice. But then his words sink in, and I look around, bewildered. "What box?"

He nods his head towards the end of the bed. I crane my neck, but all I can see is the sharp corner of a metal lid. "We found you stuffed in a footlocker. You don't remember that?"

I shake my head, my throat making a dry clicking sound. It's panic. Because while I don't remember the box, I'll never forget the look in the colonel's eyes as I was sentenced to a short, brutal death on the front. "I don't… I can't…"

He waves a hand, cutting off the flutter of words in my throat. "Don't worry about that now. Have a drink. You're dehydrated."

I sigh at the reprieve, pulling myself up on an aching elbow so I can reach for the water. It's in a sealed plastic bottle like they hand out to soldiers on the ward, and I screw up my nose at the fizz of electrolytes on my tongue. But I take a few quick swallows while my gaze swings between the chocolate donut and the alpha. I feel too nauseous to reach for either, but that doesn't stop me from looking at them both.

I'm not sure which one is more fascinating. The donut is obvious in its appeal, all glossy and sweet, the dough under the glaze plump and golden. But the alpha makes me stare for a different reason. His eyes are a darker shade of the patch of sky behind him, and his features are bold, his bones jutting under his pale skin. There's a scar on his chin, partially hidden by a light scruff, and he wears a cuff on his wrist, the leather scratched and worn. At first glance, he's too old to be a student, but there's a wrinkle between his thick, dark brows that makes me think he's younger than he looks.

Does he know about the colonel?

I can't imagine I ended up here without him having some part in it, but I'm not going to mention him until the alpha does. There's no point ratting myself out until I understand who he is and why he's been charged with guarding me.

"Can you tell me your name?"

I flinch, because it's on the tip of my tongue to say Mercy . But that's not really my name, and now more than ever, I need to distance myself from my profession. "Jane," I murmur, taking another small sip of the water. It's helping my throat, but my head still feels fuzzy and slow. "What's yours?"

"Travis." He watches me closely. "Travis Wake."

No title, so he's definitely a student. Soldiers can't help but rattle off their rank.

I glance down at myself. I'm lying on top of the covers, so I can see all the way to my toes. My feet are bare, but I'm wearing a scratchy pair of overalls. I've cut enough of them off the bodies of injured soldiers to know they're part of the military uniform.

"What can you remember? Do you know where you were yesterday?"

I fidget; I can't help myself. We're trained to never lie. But we're also told that if we have to break bad news to someone who's behaving erratically, to stick as close to the truth as possible. "I'm a service omega. I work as a domestic for a senior officer." I think of that fancy desk in York's quarters. "Out on his estate, obviously. I was there working, and now… I'm here."

That crease between his eyebrows has deepened, his hands clenched into fists as he stares at me. "Which senior officer?"

I gulp. He looks like he's ready to go and hunt York down right now, so I deflect. "Where am I?"

He shuffles his feet, running a broad hand over his hair. It's dark like his eyes, but with a furrow at the front. It'd probably curl if he grew it longer, and I suddenly feel a kinship with him. Kiss curls are rare, but I think it would look pretty amazing against his stark features.

"This is Bleak House, one of the residences on campus," he says, watching me through thick lashes. "You know you're at Sentinel Academy, right?"

I give a tentative nod, but I'm saved from tangling myself in more lies by a sound at the door. Travis is on his feet, hands still clenched as the doorknob turns and a guy peeks around the corner. His gaze flies to Travis, then bounces to the bed – to me - and sticks.

"My room, my key," he says as he slides inside, holding up an old-fashioned brass key. But then he lifts his other hand, palm out, and faces Travis. "I'm just here to talk."

"Good," Travis says suddenly, gesturing towards me. "Then tell her how you got her into this fucked-up situation."

The new guy frowns, but where the grooves around Travis' mouth seem permanent, his lips quickly curl upwards. He's in another well-worn school uniform, but as he slips out of the blazer, an unadulterated wave of his citrus scent washes over me. This isn't just his room; I'm lying on his bed.

Not that he looks disturbed by that fact as he sits in the chair next to a rickety desk. "I'm Drew. I'm a junior at Sentinel Academy, and you're safe here, in case Travis hasn't made that clear."

I'm actually surprised by how calm I feel. These alphas might be strangers, but there's nothing in their scent or body language to set off any alarms. "I'm Jane. I work as a domestic on an estate. And I don't remember how I got here."

He studies me for a long moment, but he doesn't seem disappointed by the few scraps of information I can offer. Instead, he drums long fingers on his knee and gives me a look that's almost teasing. "Well, I see you helped yourself to one of my donuts."

" Your donuts. I didn't…" My gaze flies to Travis, but Drew just smiles. "It's okay, Jane. I'm talking to the giant pickpocket over there."

Travis grunts, but I study Drew curiously. It's silly, but he reminds me of a fairytale prince. We didn't have many books back on the commune, since they were considered a pointless distraction, but I remember one story about a dashing knight who saved a princess from a dragon. He had a square jaw, sandy hair, and eyes somewhere between hazel and caramel. Pretty much Drew to a T, except he also has a pair of dimples that are deep enough to fall in. I find myself watching the one in his left cheek as he leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and asks, "What about the hair? Is that part of your uniform, or is it more of a fashion statement?"

A blush climbs my cheeks as I go to tuck my unruly waves back, but my fingers scrape against soft bristles instead. I jerk up, gently feeling around my ear. Did I have an accident? Is that why I was sent here instead of shipped to the front?

But as my fingers drift over my shaved skull, my eyes widen with horror.

"Jesus, you're an idiot," Travis growls, striding forward to snatch my hand up. He squeezes my shaking fingers in his giant paw. "It's okay. You're fine."

"But… my hair! " It comes out as a strangled wail. "I'm bald , aren't I?"

"No more so than most of the guys on campus," Drew offers, but Travis kicks him with a big, scuffed boot, making him yelp. He looks less like a fairytale prince as he hugs his shin and glares daggers at Travis. "I'm just saying it doesn't look bad!"

"No, but... it's gone ," I whisper, clinging to Travis' fingers. There's a mirror next to the door, but I cringe away from it. Oh, God. I'm bald . "It was never very nice," I sniff, my throat burning. "All frizzy and thick, like a mop. I mean, I hated it most of the time…"

A muscle ticks in Travis' jaw, and he reaches over to pick up the donut. "It's not the same," he says in a gravelly voice as he holds it out to me, "but it might take the sting away for a bit."

I blink back tears, hating myself for acting so weak. No one wants to see a mercy crying over something as silly as her hair. Not when some soldiers wake up to find they've lost a limb or that half their platoon has died. "I'm sorry," I sniff. "And thanks for the donut, but I think I'll save it." I can barely look at them – hating the pity I know will be shining in their eyes – so I quickly wrap the treat back in its napkin and swing my legs over the side of the bed. "I should be going, anyway…"

But the way my head spins, the room breaking into jagged pieces, all I can do is lean heavily against Travis' leg. It's like clinging to a warm tree, his thigh muscles flexing under my weight. Instead of shaking me off, he wraps a big arm around my shoulders, his fingers dancing over the back of my skull until he gives an angry hiss. "Shit, you're injured. How did you get this lump, Jane?"

I just cling to his leg and shake my woozy head, trying to block out everything between the healing and now. "I don't know," I lie. "Maybe I fell."

"Feels like a rifle butt," he growls, his fingers gentle. "Who would do that to you, Jane?"

I just press my lips shut and Drew says quietly, "She probably has a concussion. It would explain why she has some memory loss."

Travis gives a growl of displeasure. "Well, you're injured and dehydrated. You need to lie down and rest until you're better."

"I can't." My protest sounds weak to my own ears, especially since I'm sinking back onto the lemon-scented pillow. "This is Drew's room…"

It's probably not time to sleep yet, based on the sunlight filtering through the window. But that doesn't mean Drew wants some strange girl lying around on his bed.

"He can bunk with his brother," Travis says, his dark eyes narrowed on his housemate. "Besides, I need to talk to him, and that's gonna take a while."

I blink at the ominous edge to his voice, but now that I'm lying down, everything aches and all I want to do is let sleep take it away. But as they head to the door, I reach out, grabbing Drew's sleeve. "Thank you for letting me use your room. And I'm sorry for all the trouble."

A blush climbs his golden throat, and he pulls his hand away quickly, like my touch is poison. "Yeah, well, don't worry about it. We'll work something out."