Chapter Thirteen

Faith

I'M STAYING.

The Wilder alphas stare at me with varying expressions. Micah looks concerned—though that's nothing new. Jaxon puffs up his chest like he's got something to be proud of. And Caleb just sighs.

"I figured as much," he says.

I flip over the notepad, writing on the other side: YOU SAID I HAD WEEKS. THAT'S PLENTY OF TIME TO FIND FANG.

And now their faces are all more or less matching—dark, begrudging, with the faintest touch of disappointment.

Caleb holds my glare. "These things … they take time."

Time ? If I was left to my own devices, I could sniff out Fang in a matter of days. The only reason I'm still here is to tap into the RDF's resource, but if they're planning to fuck around for weeks —

"Keep in mind," Micah says gently, "it took the RDF months of scouting and planning before they could find you . We're dealing with highly sophisticated criminals here."

"Criminals who are good at going underground," Jaxon mutters.

I can't help myself. I grab the pen in a tight fist and write— YOU KNOW WHO ELSE IS UNDERGROUND? MY MATE .

"We know," Caleb says in that soothing voice I just want to hate, but instantly, I can feel my inner omega softening. "We know, omega."

It looks like Jaxon is about to say something else before Micah puts a hand on his arm, silencing him. They all stare at me like I'm a ticking time bomb—one wrong word from turning feral.

No . I take a breath. I won't give them the satisfaction.

Of course, I knew the ringleaders must've been doing some thing to keep us sedated (and, well, sterile). It was just never my biggest concern. If anything, down there, it was a relief.

But I haven't had a heat in three years. Haven't even had a scent.

I'm not stupid. I'm fully aware the blowback is going to be a fucking nightmare. I just … don't care.

"I meant to ask," Micah says suddenly. "Do you have any allergies?"

I scowl, realizing they've all been continuing on like normal while I zoned out. Micah is behind the kitchen bench, piling ingredients on the chopping board.

I shake my head.

Jaxon offers to set me up on the couch. I admit, I like the idea of watching some more TV—it seems like the quickest way of catching up on the world—but I know I won't be able to relax. Apart from sharing my medical results, Caleb hasn't said a damn thing about the investigation.

I start to follow him into the bedroom. Jaxon grabs my wrist.

I hiss, spinning.

"Sorry." He puts his hands up. "Just, a word to the wise about our head alpha." He smirks. "He's not super talkative until after he's showered. You're better off waiting."

Exasperated, my hands move on their own— I've been waiting for three years, jackass .

Jaxon gapes. "Woah. Was that sign language?"

I hesitate. Pull away.

"No, no," he says, "it was cool! What did it mean?"

I think back on my words. In particular, the ‘jackass'. Maybe not telling him would be a mercy.

"Holy shit." Jaxon's eyes light up. "Are you … smiling?"

No, I sign instinctively.

"I don't know what that means, so I'm gonna take it as a ‘yes'." He grins. "Unless, of course, you wanted to teach me?"

I go to sign No again, but stop myself, blushing.

Jaxon's scent practically drowns me, rolling over my body in thick, hot waves of chocolate. I have to face away, furious at the way my mouth waters.

Guess that withdrawal is kicking in sooner than I thought. There's no other explanation for it.

Or why my omega enjoys Pack Wilder's scents at all.

***

Caleb is gone again the next morning. And the morning after that.

The only update he's willing to give me is that they've arranged for some of the rogues to speak to a sketch artist. Once again, he asked if I'd be willing. This time I told him yes.

But since then I've heard nothing. No-one but Jaxon, Caleb, and Micah come through the den. No-one lets me leave.

It's infuriating.

On the third morning, I put on my new jeans and dig around the bags for a shirt. The only one I haven't tried on is this long-sleeved blouse. Not exactly conducive to fist-fighting.

I'm about to rip it off when I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Normally, the first thing I'd see is my scar. I got it from before my time in the ring—back when I was a teenager, fighting for scraps in my foster pack. A couple of the older alphas stole some beers and decided to play doctor with a broken glass bottle. The doctor said I was lucky not to lose an eye.

Me? I thought I was luckier when I ran away.

But this time, when I see myself, there's something … new. Maybe I'm taller. Or stronger.

You look like a person , my omega tells me.

Suddenly there's a knock at my door, making me jump. Jaxon is waiting on the other side.

"Morning! Hey, nice shirt." I peer behind him, searching for Caleb, when he says, "Settle something for us, would you?"

From the kitchen, Micah groans. "At least let her eat breakfast first, Jax."

I frown questioningly.

"Which is better? This one—?" Jaxon gestures dramatically, touching his chin, then making an L shape with his arms. "Or this?" He does the same thing, but uses his opposite arm so the L is backwards.

Is he … trying to tell me ‘good morning' in sign?

"Me and Micah have been practicing," he explains. "I reckon the second way's better, but Micah says it's the first."

I hesitate—for once, not because I'm feeling cautious. Something in me just can't get over the fact that they've been thinking about this. Arguing about it.

I grab my notepad, writing, YOU'RE LEFT-HANDED.

Jaxon cocks his head. "How'd you guess?"

I try not to roll my eyes. THE WAY YOU SIGN. YOU'RE BOTH RIGHT – YOURS IS JUST LEFT-HANDED.

It's like a weight's been lifted off of Jaxon's shoulders. He laughs. " Ohhh . Duh."

Once again, there are only three of us at the table for breakfast that morning. A part of me wants to do what I always do, and demand they takes me to RDF's headquarters, but for some reason I find myself eating without argument.

Suddenly coming to terms with the fact that so much of what Pack Wilder is doing … they're doing for my sake.