Chapter Thirty-Eight

Faith

WE HARDLY SAW THE RINGLEADERS. I ASSUMED THEY WERE SCARED OF US . I grit my teeth. NOW I REALIZE IT WAS A CONTINGENCY .

Jaxon and Micah stare at me with big, pressing eyes. I know it's taking everything they have to stay silent and not interrupt.

IT TOOK A LOT OF GUARDS TO KEEP THINGS RUNNING. 2 ON SHOWERS, 3 ON MEALS. PER CELL. I nod to myself, writing fast enough that the memory doesn't quite consume me. THEY WORKED IN SHIFTS. EVEN WATCHED US SLEEP.

Micah bristles. My inner omega whines at me to put my hand on his leg, to calm him, but I don't think either of us can handle being touched right now.

AXE, I write, more stiffly, WAS THE R'LEADERS EYES AND EARS. ANYTHING WENT DOWN IN THE CELLS, HE'D KNOW. I scoff. TALK ABOUT STOCKHOLM SYNDROME.

Jaxon leans forward, frowning. "You're sure he used to be a fighter?"

NO-ONE WOULD'VE RESPECTED— I cross out the word, and try again— WOULD'VE RESPECTED OBEYED HIM IF HE DIDN'T HAVE SOME RING CRED.

"What was he like?" Micah asks. "I mean, as a person. Any ticks or weird hang-ups?"

I smile bitterly. MY GUESS - IMPOTENT.

Jaxon chokes. "What makes you say that?"

YEARS OF ESTRALIDE. PLUS ALL THE MACHO BULLSHIT.

"Maybe that was a safety measure," Micah says, diplomatically, "making sure no-one stepped out of line?"

IT WAS MORE THAN THAT.

I stop myself. My hand is already cramping up—gripping the pen harder than I should be—and besides, I'm not sure they want to hear the gory details.

Jaxon and Micah look at me with concern. Gently, Jaxon takes my hand. I want to lace my fingers between his, drag him into me. But I'm the one who started this. I need to see it through.

I write, HE KNEW ABOUT ME AND FANG.

The room stills. Maybe they can sense where this is going.

I take a breath. SOMETIMES HE'D KNOCK ME AROUND, TRYING TO TURN FANG FERAL. My stomach twists. MAKES FOR A BLOODIER MATCH.

"Oh my god," Micah whispers in horror. "Faith, I'm so sorry."

"I'll kill him," Jaxon growls. "Next time I see that asshole, I swear to god—he's dead."

Jaxon, I sign, meaningfully.

I'm surprised by how quickly he softens, staring at my hands like he's hypnotized.

"I mean it," he says, hoarsely. "I'll kill him."

I sign again, Jaxon .

He growls, a hint of arousal pushing out of his scent. My inner omega delights at his reaction, making a mental note: alpha likes it when I say his name .

"You, uh—" Micah clears his throat. "You mentioned the ringleaders took stimulants. Were the guards the same?"

I shake my head no. HAD TO STAY SHARP.

Jaxon smirks. "You guys keep them on their toes?"

PROS, NO. ROOKIES, YES.

Neither of them need to ask why this is the case. I've already explained: the longer you're in the ring, the clearer it becomes there's only one way out—and that's to win.

WITH AXE GONE, I try to explain, THE R'LEADERS WILL STRUGGLE. THEY CAN'T DO SHIT WITHOUT THE GUARDS. I glance up meaningfully. AXE CONTROLLED THE GUARDS.

Jaxon's brow furrows. "What're you saying, omega?"

"They're vulnerable," Micah realizes. "Not only have we captured half of their guards, plus their lower-ranking leaders, but now we have the guard. The one the ringleaders rely on."

I nod. EITHER THEY HIRE MORE GUARDS, OR—

"Or they get their hands dirty," Jaxon says. "For once."

DESPERATE TIMES.

"Desperate measures." Jaxon stands, getting excited. "You're right—we gotta hit them hard. And soon. It has to be soon, while they're scrambling."

That's what I've been trying to explain to Caleb. A single scouting party isn't nearly enough. We need the entire NCPD flooding the tunnels. Raids on every abandoned property with a cellar or basement in the city limits. No-one is getting away this time.

Least of all my mate.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Micah says, shooting me an apologetic look when I snarl. "The RDF already knows the arena's in shambles. Putting extra pressure on could be dangerous, especially if the ringleaders feel they're losing control of the rogues."

Jaxon scowls. "What, you think they'll hurt the rogues?"

NO, I write. My inner omega is defiant. FANG WOULD NEVER LET THAT HAPPEN.

Jaxon and Micah share a nervous look. They always get a little touchy when Fang comes up, like they're not sure what to say. Or maybe they're just scared of setting me off.

Micah rubs my thigh. "What you've told us is great. Really great. I'm sure Jaxon will pass it on to HQ first thing tomorrow." He looks at Jax, who nods affirmatively. "Now, I really need you to take your meds. Can you do that for me?"

Somehow I feel exhausted, as if I've been talking for hours, and yet I've barely touched the surface of what I want to say. I scowl. THERE'S MORE.

"And we're here to listen," Micah assures me. "But first …" He plucks the pill bottle off the coffee table. "Please?"

I want to insist. Bare my teeth if I have to. And maybe they'd oblige … but is that really how I want to win this? By fighting them?

Only a couple weeks ago, the answer to that would've been why the fuck not?

Yet, now, I find myself accepting the pills and swallowing them down. Micah smiles. Jaxon pulls me into his lap, purring. He hands me a sandwich, "Eat this. Don't want you getting sick." He smirks. "Can't fight if you're sick."

Alpha makes a good point, my inner omega comments.

I keep writing between bites—giving them specifics on when the guards changed shifts, how they chose the matchups, protocols for when rogues got sick, or hurt, or worse. So much information that my palm gets smudged with ink, and by the end of it, I'm running out of paper.

"You did good, baby girl," Jaxon purrs, pulling me deeper into his chest. My eyes feel heavy, the pain meds setting in. "Sirena's gonna have a field day."

I purr back, pleased with myself.

Tell Caleb, I sign, too tired to write any more. Please.

Micah nods, interpreting. "We'll tell him. I promise."

Just saying Caleb's name puts me on edge again. I hate the way he left this morning. I hate the way he talked to Micah, like he'd done something wrong. Micah's feelings—and mine—are our business. Who is he to dictate otherwise?

Uh, Pack Wilder's head alpha? my inner omega chimes in. I shush her.

I've had enough years of being told what to do. Who to fight, who to fuck, who to serve. I won't do it anymore.

I nuzzle my face in Jaxon's chest, reveling in his warm chocolate scent.

Fang loves chocolate … I recall, dreamily. I used to tease him.—big strong alpha with a sweet tooth.

I'm not sure he'd like Jaxon. But I know he'd like his scent, and that's a good place to start.

Before I can ask myself where I'm going with that thought, Micah drapes a blanket over my shoulders and kisses my cheek.

"Sleep, angel," he murmurs. "We're not going anywhere."

Maybe it's the pain meds working their magic, or Pack Wilder's scents wrapping around me, but I don't know if I've ever trusted any four words more.