Chapter Forty-Six

Faith

I wake up surrounded by cinnamon-scented sheets.

I turn my face down, breathing it in. My inner omega is almost placated enough, dreamy and warm, to stop me from asking what I'm doing here.

Then my eyes snap open.

Daylight squeezes past the chipped blinds, casting everything in a muted glow. I sit up, examining the space. A towel hanging over the doorknob. Shirts on the floor. Besides that, it's surprisingly sparse—not much more than the king bed and a wobbly chest of drawers.

Does Maverick really live like this?

Just like that, it all floods back. Safe house. The mission. Running away from Pack Wilder.

It would kill you.

My feet hit the floorboards with an agonizing twinge. I'm barely aware of myself falling until I'm on my hands and knees.

The bedroom door swings open. Maverick barges in, his naked chest heaving.

"Faith—" then he sees me, on the floor. "Oh. Morning."

I try to hoist myself up. My stupid ankle is killing me—I must've shot past the usual time I take my meds.

"Easy, kitten." He grabs my waist, perching me on the edge of the bed.

I'm fine, I sign angrily.

"Yeah, yeah, no touching." He sighs dramatically—totally misreading me. "I'll grab your crutches."

He moves to leave, and I force myself to limp after him—he still hasn't told me about the mission—when he turns. A slow smile spreads across his lips.

"You know, if you wanted to be carried, all you had to do was say." At my glare, he cocks his head. "Was that insensitive? Say? "

The mission, I sign, too angry to care that he won't understand. What happened?

He rolls his eyes. "That's it. You're getting carried."

Before I can argue, he whips me off my feet, throwing me over his shoulder like a doll. The last time someone grabbed me like this, I was being thrown across the ring—but there's a low purr in his breath as he walks me through the house. Letting me know I'm safe.

If not extremely pissed off.

He puts me down at the kitchen table. Something is crackling on the stovetop, and something else is definitely burning in the toaster.

"Shit," he mutters, popping up two pieces of semi-charred bread.

All I can do is watch as he assembles a plate of toast, eggs, and bacon, dropping it in front of me. " Bon appetit, " he says, proudly.

Frustrated as I am, my years in the arena—not to mention growing up in a foster pack—mean I'm not one to turn down a hot meal. I start eating. A few minutes later, he joins me, carrying his own plate.

"I was gonna bring you breakfast in bed," he confesses. Then, at my disapproving look, adds, "Figured you were used to someone waking you up."

He's not wrong, though it pains me to admit.

Maverick shovels a couple forkfuls into his mouth, watching me curiously. "I know you're trying to ask about the mission," he says at last.

My blood boils. You knew? So he was just playing stupid to annoy me?

"Truth is, I haven't heard anything. Figured that's not what you want to hear, so I didn't want to say."

I don't believe you, I almost sign, but stop myself. Because, annoyingly enough, I do believe him. Maverick doesn't have a track record of keeping things from me.

Unlike certain other alphas I know.

"Here." He slides his phone across the table. "You want to rip me a new one, I'm all ears."

My fingers hover over the keypad. All morning, I've wanted to snap at him, but now I actually have the chance … I just feel empty.

"Seriously? Nothing?" His scent dampens with disappointment. "Guess all you really care about is the mission. I don't blame you. Honestly, I'm also pretty pissed your head alpha hasn't sent me an update—those are my guys out there, too."

I swallow, my throat suddenly feeling dry, before typing out a message: CALEB WOULD LET YOU KNOW IF SOMEONE WAS HURT.

Maverick grunts, making it impossible to tell whether or not he's convinced. "Funny. You didn't bite my head off that time."

I frown, confused, before I realize what he means.

Your head alpha.

"Come on," Maverick groans. "Don't leave me hanging here. There's gotta be a reason he brought you out here in the middle of the night. So what was it? You guys get into a fight? Things get bloody?"

I chuff, pushing my plate away.

"Or maybe it's the opposite." He scans me up and down, heat in his gaze. "Those Wilder alphas are all over you, kitten."

I glare at him, though my omega is secretly overjoyed at the words. She wants everyone to know that Jaxon and Micah have been inside of me—at the same time—making me come until I saw stars.

But I meant what I said last night. Pack Wilder doesn't own me.

And I don't own them.

We'd all be better off if I just … removed myself from the picture. The Wilder alphas still have each other, and I still have Fang. No-one has to get hurt.

Except you're already hurt , my omega reminds me. And Micah and Jaxon weren't exactly pain-free, either, the last time you saw them .

Still feeling Maverick's eyes on me, I grumpily type, DON'T YOU OWN A SHIRT ?

He looks down at his chest like he's only just realized he's half-naked. A devilish smile crosses his lips. "I do, in my bedroom—where I gallantly let you sleep last night." His expression falters. "Ugh. Guess that means Wilder's scents are all over my bedsheets now, too."

I feel like he's waiting for me to scoff, or maybe crack a smile—only to end up more disappointed.

"How about this? You tell me one thing about what went down last night, and I'll tell you …" His eyes light up. "How all of us got our start at the RDF."

NOT INTERESTED, I type.

"Sure you are."

DROP IT.

"How can I, when you're being all sexy and mysterious?" He waits for me to react, so clearly trying to get a rise, then huffs. "Alright. I'm all about good faith—see what I did there?—so I'll go first. Me, I'm ex-military. Got plucked out of special ops. Jax worked private security. Rich packs, mostly. He must've been head-hunted, or maybe referred on for his stellar service. Micah, I dunno—he was normally the one doing the head-hunting."

I guess that shouldn't come as a surprise. Who's more qualified to put together a solid team than a registered psychiatrist?

"He and Caleb were together long before the RDF. My guess, they both had a hand in getting the squad off the ground."

Wait . I cock my head. TOGETHER ?

"I mean, as far as I know, they weren't technically packmates until Jaxon showed up—that's when Caleb put in his pack registration—but they've known each other for ten, fifteen years. College sweethearts, I think."

SWEETHEARTS ??

He laughs. "Just speculating, kitten. Don't get too excited."

I want to smack myself. Romantic or not, Caleb and Micah have been each other's primary support for over a decade. No wonder Caleb gets so protective. No wonder he forced Micah to take some time away from the RDF. No wonder he threatened me when I got my claws out.

To them I'm an outsider. A half-feral … intruder .

"Alright!" Maverick claps his hands. "Your turn, kitten."

I recoil. My turn ?

"I talked, you listened. Now you give me something. Like, for instance, why you showed up at my place in nothing but a t-shirt."

He's trying to throw me off-guard—make me angry, or flustered, so I'll spill my secrets.

I ask, WHY DO YOU CARE?

"Uh, because I'm nosy?"

At my cool, pointed silence, he sighs.

"Because," he grits out, "it's not just Wilder I can smell on you. It's pain . Lots of it." He leans forward, his voice deepening. "And I'd really like to know who I need to beat up to fix it."

My chest twists. Here I was, thinking I had masked the sting of Caleb's rejection—telling myself I don't care—but if Maverick can sense something is off … I must not be as strong as I thought I was.

I type a message and thrust the phone in Maverick's face— SHOWER.

Maverick puts his hand on mine. "Not so fast, omega."

Yes, so fast . I need to get Jaxon's and Micah's scents off of me. Need to stop smelling of anything at all.

This time I have the sense to grab my crutches, hobbling into the hallway. Maverick follows close behind.

"Calm down," he says, "I'm not gonna stop you from showering. Just thought you might need a garbage bag for that cast."

I stop, considering. Maverick exhales.

"Alright. How about clothes? You got something to wear?"

I eye him up and down, drawing attention back to his shirtless chest. Do you ?

He must read my expression, offering a taut smirk. "Touché." He guides me into an old bathroom with chipped, black-and-white tiles. "Sit tight. I'll be right back." His gaze hardens. "I mean it—no slamming the door as soon as I'm gone. Okay?"

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Okay to anything if it means he leaves me alone.

Maverick disappears for a moment. I turn to the shower, cranking the creaky valves, wanting to make it as hot as possible.

Maverick returns with a plastic bag, plus the bag I brought with me from Wilder Den. As I'm pushing him out, he turns, towering over me.

"Faith," he says, lowly, "you, uh … you gonna be okay?"

I don't think either of us know exactly what he's asking— okay in the shower, or okay in general—but I know his concern is real, and it makes my inner omega twinge.

I pray he doesn't linger on the other side of the door—not wanting him to hear the way my breath hitches, and trembles, as I finally step into the shower and let myself fall apart.