Chapter Forty-Eight

Faith

We get set up in a tinted-glass booth. I can still hear the other shooter, probably several booths across, but I can barely see anything outside of our own confined space.

Maverick puts a gun in my hands. His hands find my waist, angling me towards the target about fifteen feet down—a genderless silhouette with various bullseyes painted on.

Gently, he pulls my earmuffs back, murmuring down my temple, "You're gonna want to spread your legs a little. Toes … parallel. Yeah, like that." I feel his smile. "Now, bend slightly forward at the hips." I bend, feeling him behind me, and he sucks in a breath. "Yup. Trick is not to lock up."

It's just like fighting. If you reach out too far—arms, legs, back—you'll snap in two.

"You got it," Maverick says. "Now all that's left is to take a breath … and fire."

He returns my earmuffs, but doesn't back away. One hand cinching my waist, the other lifting my wrists, he holds me steady.

I aim directly for the silhouette's chest.

And I pull the trigger.

The shock reverberates through me, blasting me into Maverick's chest.

I feel his breathy laughter down my neck as he pulls my earmuffs down. "'Atta girl! Look at that … shot …" he trails off, noting where the bullet found its mark. Not in the chest, like I was aiming, but further down.

Right in the crotch.

"Damn." He lets go of my waist. "Remind me not to piss you off."

I almost flash him my teeth, but I don't want him to see me blush.

Maverick models a couple shots, showing me how to distribute my weight, and I do my best to copy him. I keep waiting for myself to snap, or scratch, when he puts his hands on me—but his deep, controlled breaths let me know he's taking this seriously.

The half hour runs out surprisingly quickly. Maverick helps me out of the gear and back onto my crutches. I catch him sneaking the alpha on duty a fifty-dollar note as we head into the parking lot.

"Just like I thought," he announces as we reach the car, "you're a natural."

A natural what? Shooter? Fighter? Killer ?

"You have a good eye," he explains, like he senses the question. "Though maybe you have to."

I point sharply at my ears. For the last time, I'm not deaf.

"What next?" he asks, ignoring me. "You hungry? Actually, don't answer that."

As we drive, I realize my fingers are still tingling from where I pulled the trigger—the sheer force of each shot ringing in my blood.

"I always grab a burger from Franklin's after I've been shooting," Maverick tells me. "A humble—but noble—tradition."

I roll my eyes. I'M HONOURED.

He glances down at the phone. "Damn straight."

A few minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot of a greasy diner. He's too busy recommending his favorite burger—the ‘wunderbeef'—to notice.

We grab a booth. Maverick is more than happy to order on my behalf, throwing in a milkshake and side of curly fries. While we wait, I can't help but look around, taking note of the other diners. A beta woman wipes ice-cream off her pup's face and I get stuck, watching them, wondering what their lives must be like.

"You want one?"

My head snaps up.

Maverick nods where I was looking. "Pups. Pack. Whole nine yards."

Fingers stiff, I type, SHE'S A BETA. BETAS DON'T HAVE PACKS.

"You know what I mean."

So what if I know what he means ? Doesn't mean I have to answer.

And yet … the question hangs heavy, like I can't just leave it there, or it'll crush me. I stare down at the phone for a moment before answering, I DON'T THINK SO.

Maverick hums, seeming to accept this. He keeps eyeing the beta and her pup until, for some reason, I start typing again.

JAXON WANTS PUPS. I blush. APPARENTLY.

"I believe it," Maverick says. His gaze darkens ever-so-slightly. "Doesn't mean you have to give him any."

I recoil. I KNOW THAT.

He hesitates before prodding, "Is that what you guys are fighting about? Your, uh … future? With Pack Wilder."

I pick at the old scabs on my knuckles. How did I get these again? Was it from K-4? Axe? Or maybe … that night with Micah. When he turned white as a sheet, scared for my life, and I repaid him with my fists.

"I know they want you," Maverick notes. "They're just too scared to say it."

I shake my head. He doesn't understand—they're not the ones who are scared.

"I've known Caleb, Jaxon, and Micah for four years," he tells me. "They're good guys. Good alphas. They make a nice pack."

Of course they do , I want to snap. Which is exactly why they don't need me, screwing things up.

JAX AND MICAH, I type, tentatively, WANT TO COURT ME. CALEB WON'T LET THEM.

Maverick's eyebrows go up. "No shit?"

I'M NOT GOOD FOR THEM. HE KNOWS THAT.

His bristles, anger rolling out of his scent. "He say that to you?"

NOT TO ME .

"But you heard it." He growls. "Such bullshit. They'd be lucky to have you—anyone would." Something in his own words makes him stop, considering. "Are you sure this isn't 'cause of your mate? Maybe Caleb doesn't want another alpha in the picture."

DON'T THINK SO.

Maverick groans, running a hand through his dark red hair. "Fucking packs, man. Just when you think some of them might actually have their shit together …"

I quirk a brow. WHAT ABOUT YOURS?

"Well, I live alone, if you hadn't noticed. Inherited the place from Pack Gris ." His lip twists. "My parents' pack."

I can't help it—my omega's interest is peaked. YOU HATED THEM .

He scoffs. "That's a nice way of putting it. Only reason I took the damn place was to watch it crumble. Make sure no-one tries to make it nice for another shitty pack."

As his words sink in, it suddenly occurs to me how little I know about Maverick. I decide to ask, WHAT MADE YOUR PACK SHITTY ?

Only now does he pause, like he's not sure how much to share. He answers, slowly, "The same thing that makes most shitty packs shitty. They worship their alphas, and beat down their omegas. Make 'em small and quiet enough that all they can do is serve."

My gut twinges in recognition.

SISTER OR MOTHER, I ask.

"Sisters. Two of them."

I consider what else I could say, if it's worth me telling him I understand, when he goes on.

"I got them out of there as soon as I could—set them up with a nursing program in Voss Plains." He shrugs. "Only place that'll take omega candidates. Meant to make them more independent, give them a shot in life."

SOUNDS NICE.

He just shrugs again.

The waiter comes back with our food. In an instant, Maverick is back to his grinning, obnoxious self.

"Anyway. Fuck packs, man. You're better off living your own life if all they're gonna do is make you miserable."

I smirk. YOU SOUND LIKE MY MATE .

"I'll take that as a compliment."

We eat in relative silence, giving me a chance to reflect. The failed mission. The gun range. Everything Maverick has shared with me about Pack Wilder, and his own childhood pack.

"What'd I tell you?" he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nothing beats a wunderbeef after a shoot-up."

I chuff, wiping my greasy fingers.

YEAH. I smile. NOT BAD.