Chapter Fifty-Two

Faith

Maverick's making pancakes. I know from my experience of Micah's pancakes that these are pretty rough by comparison, but I appreciate the effort.

"Alright." He claps his hands together. "Pancakes eaten. Meds taken. Get dressed—we're headed out."

I cock my head, reaching for his phone. OUT AGAIN ?

He looks down. "Yup. I've got a surprise for you."

NOT A FAN OF SURPRISES.

"Just trust me, will you?"

I bite back my disdain. After everything Maverick has put up with since I got here, I can stand to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Quickly, I brush my teeth and pull on my jeans. The only fresh shirt I have left is the long-sleeved one Jaxon and Micah seemed so taken with. It makes my skin tingle, remembering the way they eyeballed me when I walked out of my room.

Like, in that moment, I was the only omega who'd ever existed.

Maverick helps me into the car. He talks as he drives, weaving through morning traffic. I watch the road, realizing he's taking me to the inner city.

At a stop light, I ask, DOES CALEB KNOW YOU'RE TAKING ME OUT TODAY?

Maverick bristles ever-so-slightly. "He … might have an idea."

I scowl. Whatever ‘surprise' he's got cooking up, I'm approving less and less by the minute.

I'M NOT GOING BACK TO WILDER DEN, I remind him.

"I know, kitten."

The light turns green. I stew over the phone, waiting for my next opportunity to show him the screen.

Panicking now, I type, DON'T TAKE ME BACK THERE. PLEASE.

"Faith," he assures me, "we are not going to Wilder Den."

At my look, or maybe my acidic scent, he sighs.

"We're … going to HQ." He grip the wheel. "They thought it would be best to talk to you somewhere neutral. And, you know, guarded."

They ? Distress takes me in its clutches, making me break out in a cold sweat.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." He shoots me a sheepish grin. "Figured you'd say no."

NO SHIT, I type quickly.

"Alright, alright, I get it. You're pissed. Listen, if you really don't want to do this, I can turn around. But I really think you'll want to hear them out."

This coming from the guy who, only yesterday, said, ‘fuck packs'. Wilder included. I grip the phone.

YOU'RE A HYPOCRITE.

"Yeah." He snorts. "Among other things." His eyes cut across to me. "So what'll it be, princess? Want to call it quits?"

I hesitate, my anger still simmering. But maybe because of everything that happened yesterday, not to mention in the early hours of this morning … I know he wouldn't be doing this without a damn good reason.

Even if that reason is because I'll kick his ass if he crosses me.

Folding my arms, I sit back, resigned to my fate.

Maverick's pheromones turn thick and smug. "That's my girl. Sit back and relax—it'll still be a little while in this traffic."

I just chuff, pretending I'm not freaking out inside. Pack Wilder wants to talk to me. Which means they have something to say to me. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself—this could just be an update on the mission. Maybe the RDF's scouts hunted down those guards after all.

But somehow I doubt that.

"Fuck—get down!"

Maverick's warning barely registers before something massive collides with his side of the car, smashing the windows and crunching the metal. We lurch into stationary traffic, crammed next to an unmarked van.

Ears ringing, I try to get a sense of what hit us. What could even be moving fast enough to hit us in this pile-up.

That's when I realize. Whatever—whoever—clipped the side of the car … it was no accident.

Maverick! I look at him, my vision swimming. Fuck, did I hit my head?

He's unconscious, twisted awkwardly in the driver's seat. The horn is blaring—he was reaching across, trying to cover me, when we got hit.

Feeling sick, I unbuckle my seatbelt and check his pulse. Steady heartbeat. But he's bleeding—I can't tell where from.

Suddenly the passenger side door rips open. Big, meaty hands grab my arms, tearing me out of the car.

No matter how hard I try to scream, no sound comes out.

"Now, now, F-7," an oily, familiar voice rumbles in my ear. "No need to struggle."

My mind goes white.

Hamish ?

Ringleaders—they don't leave the tunnels. When the going gets tough, they hunker down and stay under the radar while the guards and bookies do their dirty work. He can't be here, on a crowded freeway, in broad daylight.

But he is.

I thrust my elbow back, thrashing wildly. He grunts.

"Come on—don't you want to see your mate again?"

The mere mention of Fang is enough to turn me feral. But by that same token, it's enough to distract me.

Hamish wraps a cloth around my mouth and nose. I hold my breath instinctively, struggling for as long as I can, as he drags me into the back of the van.

Chemicals flood my senses. Everything becomes fuzzy.

"That's it, F-7. You look tired … get some rest."

Fuzzy turns to dark. Dark turns to black.

Until, at last, unconsciousness carries me away.