Chapter Six

Caleb

Jaxon was right.

Rehab is going to be a fucking nightmare.

The omega from the ring—as beautiful as she is lethal—won't last a day in any of the refuges. She's unpredictable. Anti-social. And, as it turns out, non-verbal. It would be downright irresponsible to house her with other omegas.

Which begs the question: where do we place her ?

"She can't talk?" Jaxon blurts out.

I nod, scrutinizing my files. "That's what I said."

"But she's not deaf."

I look up at him. "Would you prefer she was deaf?"

"What? Of course not! I'm just confused. I didn't think you could have one and not the other."

Sirena, our head of intelligence, rolls her chair over to Jaxon's desk. "Could be psychological, you know. Selective mutism is a fairly common side-effect of trauma."

"Except it's usually temporary," I tell her.

"And?"

"And, she speaks sign. Which leads me to assume she's been non-verbal for a while."

A hush falls over the bullpen. The other alphas pretend they're not listening, but I can sense the attention on us, pointed as a knife. Apart from Sirena, Maverick is the only one to show his interest. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

"Where is she now?" he asks. "If she's so crazy, shouldn't someone be with her?"

Jaxon growls. "She's not crazy."

"She went feral on a bunch of random omegas," Maverick reminds him, "and she won't speak. Not exactly sound-of-mind behavior."

" Can't speak," Jaxon snaps back. "And she was just doing what those bastards trained her to do."

I hold my hand up, silencing them. "She's in my office. I'm headed back there as soon as I finish with this file."

I can practically hear the sideways glances. Eventually Sirena rolls back to her desk, and Jaxon and Maverick rein in those alpha-posturing pheromones.

"Hang on," Maverick says suddenly. "You are ordering a psych eval, right? You know, for her rehab."

I don't look up from my file. "Possibly."

"Why not ask Micah to do it? Feral omegas are, like, his specialty."

"You just worry about your informant. See if they have a lead on the getaways."

"Well yeah, but—"

"Hey," Jaxon cuts in. "How about you do your job, and let the boss do his?"

Just like that, they're back to posturing. I don't stick around long enough to get caught in the next argument.

Faith is waiting for me right where I left her, sitting on the edge of her chair. I can immediately tell she's been snooping—the shutters are slightly skewed.

"You know," I say, opening the blinds fully, "if you wanted a little more light in here, you could've just said so."

She glares. I clear my throat.

"You hungry?"

More glaring. And then, almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head.

"I need to level with you." I lean against the desk. "Most of the other rogues are being placed in refuges across the state. I'd like to do the same for you, but given your history, it'll be tough. Do you have any family in New Caniss—" or anywhere ? "—who might be looking for you?"

Her lips twitch, making me painfully aware of the scar running diagonally down her face, starting at her cheekbone and ending on her cupid's bow.

I exhale. "Alright then. We'll figure something else out."

No refuges. No family. Normally it's only the rogue alphas who end up in this predicament. The outcome depends on just how dangerous they are, ranging from psychiatric hospitals to straight-up incarceration.

Faith tilts her pretty, vicious little head at me.

No matter how much I pride myself on my pragmatism, I refuse to let her be locked up again.

The idea that's been swirling around my head since I first locked eyes with her surges into focus. I refused to let it in, knowing what it might cost—not just to me, but to my whole pack—but we're running out of options.

And I'd be lying if I said my inner alpha wasn't preening at the idea.

Faith chuffs impatiently. My alpha warms at the sound.

"Sit tight," I tell her, "I need to make a phone call."