23. Jasmine

The next time I wake up I'm lying on a lab table. The hood is gone, but so are my clothes, my naked body splayed out under hot lights. As I take in my surroundings, the rush of adrenaline in my blood quickly turns to terror. It's not a pristine lab by any means, but there's the familiar bank of beeping monitors and a tray of medical implements by my side. My head jerks, my gaze crawling over stark concrete walls and a pitted ceiling with a gray stain in the corner. We're underground, somewhere damp and cold, and my eyes search desperately for a door.

I whimper as I find Patrick sitting at my feet. He's bound to a metal chair with duct tape, his bullet wound seeping through his grimy white shirt. He's still wearing his tie, but it's knotted tight to his throat, like someone tried to strangle him with it. There's a black bruise forming around his left eye, and blood is leaking in a steady stream from his split lip. His hair is a red tangle, his golden freckles standing out like stars against his pale face. But his eyes burn into mine with all the fiery intensity of the sun.

"You're okay, mo chroí. But they're gonna be back in a tick, and we need to get you out of here. Can you move your fingers?"

I swallow around a tongue that feels too big for my mouth. "Where's Grace?"

"Sawyer's got her." At my panicked whimper his muscles strain against his bonds, the veins throbbing in his head. But his voice is still a soothing murmur as he says, "But he won't hurt her, okay? I heard them talking. He's planning to take her away with him once he gets his money."

I feel tears slide down my cheeks. Poor Grace. Back in the hands of her insane stepbrother, only now the monster has her baby in his clutches, too.

"Don't cry, sweetheart," Patrick begs, his voice raw. "We'll find her, okay? But I just need you to grab that wee knife there. Can you reach it?"

I blink back my tears and look at the scalpel on the tray, lined up next to a bunch of torture devices. I try to will my fingers to move in its direction, but they're frozen at my side. "I can't," I whimper. "Everything is tingling."

"That's good!" Patrick whispers, his eyes encouraging in his battered face. "You just need to keep wiggling your fingers and toes until they warm up."

I nod, relieved I have that little bit of motion. But how am I going to get my hand to reach all the way across to the metal tray when I can't even twitch my fingers?

"Patrick," I whisper, my head throbbing as I look around the room again. It's been stripped back to the drywall, but there was something here once. My gaze skips over a dirty metal grate in the floor, my heart thudding. "Do you know what they want? Why did Quinn bring us here?"

His face twists with fury as he glances at the door. "Doesn't matter what the fucker wants. He'll be getting it over my dead body."

I wince at his poor choice of words. "But can you tell me why? Is it revenge against the Volks for taking his club?" When he avoids my eye, I grind my teeth. "What about the others? Erik and Garth? Did you see what happened to them?"

He gives a tight shake of his head. "They dragged ‘em away but I passed out." He glares down at his wounded shoulder, his body straining against his bonds. When they don't budge an inch, he gives a frustrated grunt and looks back at me. "But they'll be coming. They'll be kicking the door in any second now, and they'll rain fiery hell down on these bastards." I nod, praying that he's right, and he gives me a smile that's too bright for this horrible room. "Just try to reach for the knife again, okay?"

I nod and strain with everything in me, my head thudding at the pressure. My fingers twitch and even move an inch across the bed, but something dark and painful flicks low in my belly. I gasp, my vision swimming as nausea burns the back of my throat.

"It's okay, mo chroí," Patrick croons as the room winks in and out of focus. "I'm working the tape loose on my hands. I'll be free in a jiffy…"

But his promise dies on his tongue as the door pushes open and Quinn stalks in, a thin man at his side. I don't recognize him, but he's wearing a lab coat, and his scent says beta. Doctor? Scientist? I'm not sure it matters, as Quinn gives him a forceful nudge in our direction. "Without Crenshaw or Tampa, you're it, Hughes."

"But I was only an assistant," the smaller man whines, wringing his hands. "Dr. Tampa didn't share his research with me."

"You saw his files. You know enough to get what we need." Quinn stomps over towards me, his alpha scent like acid in my nose. He could probably be described as handsome if you just looked at his powerful shoulders, strong jaw, and shock of thick white hair. But his face is a bitter mask, his eyes sunken in pouches of swollen flesh. He studies me like a bug under a pin, then reaches out and slaps my cheek. I can't bite back a pained cry, and Patrick starts to buck and snarl like his chair is electrified. "Get you fucking hands off her, Eamonn!"

"Thought you wouldn't like that," Quinn laughs, turning to leer at him. "Should've kept your nose out of my business, Paddy boy, and I might've given you the same courtesy." But the spite in his eyes is replaced by cold calculation as he stares at Hughes. "Get what I want, or you're the next one strapped to a table."

He leaves without a backward glance, the room silent except for Patrick's ragged breathing and the chattering of my teeth. The lights are burning down on me, but my skin is covered in gooseflesh. "Patrick," I whisper as my stomach twists into a knot. "I feel sick."

"You're okay, sweetheart," he croons, but then a whine leaves his throat, his voice hardening into an alpha command. "Hughes, cut me loose!"

But the smaller man just hunches his shoulders and taps his ear. "Industrial plugs. You can't order me around, so just sit there and shut the hell up." He flashes Patrick a nasty glance as he pulls on a pair of medical gloves. "He's right, you know. You both brought this on yourselves."

I glare at Hughes, wondering how many times he's told himself something similar. It's always easier to blame the victim than stand up to the bully.

And Patrick must agree with me, because he says in an eerily calm voice, "If Quinn can't command you, then you're doing this of your own free will. And that means you're a dead man walking."

"Says the guy strapped to a chair in a basement," Hughes sniffs, grabbing a plastic vial and a needle for the tray. "Just stop your yapping and let me get to work."

"No!" I try to grab the edge of his lab coat as he fits a tourniquet on my arm. "Please, Hughes. Don't do this!"

"It's just a few blood tests," he mutters as he steps out of reach, but I can clearly hear the lie in his voice. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"If you contact my pack, they'll pay you a lot of money," I whisper desperately, trying to take another swipe at his coat. "They're the Volks, and they've already beaten Quinn once. They're probably on their way here right now. If you help me, they'll help you. But if you…" I gasp as he plunges a needle into my arm, an uncaring glint in his eye. He might not want to be here, but it doesn't mean he's going to go easy on me.

"There's nothing you can say to save your skin," he tells me, filling the first vial with blood. "The deal's done. You're just collateral damage."

"My dad…" I murmur wretchedly, my head spinning.

"Left us in the lurch. And then Tampa took off." He glances down my body, a flare of arousal sliding over me like dirty fingers. "Can you blame Quinn for wanting his pound of flesh? He sunk a lot of money into your father's company, and what did he get in return?"

Another blood-filled tube clatters onto the tray and I'm praying he's done. But then he mixes one of the vials with something from a bottle, grunting as the contents turn a vivid red. "Bad news for you," he says, grabbing a clipboard and taking a pen from his pocket. He writes something on the chart and runs his eyes over me again. "Although Quinn might keep you alive a little longer since you're in heat."

"Wh-at?" I hate the broken sound in my throat, but I'm too shocked to swallow it back. My heat is supposed to be a month away. "I can't be."

He ignores me, opening and closing drawers in the metal cart as he searches for something. "I'll have to do an internal exam to confirm it, although from the looks of your alpha, you're ripening up nicely."

Hughes nods in Patrick's direction, but I barely hear him. My world stopped the moment he said internal exam, because I'll be damned if I ever let this slimy asshole's fingers inside me.

And the howl that rips from Patrick sends a burst of adrenaline through my body. My hand spasms, and I snatch the closest scalpel off the tray, squeezing it tight in my numb fingers. Patrick is roaring and thrashing, and Hughes grabs the bed as he swivels to glare at the alpha. I stare at his pale soft hand, spread on the bed next to my thigh. It looks so harmless, but I know that's a disguise. Lunging forward, I drive the scalpel down with the full weight of my body.

The blade slides through his flesh like butter, and his scream of agony makes me cringe. But I press down harder, knowing I won't stand a chance if he gets loose. He's flailing and shoving at me with his free hand, but Patrick is yelling, and it takes a moment for me to realize he's commanding me. "Take his plugs out, Jasmine!"

I want to shake off his words, but I'm already reaching to obey. Hughes tries to slap me away, but I duck his hand, plucking the protective bud from his left ear. And Patrick doesn't give him a chance to go for me again.

"Take the scalpel and slice it through your neck. All the way to the bone, you fucker."

Hughes gives a hideous whine, but instead of going for the blade buried in his hand, he snatches another off the tray. Terrified eyes meet mine and then the scalpel is flashing across his neck with a surgeon's precision.

I squeeze my eyes shut, rearing back so hard I tumble off the bed. I manage to stop my head slamming into the floor, and for one blissful second, I'm numb.

And then heat curls through me, like a honey-coated hook.

"Jasmine! Ah, shite!" As I roll onto my side, gasping and moaning, I realize Patrick has tipped his chair over. His body is still lurching against the bonds, his eyes a feral gold as he tries to reach me. "Are you right? Can you get up? Speak to me, mo chroí."

It's not a command this time, so I don't even try to answer. Every fucking atom in my body is throbbing, every inch of skin burning with heat. But even through the agony I can smell Patrick. Warm, delicious alpha. Slick trickles down my thighs and I pull myself forward, my hands clawing weakly at the concrete floor.

Patrick curses and hisses until I reach his legs and collapse against the musky comfort of his thighs. His scent fills my lungs and I whimper, trying to burrow deeper. But gentle hands ease me back. "There's a blade in my boot, sweetheart. Dig it out for me, will you?"

The last thing I want is to touch another knife, and I scowl as I pull up his pants leg and drag it free. It's one that opens with the press of a button, but my hands are trembling so badly, I drop it twice before I can get the blade lined up with his wrists. "Hold still. I don't want to cut you..."

"You're grand! Just cut away!" I nick his wrist, grimacing at the blood. But when I finally slice through the tape, he snatches it off me, grinning as he frees his ankles. "You're a goddamn miracle, mo chroí."

I shake my head, but he sweeps me up, hugging me tight. When he feels me shivering against him, he drags his shirt off, wincing as it catches on his bullet wound. But he quickly covers me with it, lifting me over the puddles of blood and setting me on the edge of the bed. He buttons me up, his eyes glowing as he studies me. When he's done, he kisses the tip of my nose. It's so unexpected, I snort. "What was that for?"

"About a thousand fecking apologies rolled into one." His mouth turns down, his fingers brushing over my cheek. "Can you forgive me for not doing better, Jasmine?"

"When we find Grace," I reply, but my body isn't listening, pitching forward until my face is buried in his neck. It's like falling into a pillow of spicy musk and my lashes flutter, my tongue darting out for a taste. "You're forgiven," I slur, my brain flooded with pheromones.

"Oh, fuck," he moans, but sets his hands on my shoulders, easing me back. "More of that later. But we need to get you out of this hellhole first."

More slick trickles down my thighs but I don't resist as he scoops me up and heads for the door. It's barely cracked an inch when the sound of a gunshot splits the air, and I yelp, pushing hard against his chest. "Put me down, Patrick. If there's bullets flying, you need your hands."

He grimaces but obeys, steadying me as I try to find my feet. When I'm mostly upright, he hands me a scalpel. I try to drop it, but he gives me a warning look and wraps my fingers around it. "Neck, groin, kidney. Whatever you can reach, mo chroí. Got it?"

"Got it." I grimace, but I lift my chin, bracing myself as I stare down the hall. There's faded red carpet under our feet and dingy gold wallpaper peeling off in strips. "Where are we?"

"The alpha club in Boston." Patrick makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Instead of fixing the place, your alphas shut it down. When shite started to go south, Quinn must have come scuttling back to familiar ground."

I shiver and run a hand over one of the metal doors that lines the hallway. "What's behind here?"

"Bedrooms. Or prison cells, more like. Quinn worked omegas out of here." He pushes the nearest door wide and my stomach lurches. "We need to get the lads in here to lock it all down."

"Or burn it to the ground," I say grimly. Because I'm certain this is where Casper was held before the Volks saved him. In one of these dingy rooms with mold on the walls and dirty sheets on the bed. "Let's find Grace and leave."

He nods, rattling doorknobs as we move down the hall. But when we reach the end, the scent of blood fills my nose.

"Grace!" I take a stumbling step forward, but Patrick's arm shoots out, holding me back. He nods towards the bed in the last room, my friend hunched on the edge with a handgun in her lap. But I'm staring at Kayden Sawyer, tucked under blood-soaked blankets with a bullet hole in his forehead. Strangely, he looks younger than I remember, the corners of his hard mouth turned up in a glimmer of a smile.

"Give me the gun, there's a good lass."

Patrick's voice is softly coaxing, but when Grace lifts her head, her pupils blow wide in alarm. "Jasmine?"

"I'm here. It's okay. Are you hurt?" I nod at the handgun in her lap. "Can you pass that to Patrick, sweetheart?"

But she just brushes it aside, Patrick snatching it up as she staggers towards me. She doesn't look injured, but her eyes are glassy, that happy glow from the restaurant reduced to a haunted pallor. She tugs at the sleeves of her nightgown almost self-consciously. It's white lace, and about as stylish as a dish rag, but no doubt chosen because the high neck covers her pack's bond marks. As if sensing my gaze, she wraps her hand around her throat, but shakes her head. "He didn't hurt me. Not like that."

Just as well. Or I'd be taking that gun from Patrick and putting another bullet in Kayden's twisted skull.

Grace turns and looks at him then quickly glances away. "He said we were going away together, so I told him about the baby. I was trying to make him see that I'd never love him, but he said it didn't matter. He told me he'd raise my baby as his own, and love it, just like he loved me. Then he fell asleep, so I got his gun off the nightstand and shot him with it."

She stares at me with big, searching eyes. Does she think I'm going to judge her for killing him? She deserves a goddamn parade, in my opinion, and I pull her into a gentle hug. "He got to die with you and your baby in his bed. The asshole deserved a lot less."

She clings to me for a second, her pupils so wide I can see my reflection. "I can feel him, Jas." At first I think she means Kayden, but then she rubs her chest, a fragile smile on her washed-out face. "I know Garth's alive, because of the pack bond. I can feel him in here."

I squeeze her tighter, even as my heart aches for Erik.

Please don't be dead.

"Your alpha is coming too, sweetheart," Patrick murmurs in my ear, nudging me towards the door. "There's no way that sour bastard croaked before he got a chance to claim you."

I nod, clinging to that small hope, and follow Patrick into the hallway. It's slow going because I keep an arm around Grace's waist, but neither of us wants to let go. Which means we haven't even reached the stairs when the lights go out and all hell breaks loose.