Chapter Text
When she sits at the back of the car, something shifts.
It’s the air.
The stuffy particles pierce her exposed skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps down her arms.
When the man in the passenger seat glances at her, it’s like he sees right through her.
It doesn’t matter she’s on suppressants. It doesn’t matter she’s masking her scent.
He knows.
But how does he know? Lucia thinks, growing anxious. None of the other alphas even… No. He can’t know. It’s impossible. I’m just imagining things.
The fact that he doesn’t say a goddamn thing, just shifts his gaze back to the front, lips closed tight, hand curling his seat as if it just insulted his pride, tells her something else.
No, Lucia’s not imagining things. He knows. He knows that she knows.
The reason why they both know is a can of worms she wishes she could bury six feet under, preferably inside a locked coffin, cement weighing it down for good measure.
Focus, she tells herself. Now is not the time to freak the fuck out.
A natural bond is so rare, anyways. What’s the harm in pretending it never existed in the first place?
Pretty fucking stupid, as they both will learn as the night drags out.
* * *
“Hey” the woman whispers in his direction. “No one said it was a kid.”
You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me, he thinks, nerves sizzling. Leave it to the omegas to have a bleeding heart.
“Oh, no one said that? It’s a fucking kid,” he says back. “You want to walk? Walk.”
Adam stares right through those chocolate-brown, faux ingénue, stupid tender-like eyes, and waits for a response. Waits for her to walk.
But of course she doesn’t. She was hired for the same reason they were—because they could pull this job off; and were desperate for some cash. The omega can play martyr all she wants, yet the truth is staring right at her. She’s as fucked up as the rest of them.
And this is who I’m bonded to? Give me a break.
The alpha tried real hard to ignore it on the car ride over. He really, truly, fucking did. But since neither of them have said a word since, since NO ONE mentioned the stench of sweet apples and fresh lilies and whatever the fuck she’s hidden under those foul suppressants, he’s had to fucking compartmentalize the simple fact that he’s bonded with this insufferable self-righteous omega.
Oh, sorry. Natural bonded. God, his mom would have a field day with this shit.
“See, Adam, I knew you’d find the one,” she’d tell him, as if it’s an accomplishment to just bump into your mate, to be trapped with a fucking stranger, someone you’ve never met, don’t know, yet your instincts and pheromones keep screaming, “THEY’RE THE ONE, THEY’RE THE ONE!”
He misses the days society deemed these doomed pairs as folie à deux—madness of two. Because that’s what this is. Sick. Delusional. Fucking psychotic. (Adam wishes he could strangle this feral need out of him; biology be damned.)
The night’s not over, however. Since they’re both ignoring it, this might just turn out okay. They get the kid. Get the ransom. And go their separate ways. Natural bond motherfucking forgotten. Adam has done this song and dance before: found a pretty enough omega, got hitched, had a kid. Then came the nasty divorce. Fuck joint custody because Sheila will take their son AND the house, thank you very much. He’s had enough of the pretty white picket fence life. Now, he lives however and whenever he feels like it. It’s better this way. The power tastes better this way; without any of the awful responsibilities breathing down his neck.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he tells her, as she stays perfectly still. “Get in position. You, over there.”
The omega does as she’s told, if reluctantly. They all get into position and wait for the girl to walk in. They wait for her to hang up the phone.
Adam pulls her down, covers her mouth, tries to keep her steady—and the little bitch stabs him with a goddamn pencil.
He steps back, the pain growing up his arm. The sting in his hand burning his nerves. He lifts his arm to strike her, but somebody grabs his wrist. Gentle enough. Hard enough. And he stares at the goddamn omega with the bleeding heart.
Quickly, he shoves her hand off. Grasps his own bleeding hand instead.
Adam ignores the way it felt right for her to touch him.
“Let me see,” she says, as she holds his injured hand.
She cleans around the bruised area, fingers very fucking light.
(And the touch is almost too much—too gentle, too hard—too fucking everything. He has the thought to touch those same fingers. Put them in his mouth. Suck and kiss and bite. He stops himself short from looking like a fucking idiot.)
“It’s not too bad,” she reassures him, her chocolate-brown eyes returning his stare.
Do you feel this? He wants to hiss. Do you feel how bad our biology is screwing us over? Do you want it to stop? Do you want me to touch you?
Instead, he just murmurs, “Thank you.” And in case she’d forgotten who he is, he adds, “You grab me like that again, I may have to respond.”
“Understood,” she says back, icy cold, and leaves with her soft fingers and gentle touch.
It’s only going to get worse from here on out.
* * *
Lucia is becoming nervous.
More so than usual, anyway.
She thinks she hides it well enough, remaining seated, composed, while everyone around her loosens up a bit too much. The job isn’t done yet. Just because they have the girl, it doesn’t mean everything will be smooth sailing from here on out. Anything can go wrong. Even at the last second. Trust her, she has experience on the matter.
Not to mention the elephant in the room.
The alpha is ignoring her gaze—desperately looking every which way but into her eyes—he filled his glass ten minutes ago yet he’s only taken a few sips here and there, his steps are light but his back is tight around the shoulders, he smirks at something Peter said, still, his hand tightens around his drink, as if he might drop it if momentarily distracted.
Frank is avoiding the issue.
Which is the better call, if she’s honest. Lucia sure isn’t going to take the first step into this huge mess. She has better things to worry about. Actual true things. Not some broken biology setting her second sex decided to spring up on her.
She’ll do the job. She’ll get the money. And she’ll go back to Caleb. That’s the plan.
She’s been sober for over three years now—she’s hit rock bottom and clawed herself up from that hole—she’s been through worse than this. Lucia can do this. She just has to remain focused.
Her mind itches for something sweet, so she takes out her bag and stuffs her mouth with another piece of candy. Dean notices.
“Let me get a piece of that candy,” he says, not asking, not even a please.
Young alphas are so rude nowadays, she thinks, annoyed. Scent nauseating, too. Must be all that cologne they target towards men like him, prideful, desperate for attention; a few screws loose.
“Get your own,” she says back.
“Fuck you, too,” he mumbles, before cycling around the pool table, looking her up and down as if he got her all figured out. “You grew up with a bunch of brothers and sisters, uh?”
False, I’m an only child.
“I’m like an expert at reading people,” he tells her, all cocksure of himself.
Her brows lift, just the tiniest way. The urge to laugh hidden underneath.
“Oh, really?” She asks, dry as a bone.
Dean then proceeds to make a fool of himself, throwing guess after guess like her drunk aunt at a New Year's Eve party. Sloppy, unsteady, too far gone to hide any sort of false humility; making a scene and uncaring if it upsets others. Lucia doesn’t like Dean.
“Wow,” she says, unable to stop herself. “You might be the least perceptive person I’ve ever met.”
The young alpha responds, “How the fuck would you know that?”
And that, that’s when Frank finally deigns to look at her. She catches his eye, briefly, if only to say I was waiting, before pulling her full attention back to Dean.
“You literally got nothing right,” she says, refusing to meet Frank’s gaze again, even if he’s moving, even if he’s refusing to let her out of his sight now. “About anyone.”
“Pretty sure she ran away from home,” Dean mutters, conceding.
Then Frank grabs his wallet, lips curling to the side.
“Crisp 100$ bill,” he says, before setting it down on the pool table. “If you can tell me one true thing about me.”
Are you playing with me? She ponders, eyes turning sharp. Do you want me to spill out our dirty little secret? Or is this a test? Am I worthy enough for your precious alpha knot, is that it? Jesus.
“Pass,” she responds, looking down, looking away.
She hears his smirk before she sees it, and that pisses her the right off. But she can compose herself. She can remain seated, focused—
“Told y’all she ain’t know shit,” Dean mutters to the audience, and wow, okay, well then.
You want a show? I’ll give you a show.
Lucia gets off from her chair and walks up to Frank in quick long steps, and stares right at his big sleazy glasses, horrendous slicked back hair, and the dumb fucking earring and tells him, “You used to be a cop.” And takes her well deserved one hundred dollar bill.
The alpha stares at her hands, gripping the glass as if it might jump off.
“Did he arrest you or something?” Sammy asks.
“No,” and Lucia decides to take a long look at her supposed fated mate, at the shitty clothes, the shitty posture, the shitty personality, and decides to laugh at the universe for a little bit. “It’s the stance. The walk. The shoes. Not to mention the standard-issue Glock, the shoulder holster, and he used police hand signals back at the house. Not a street cop.” She gets closer, one small step at a time. “No. Too smart. You need to be in control.”
And his eyes—ice cold baby blues, almost warm in the evening, yet the sharpness remains—they trace her up and down, every inch of her body, her face. The heat from the back of the van is back. The need to touch. To place her lips on his. It’s all bubbling to the surface. Her suppressants can only do so much, after all, when you’re faced with your supposed other half. Which is ridiculous, because what she knows about him is anything but good.
“So, I’m gonna say detective. Homicide or vice,” she continues, keeping his gaze only for a moment longer, before returning back to their audience. “And he tries to hide it, but he’s from Queens. Probably only been up here a few years.”
She feels his eyes on her, so she glances back, and he glances down, and she stares at his skin, and he stares at her hands—a game neither of them knows how to quit.
Peter claps at her performance. Of course he asks for his turn, and so she gives, she reads him like the open book he is. The muscle. The bullied little boy making up for all the years he was abused. The only thing she doesn’t say is that she knows the brand of suppressants he’s on, because she tried them a couple of years ago. An omega knows an omega. After, Sammy. The spoiled, way-in-over-her-head, neglected genius beta. Betas are easy, they don’t try to mask their scent. They don’t think that they have to. They float their eagerness and fear and rage for all to smell. Cool tattoos, though. Then Rickles. A marine sniper turned criminal; similar to her own story. Lucia likes Rickles. She likes his scent, his demeanor, his professionalism. It doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome, too. If she was back on the market for an alpha, she’d probably pick him. Maybe she will. (Just because she’s horny over Mr. Asshole over there, doesn’t mean she has to actually fuck him.)
“Hold on, now,” Dean calls. “You forgot about me.”
She sighs. “You don’t want me to do you.”
“What you mean? This is fun.”
Alright then.
“You’re not a professional,” she states.
She sees Frank’s smirk this time before she hears it.
“I’m the best motherfucking wheelman in this town,” he shoots back, hurt pride rolling off his shoulders.
“I didn’t say you weren’t good. I said you’re not a professional.” This young alpha doesn’t care at all what happens to him. She’s seen his type. She’s worked with his type. They’re as good as long as you can keep their attention. Otherwise, they’re a liability. Dean drove them swiftly to their destination, avoiding the cameras and the cops as best as any driver in this business, but he could’ve easily driven them off a cliff, snickering to himself as the car hit the water. “You’ve got… loose wiring. Probably a sociopath.”
As Sammy laughs at the little expose, she decides it’s done. The show’s over. Lucia starts walking back to her warm little sofa before Frank decides it’s his turn.
“And you are a junkie,” he says, which halts her steps. “Cop knows a junkie. Your little candy affectation. Long sleeves. Why you don’t want to have a drink with us. You in recovery or something? How many days you got? We gotta be worried about you?”
As he clean his stupid fucking glasses, Lucia has a half a mind to snatch them from his grasp, break them under her heel. She reels in the impulse. She stares at the icy baby blues and considers muttering back, “This is how you talk to your natural bonded?” Just to see the shocked look fluttering up his face. The gasps from the audience. If she speaks it out loud, they can’t ignore it any longer. They can’t pretend they’re just strangers. And wouldn’t that be fun? Her itch is itching closer. Would he hit her? Scream at her? Fuck her right there on the pool table? Wouldn’t that be a show! Wouldn’t that be close to scratching her itch.
But no. She can’t.
It’s not a true thing, in any case. Lucia has Caleb to think about. Lucia has to be a goddamn professional. Lucia can’t keep fucking it up.
“No,” she says, matter of factly.
“No?” And he inches closer, gaze never leaving hers. “Don’t ever fuck with me. I will know.”
Is this about your hurt pride, too? She wants to hiss. Poor little alpha can’t ever get shown up by an omega. Fuck. This is who I’m bonded to? The universe really has a sick sense of humor.
“I’m gonna go check on the girl.” And she leaves to do her goddamn job; the itch itching closer.
There were several red flags throughout the evening.
First, no cellphones. Lambert gave a good enough reason, but still, hindsight is 20/20.
Second, my lovely pack of rats, really?
Third, but not least, Abigail.
Lucia has been known to have a soft spot in the worst of times. So perceptive, yet so naive when she lets her heart think for herself. Little girls don’t ask about your own kids when they’ve been kidnapped, they don’t try to bring the softness out of you, they don’t insinuate their dads are very violent men—they’re too scared to be that manipulative. Abigail wasn’t a little girl; and Lucia was too preoccupied in playing an actual good mom to tell.
But in the end, none of it will matter.
* * *
Adam is a piece of shit.
He knows it. His mom knows it. His ex-wife, his kid, his old boss—and now his mate as well.
Good, maybe now she’ll learn her lesson.
Just because they ended up being the sorriest pair of mates in this godforsaken earth, doesn’t mean Joey has the right to flaunt his personal information out like that to a group of fucking criminals. Ridicule him, even. It was fucking embarrassing.
It was also pretty hot.
Oh, fuck off!
He thinks back to those chocolate-brown eyes sizing him up, slicing right through his cover, getting right into the nitty and gritty and twisting the knife. Adam couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop thinking, “THEY’RE THE ONE, THEY’RE THE ONE!”
It was so goddamn embarrassing.
Joey is the type of woman that’s too smart for her own good. Too sharp. Sees too much and stays quiet about it. And when the lid finally pops off? All hell breaks loose. They’re dangerous, even if they believe otherwise. Adam was never into that.
But then she opens her mouth and the whole world stands still.
You’re embarrassing, he thinks to himself. You’re forty-years-old and you’re acting like a goddamn teenager on their first runt.
Well, thank God, Adam is pretty good at reading people too.
He had her pegged the second he saw that bag of candy. He knows junkies. Recovering junkies. If they’re still on the needle, they’re a fucking liability. They start to itch. They become erratic. They’ll fuck up a job if it means getting their fix.
“How many days you got? We gotta be worried about you?”
Really, what he wanted to ask was, “Do I need to be worried about you?”
Because Adam isn’t good at that shit. He doesn’t know how to comfort someone—he blames dear old dad for that—he’s clueless at the emotional side of things, doesn’t know when to stop with the lectures, or the unsolicited advice, or how not to be an asshole when caring for someone. Sheila left him for less. So, if Joey needs him, in that way, he doesn’t know where the fuck to start. Not that he would start, mind you. Even if she had the balls to call out this insanity between them, Adam is smart enough not to give in. This will only end in tragic bullshit akin to a dramatic Shakespearean play. He knows that. She knows that.
Then why is his body so fucking stubborn?
Joey is like ten feet away and he can already smell her coming in his direction. She’s anxious, the acidic scent turning his stomach sideways. He acts as if it’s all peaches and cream, though. He can’t get distracted. He can’t be pulled into this dumpster fire of a situation. He needs to be in control.
“How’s the kid?” He asks, nonchalant, as her scent stinks up the stool next to him.
“She’s fine,” she says. “Look, I don’t need to know who the girl’s father is, but do you know?”
Adam frowns. “No. Why?”
“She just implied that her father might be a particularly violent man.”
Oh, this? This is what’s got you all riled up?
“Wow,” he sighs, taking off his glasses as he feels a headache coming in. “She implied that, did she? Of course she fucking implied that. She’s scared. She wants to rattle you.”
The tiny ballerina comes from money—probably old money—her daddy must have taught her what to do and what to say in situations like these. Billionaires can never be too careful. Joey should know better.
“I don’t think so,” she says, a second later. “Again, do you know who her father is?”
“Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re gonna be a real pain in my ass, aren’t you? There’s one in every crew.”
I won the lottery in the goddamn mate department, didn’t I?
He cracks his tenth walnut as he bites his tongue, preventing the nasty throwback from leaving his lips.
“No, sir,” she responds, the acidic smell receding a tiny bit, at least. “I just don’t scare easy, so when I do, I pay attention.”
Then she just up and leaves, leaving Adam to his own thoughts and walnuts. He tries not to pay her words any mind, tries to ignore the migraine coming in from this stressful fucking day, yet those few words stick, “I just don’t scare easy, so when I do, I pay attention.”
Fuck, he thinks. Fuck, fucking, motherfucking…
Adam gives himself six seconds of chewing on a damned walnut before he gives in and takes off to speak to Abigail.
Which turns out to be another great disaster—because who the fuck takes off the blindfold of their own captive? HIS omega, fucking apparently!?
How am I bonded to you? He wants to scream in Joey’s face. How in the fuck am I bonded to you, you stupid fucking bleeding heart?
Adam freaks out. Because of course he freaks out. Because his captive just saw his face, memorized it most fucking likely, and the words particularly violent man keep rigging in his fucking head, so he puts a gun at the kid’s head and asks, “Who the fuck is your father?”
And the goddamn kid responds, “Kristof Lazaar.”
Kristof. Lazaar.
Kristof.
Fucking.
Lazaar.
Adam has the epiphany of the fucking century. His life is not an absurd tragedy, it’s the complete opposite. His life is, indeed, a whole series of comedy of errors. And he’s the fucking chump, the fool, the motherfucking patsy. Well. Fuck this. Fuck it. He has agency, he has free fucking will. What’s stopping him from packing up his shit and taking off into the farthest desert island known to no one but him? Nothing! So, that’s the new plan. Pack his things. Get the fuck out. Forget Lambert, forget everything, forget Joey.
It’s a good plan. It’s the perfect plan.
But then he senses the spike in anxiety rolling off his omega, her fucking concern, her hand grabbing hold of his arm, hard enough, and somehow it soothes him. It fucking soothes his worries and nausea and headache. Like they’re in some sort of fucking fairy tale or one of his mom’s favorite soaps—like Joey is the balm to his soul.
What a load of bullshit.
“What’s going on?” He snaps. “What’s going on is that we are fucked. That little girl is Kristof Lazaar’s daughter.”
He feels it immediately. Joey’s acidic scent slaps him across the face, worse than when she came to sit next to him, awful, loud, vulnerable.
Baby, we have to get the fuck out of here, his mouth threatens to spill out.
Then Sammy asks, “Who’s Kristof Lazaar?”
Which, fuck, really!?
“Bruh,” Dean chimes in as well. “That’s just an urban legend, man. Calm down.”
“No, dude,” Adam throws back. “He’s not a fucking urban legend. He is very fucking real, believe me.”
He witnessed it first hand. He saw all those bodies chopped up in the penthouse, blood and guts covering the hotel room, organs missing, eyes glued to the wall, teeth scattered across the floor. A massacre he could only describe as a scene from a fucking horror movie. And those fucks didn’t kidnap Kristof Lazaar’s daughter.
“Nobody even knows how big his fucking empire is,” he mutters, walking off. It has to cover all corners of the justice system for Lazaar to have figured out where they were. Adam never stood a chance.
“Is Lambert fucking insane?” Joey says, the tension turning to anger. “He just put a death mark on all of us, including himself.”
Maybe he’s fucking suicidal, he thinks, pondering the same.
“What if we just, like,” Sammy begins, and, oh boy. “You know, like, give her back and say sorry?”
“Oh, yeah!” Adam exclaims. “Here’s your daughter, Mr. Fucking Antichrist . We’re really sorry. Hope she’s not too traumatized. Let’s play a round of golf sometime!”
“You’re not helping,” Joey tells him.
“Oh, I’m not helping? She didn’t even fucking know who Lazaar was! And I’m not helping?”
“I understand that you’re upset,” she says, ever so calm on the outside, but freaking out just as much from what his nose is picking up. “But antagonizing your crew is only gonna make things worse. Take a deep breath.”
He frowns. “What?”
“I said, take a deep breath.”
Want to know what the craziest thing is? Adam takes a deep breath. He inhales deep from his nose, and exhales out his mouth, like he’s fucking whipped already.
“That’s good,” she says, her hand once again touching his arm, gentler this time, calmer. “Another two for me, please.”
And he does. He takes another two fucking deep breaths with the assistance of Joey’s touch on his fucking arm. It soothes him. Everything’s fucked, but it soothes him.
“Good,” she whispers, voice gentle. “Very good.”
He will not turn red. He will not turn red. He will not turn—
“What do we do then?” Sammy asks, breaking the spell.
“Let’s just leave,” Joey says. “We leave her with some food and make an anonymous phone call, get the fuck out of dodge. It’s not like she’s seen our faces.”
Well, about that.
“Uh, actually, she has,” he tells her. “Thanks to you.”
“What?” She snaps. “I wore my mask. Why didn’t you?”
“Excuse me for thinking our captive was, you know, a fucking captive with a blindfold over her eyes and hands cuffed behind her back.”
“She’s a kid!”
“Yes, which we kidnapped! Or did you forget that important piece of information, uh?”
She points a finger at him. “I was supposed to be the only one in and out of that room.”
“Well, you took off her blindfold,” he points at her right back. “After you told me to go check things out.”
“I didn’t tell you to go check on her! I told you I was worried about who her father was.”
“Well, now you know! Feeling better?”
“What do you think?”
Their faces are inches apart and Adam can’t look anywhere else but Joey. Her brown sharp eyes. Her soft pink lips. How her brows furrow, how her mouth tightens, how she’s looking at him like she’s not sure if she wants to strangle him or kiss him. It’s addicting. She’s addicting.
He’d call himself a loser if he wasn’t so turned on.
“Why did you take off her blindfold, Joey?” Peter says. “Now we have to kill her.”
But ah, yes, they have an audience.
“Not a fucking chance,” she hisses at Peter, showing off her canines. “We’re not killing the girl.”
“Hey now,” Rickles intervenes between the two. “Let’s just all calm down, yeah?”
“She saw Frank’s face,” Peter points out.
“Even if Lazaar catches up to him, he don’t know shit about us.”
“He knows that I’m Quebecois, huh? He knows that Sammy comes from money. He knows that you come from a military background, thanks to Joey.”
Adam sighs. “Just had to do your little magic trick, didn’t you?”
“Thought you wanted me to show off?” She snaps at him, canines still very much on display; and by God, why is that so fucking hot?
“Hold up,” Dean pipes up. “If we just leave her here, then we don’t get none of that money? Kind of need some money real bad right now. I don’t know about y’all.”
Seven million does sound nice. But at the cost of having Kristof fucking Lazaar on their backs? How much are their lives worth, truly, is the question here.
“How much do you trust Lambert?” Joey asks him.
The man got him a new identity, a new life, basically saved him from being the next poor schmuck on Valdez’s radar.
“I trust him enough,” he answers. “That doesn’t make it worth the risk, though.”
Baby, he wants to plead. We need to get the fuck out of here right fucking now.
“If seven million per person isn’t worth the risk, then what is?”
Fuck. Fucking, motherfucking… Adam takes off his glasses, the raging headache turned into a full blown migraine. The safe bet is to leave. The safe bet is to pray Lazaar never finds any of them. The safe bet is to get on their knees and beg with big fat tears and snot running down their face that they’re really fucking sorry and they didn’t know she was his daughter and please, please, won’t the big bad Antichrist let us sorry bastards live another day?
That’s the safe bet.
Then Joey pushes him into the opposite direction and suddenly this shitty situation might be worth the risk, after all.
“All right,” he concedes. “He wouldn’t have had us kidnap the kid if he didn’t think we could pull this off. So, maybe, we all just pretend like we don’t know who her father is, and with the money we’re making from this, we just disappear forever, hmm? Start a new life. I never have to see any of you fucks ever again.”
He’ll never have to see Joey ever again, if he’s lucky.
There will be a point in the evening that Adam wishes he’d just kissed her in the foyer. Slipped his tongue inside, bit her lower lip as he pulled back. His mate would’ve slapped him for it. But hey, what a great memory that would’ve been. (How wonderful it would’ve been to feel her harsh touch against his cheek.)
* * *
This mansion is creepy as all hell.
If Lucia was superstitious like her abuelita, she’d start praying to the Holy Mother Mary right about now. There are corridors upon corridors, all draped in vintage wallpaper, antiques, paintings of lords and ladies and picturesque views; which would all be quite nice if the lights were on. Eventually, she finds a door, cracked open just enough for light to shine through.
It’s the library. At least, it looks like a library. A two-story room with rows of old books, fancy wooden floors, and a high ceiling where a large chandelier lays. There’s also a statue of a man and a little girl, just below a window that’s currently stuck.
They must have been the previous owners, she thinks. Before it got bought out by Lambert to use as his personal secret hide out.
Lucia opens the window the rest of the way, and the moon shines to the center of the room. It's quite beautiful. Whoever built this place had a keen eye for detail and elegance.
None of it alleviates her distress, though. Her sudden urgent need to flee.
I’m scared, she realizes.
The omega has a moment of insanity where she ponders returning to her mate. To Frank.
She shuts that thought right off.
Instead, she walks up to the crow’s nest, knowing Rickles is there, doing his damned job.
Which I should be doing, she thinks. What are you doing here, Lucia?
She reaches the door before realizing what a huge mistake this is. Lucia tries to turn back, but Rickles is faster.
“I thought I heard someone out there,” he says.
“I’m not as stealthy as I thought,” she jokes.
“You want to come in?”
She’s in a tough spot. On one hand, she desperately wants to, wants to feel these man’s lips on hers, feel him inside her, distract herself from this horrifying sensation that won’t leave her be. On the other, she doesn’t want to come in. Not at all. Lucia wants a particular set of arms wrapped tight around her waist, wishes to feel a particular scent on her neck, a certain someone whispering over her skin. She wants to feel safe.
It’s too bad the mate her biology picked for her is anything but.
“I sort of have this reputation of being a professional,” she says instead. “So…”
“And so you have to do your job,” he finishes for her.
She turns to walk away, but he grabs her by the arm and pulls her to him. He’s gentle; yet he smells all wrong.
“Hey, listen,” he says, too close. “I don’t trust any of these other fucks. So let’s watch each other’s backs.”
Why not? She tells herself. Why not choose him instead of Frank? What would be the harm? It’s not like he cares, anyway, from how he’s been acting.
“I was thinking the same thing,” she whispers, telling herself she’ll do it, she’ll kiss him.
Rickles comes an inch closer, enough for her to pull a move. It would be so easy. It would feel so good, she's sure of it.
She backs away instead. Walks off to do her goddamn job.
It takes her a while to shake off the awful feeling that settles in her core, but she manages all fine by herself. Of course she does. She didn’t have a mate for the first twenty years of her life. Then Patrick came along and what a huge mistake that was; even if he gave her Caleb. After, after she got shot in the leg, after the pain got too much, after she fell into the arms of a needle, after her whole life fell apart—she didn’t have a mate either. And she handled it just fine.
Now, all she needs is Caleb. That’s the fucking plan. Lucia believes it. And her mind is clearer now, her body lax. She’s good. She’s fine. Really, it’s—
She hears a blood curdling scream.
Dean is dead.
Dean’s head is off his body.
Lucia looks at the sorry state of the corpse and knows who the culprit is right away.
“What the fuck were you doing down here, anyway?” Frank asks Sammy.
“I couldn’t sleep,” the poor beta mumbles. “I heard something.”
“What, you just had to come and check it out, huh?”
“You think I could do that?”
No, she couldn’t.
“Be honest,” Lucia says to Frank. “What does that look like to you?”
“It looks like a fucking wild animal ripped him apart.”
She tilts her head. He shakes his.
“No,” he hisses. “No. No. I’m not fu— We’re not fucking going there.”
Everyone’s fear floods the room, so much so it drowns out Joey’s own nausea.
“Why are you all acting so weird?” Sammy says, nose wrinkling. “Why are you all giving off this stench?”
Lucia needs to warn her. “There are stories about Lazaar’s hitman—”
“Can we not do this, please?” Frank interrupts.
“She needs to know,” she says back. “Or would you rather she’d go in blind from now on?”
“I’d rather we not jump into conclusions.”
“We kidnapped Lazaar’s daughter. Who do you think he would send to find her?”
“Fine,” he groans. “Tell her.”
She scoffs. As if I needed your permission in the first place.
“Valdez,” Lucia continues. “Lazaar’s hitman. There are stories about how ruthless he is. Some people even believe he’s an alpha who injects himself with adrenaline before a kill.”
“I heard a story once,” Rickles supplies. “Three of Lazaar’s top guys got pinched a few years ago. The FBI flipped ‘em. Night before the trial, they were all holed up on the top floor of a hotel. A dozen agents in the next room and two on the door.”
She quickly picks on the same scent of sour lemons from the foyer—coming from Frank, once again. A mix of intense fear and anxious unease. It somehow gets worse, as Rickles goes on.
“Next morning, the FBI goes into the room. All their bodies are ripped apart. Limbs… and organs missing. Decapitations. That’s his signature—Valdez. He’s a fucking animal.”
She glances back at Frank, and his gaze remains on the floor. Another insane thought passes through her silly hormonal brain.
Go help him, it says, comfort him.
She pushes it all the way down.
(She’s not going to give in if he’s just going to act like an asshole the whole night.)
“And there was no way in and out of that room except for the front door or the twenty-three-story window,” Rickles says, just as perplexed. “So, how’d he do it?”
“Bullshit,” Sammy murmurs.
“It’s not fucking bullshit,” Frank responds, arms wrapped tight around himself. “That’s not the first time I heard that story.”
“Me too,” she says, too soft for her own liking. “We’d better check on the girl.”
Frank gets out his gun, and the whole crew follows behind, up the stairs where they left Abigail.
“All right, let’s game this out,” he lets out as they climb up, step by step. “If Valdez or anyone else is in here that means Lambert gave us up. And I don’t buy that.”
“Or Lazaar got to him and beat our location out of him,” Lucia suggests.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He says. “Lambert is a meticulous motherfucker. He’s very, very careful.”
“And yet he had us kidnap Lazaar’s daughter. You can’t tell me that there isn’t a chance he might’ve messed up along the way.”
“Fuck, you’re right,” he groans. “If he gave us up, that means either one of us did it or Valdez is in here and he did it.”
Or…
“Or one of us is Valdez,” she adds.
You could hear a pin drop as the realization sets in.
“I, for one, would like to revisit the cut-and-run idea,” Rickles says, and if she wasn’t in desperate need of money, she’d agree.
Frank cuts ahead, Lucia follows.
They check the room next door, which results in the alpha touching her wrist as they get close to a hidden corner—a shock runs up her arm, and heat bubbles in her lower belly—he lets her go as if struck, to which she mutters, “Just old-fashioned drapes over here.” Frank says nothing. Lucia then takes the lead to the other musty room, in quiet slow steps she opens the door, and the alpha jumps inside at gunpoint; and wouldn’t that be sweet, if it weren’t so irritating. No one there, either. Finally, they check Abigail’s room.
“Slow,” she whispers behind his neck, and watches his pierced ear wiggle.
“I know,” he hisses, clearly irritated.
She’ll give him credit where it’s due, the alpha can follow orders when he sure feels like it. The door cracks open just enough for them to spot the kid on the bed, turned away, clearly alone. He closes it, quietly as previously instructed.
“She’s fine,” Frank tells the others.
“Just because she’s still in there doesn’t mean that Valdez is not here. I’m out,” Rickles says, then glances at Lucia. “You coming?”
Immediately, she scents a burning coal from her right.
“Why you askin’ her?” Franks asks.
“Why?” Rickles throws back. “You got a problem with me asking?”
“I got a problem with you acting fuckin’ unprofessional.”
The marine chuckles. “Is that what you think is happening here?”
“I don’t know,” he growls. “Is it?”
Lucia doesn’t have the time to deal with men-children.
“Boys,” she snaps. “How about we leave the schoolyard behavior for the twelve-years-old and focus on getting out of here alive, hmm?”
They both stare at her.
“So you’re leaving with him—”
“So you’re staying—”
God, she thinks. Alphas are such drama queens for no good reason.
“If I’m staying it’s not because of my attachment to any of you here,” she says, ignoring the drop of hurt from her right. “It’s because we just got an extra seven million added to our shares.”
“Joey, he just died,” Sammy murmurs.
“It is tempting,” Peter adds.
“Congratulations,” Rickles tells her. “You just became the richest headless woman in America.”
Her eyes narrow. “If you leave right now, you really think Valdez isn’t going to find you and kill you? Dean is dead. And it was so easy and quick, none of us heard it happening. How long do you think you’ll last out there before he finds you and does the same?”
Rickles frowns. “So we stay, and wait for that maniac to kill us all?”
“Not if we work together.”
“We don’t even know who Valdez is,” he snaps. “You said it yourself, it could be one of us. Really, Joey, what’s the point in staying if we're just going to end up without a head anyway?”
“It doesn’t have to—”
“Then go,” Frank interrupts her. “Leave right fucking now, Rickles. See how far you get. You don’t need our permission to run off.”
“I certainly don’t need yours,” Rickles growls at him. “I’m only gonna ask this one more time. Joey, are you coming?”
The marine is sweet, charming, could care about her a great deal if given enough time. And yet. She doesn’t want to go with him.
I probably would have said yes to you, she thinks. In another life.
Lucia shakes her head.
Rickles nods. “Suit yourself.”
When he turns his back on her, guilt falls heavily on her shoulders. She starts to chase after him when Frank pulls her back by the same wrist he shocked.
“Leave him,” he says. “If he wants to drop his share of seven million too, let him.”
She shakes off his touch as if burned.
“Fuck off, Frank,” she hisses, and takes off after Rickles, calling out. “Come on. Hey! Let’s talk before—”
When they reach the foyer, the other alpha has already opened the door, but instead of directing him to the main door, a gate has appeared in its entryway, blocking everyone’s path. Rickles tries to manhandle it open. Then Peter. Then the house starts to groan, vibrating all around them, as if it were alive with great rage, before blocking out all the windows. For a split second, everything makes sense.
“This whole thing is a trap,” she says, fear rearing its ugly head at full force.
They’re all trapped. They’re all rats. Rats trapped in a maze and the cat has already eaten one of them and it was all for nothing. It was all for fucking nothing. She got clean for nothing. She accepted this job for nothing. Caleb—
I’ll never see Caleb again.
“Joey,” someone calls her, a deep voice, a warm voice. It pushes her out of her haze. “Joey, listen to me.”
Lucia blinks up at the alpha’s face.
It’s bizarre how much Frank looks like he cares.
“What?” She croaks.
“If this is Valdez,” he starts, slow, almost kind. “Maybe he checked on the girl and left her there to throw us off.”
Right, her brain pulls into high gear. Time to do my job.
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
As she leaves, he pulls her by the wrist again, gentler this time around.
“Be careful, will you?” He tells her. “We have enough bodies to clean up.”
She nods, suppressing the urge to stay by his side.
“Will do, sir,” she says, focused, in control.
And he lets her go.
When she goes up to Abigail's room, she expects her to point the finger at someone. She does. But when she mentions the man with the glasses… For some reason, she’s surprised. She’s caught off guard.
It doesn’t make any sense.
But does she believe that because she’s thinking with her head on her shoulders, or because Frank is her natural bonded?
She doesn’t know. And it frightens her. It makes her sick how she let her biology take control of her emotions—made her so fucking stupid over an asshole she just met.
“Frank is Valdez,” she tells Rickles. “He told the girl.”
He frowns. “Frank wanted to leave. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“He acted like he wanted to leave.”
“If he’s Valdez and Lazaar’s his boss, then why kidnap his kid?”
You’re right. You’re right.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Then why did Abigail say otherwise? Why did a scared little girl lie so effortlessly? Why does none of it make a lick of fucking sense?
Lucia scrambles in her brain to find a reason. “Maybe he and Lambert are planning a power play.”
Frank tilts his head. “That skinny motherfucker rips people apart?”
You’re right. You’re right.
“I don’t know,” she mumbles. “I don’t know. I don’t know why… Something doesn’t add up.”
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Frank. But aside from him, these guys are amateurs. You’re army, right?”
She nods. “Medic.”
“We can take 'em,” he says, and she understands what he means right away.
“We can take 'em,” she agrees.
“And if it’s Frank, he’ll know how to get out. Which means so would I if I spend about six minutes with him,” he tells her, and she has a mission now, a fucking plan. “You take the other two. Can you handle it?”
Her eyes narrow. “I told you I can handle them.”
“That’s not what I was asking.”
She understands what he means by that, too.
“We’re strangers,” she says, reassuring him, perhaps even herself. “We just met.”
“Fuck,” he groans in sympathy. “Natural, uh?”
Lucia feels like a little girl again. When she was beginning to realize just how much her second sex would affect her, not just her body, but how people perceived her as well. How much it would take to scrap for an inch of respect alphas get by just being born. How fast she’d lose it if she started acting like a “silly little omega in heat”. As if none of her accomplishments mattered once an alpha bit her neck. As if she was just an animal in the end. A hole to be filled. A womb to breed.
She feels ashamed for the first time since she got clean.
“Were we that obvious?” She asks, quietly.
“Only to someone who was paying attention,” he says, not unkindly. “I’ll ask again, can you handle it?”
Could I pull if it came down to it? Could I kill my mate?
The itch itches, down to her leg where scraps of a nasty bullet remain.
Her hands tighten. Her brain settles.
“I can fucking handle it,” she states, voice cold.
“Okay,” Rickles sighs with relief. “I trust you.”
“I trust you, too.” And she fucking means it.
“Take the main staircase while I go south. We meet in the middle,” he instructs. “We’re gonna get through this.”
Of course they will. She has no other choice.
“I have to.”
Rickles understands her too well. “You have a kid?” She nods, eyes sharp. He nods back. “We’ll make sure you get home.”
The worst part is that she believed him.
The fear stabs her from behind, down her neck, through her stomach.
As soon as her eyes spot Rickles—half his face and neck ripped apart—there’s no escaping it. It engulfs her. It makes her whimper as his body, his corpse, falls on top of her.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God—
Rickles is dead. And she didn’t even notice it. She didn’t even hear it.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God—
She was so stupid. A goddamn little fool. The sucker in their little game. Her alpha played her like a fiddle and she was none the wiser. How could she have? She was sloppy. She was reckless. The omega closed her eyes because it was easier; easier to fall back on someone else for a change. Easy to pretend they could’ve been something.
Liar, Liar, Liar, Liar, Liar—
Lucia is going to fucking kill him.
* * *
Adam is going to fucking kill Rickles.
Well, not literally. He’s not the psychopath running around chopping people’s heads off, by the way.
But the marine sure is wetting his toes in places where he doesn’t belong.
“You coming?”
What the fuck was that about?
Who the hell does he think he is, some white knight in shining armor?
As if that’s what Joey needs. As if that’s what Joey wants.
As if Joey isn’t a fucking professional.
Besides, if she were indeed going away with some alpha, why the fuck would it be Rickles? Adam is right there! But oh no, there’s no attachment here. Of course not. She’s just here for the money. Which, yeah, he fucking gets, alright? They’re here for the job. The omega isn’t here for him. This shit was unplanned and he’s well aware of that annoying little fact.
It’s just— Seriously, Rickles?
I’m spiraling, he realizes. I’m obsessing over some fucking omega while there’s a crazy murderer on the loose. Who am I? The slutty blonde in some horror movie? Fuck. This is stupid. This is embarrassing!
He splashes cold water on his face to numb these feelings out. Actually compartmentalize some shit. It works for half a second. Then his mind goes back to Joey’s eyes, crumbling under the terror, the haze of fear settling over her body.
Why did he have the impulse to reach out? Why did he want to comfort her?
Because she’s your mate, you fucking dumbass.
But Adam didn’t choose her. They didn’t do the whole song and dance of going on dates and asking each other long boring questions and laugh at some stupid shit he said and wow, they happen to have the same favorite drink, and they finally inch just the tiniest bit closer, and begin to feel each other’s skin with their mouths, and they stumble into bed and they fuck and they laugh and eat greasy food in the morning and fuck some more.
They didn’t do any of that.
But he wants to.
Fuck me, I want to.
He splashes another handful of icy cold water across his face. It doesn’t help, just makes him wetter.
Oh, and look, the bathroom doesn’t have any towels!
“Fuck,” he groans. “This day couldn’t get any worse.”
He swipes his face as best he can with his sleeves, fucking finds some toilet paper rolling around that quickly crumbles under his wet hands and sticks to his glasses. He spends another minute in the bathroom just controlling his breathing. In and out. In and out. (Just like Joey said.) After, when he’s regained most of his composure, he shuts the door. Walks back to the salon peachy fucking clean.
“House this fancy,” he mutters. “You’d think they could put fucking towels in the—”
And there she is. His fucking mate—pointing a gun right at his fucking head.
He holds his hands up.
“Oh,” he says, a bit fucking bewildered. “Hey, Joey. What’s going on?”
Why the fuck are you pointing a gun at me?
She breathes out, “Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Bring us here to kill us.”
What the fuck?
Like, what the actual fuck?
Somebody got in her head, that’s the only explanation. Because none of that makes sense, and he knows Joey well enough to know for a fact she’s too fucking perceptive to not see that it makes no fucking sense. So, somebody got in her head. Somebody talked to his omega so sweetly that she now has a gun pointing at her fucking mate and sees no problem with that.
Think, think, think—
He glances at Peter, and conjures up an idea.
“Don’t do it, Peter!” He shouts.
Hook, line and sinker. Joey falls for it. Long enough for him to pull out his own gun.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he says, as composed as he can fucking muster. “But you don’t sound very calm right now, Little Miss Paranoid, so forgive the precaution. You guys know what the fuck she’s talking about?”
“Uh,” Peter supplies. “I think she thinks that you brought us here to kill us.”
“Wow, ” Adam says, sarcastically. “Fantastic insight, Peter. Care to share what’s on your mind, Joey?”
“You’re Valdez,” she spits at him.
Fucking excuse me!?
“You told the girl,” she goes on. “You killed Dean and you just killed Rickles.”
Well, he certainly didn’t do that.
“I didn’t tell the girl shit.”
“Bullshit.”
“Wow. You got a lot going up there, junkie,” he throws back at her, because, actually, fuck you for believing that little shit over your own fucking mate. “But your brain’s not quite pulling it together, huh? You let a little girl get inside your head? You’re not as smart as you think you are. The girl, though, she’s fucking inspired, turning us against each other like this.”
“I believe her,” she says, icy cold.
How dare you, it sizzles inside him. How dare you pull a gun on me and how dare you force me to pull a gun on you.
“Hmm. Well, I hate to say it, but I think we’re gonna have to get rough with her,” he orders to no one in particular, but that certain someone knows exactly who he’s talking to.
“No,” Joey growls.
“I’ll do it,” Peter says, like a good boy.
“Don’t take another fucking step, Peter!” She shouts.
The man looks too soft for someone with this much experience in torture. “It, uh… It’s my job, Joey.”
“Look, I just want to get to the bottom of this, you know?” Adam says, because, fuck that little bitch and fuck whoever is directing her to whisper this crazy bullshit into his omega’s ear. “My team is dropping like flies and, well, our guest has besmirched my good name. And I take that very personally, you know?”
He gestures for Peter to do his fucking job. Peter fucking runs. Joey keeps staring daggers at him, though, holding her gun, still pointed at his fucking head.
Don’t make me shoot you, he hisses, he pleads. Don’t make me fucking shoot you, baby.
One. Two. Three. Four. Fiv—
Joey takes off.
It’s funny. The gun would’ve gone off in two seconds with anyone else. He would’ve shot her three times in the back if she were anyone else.
His mate disarms Peter in three seconds flat, then pushes him down on the bed with a gun to his head. That should not be as hot as it looks.
“Fucking put it down,” he warns her. “I’d really prefer not to have to fucking shoot you.”
I’d really fucking not, Joey.
“What’s he talking about?” Abigail screeches from the bed.
“Frank,” Peter exhales. “Just shoot her. She’s not gonna kill me.” She cocks the gun, chocolate-brown eyes turning cold. “I might be wrong, Frank.”
No shit, he thinks, the migraine coming back full force.
“Fucking put it down, Joey,” Adam orders. “I’m not fucking around here.”
Don’t make me shoot. Don’t make me shoot. Don’t fucking make me.
“You promised me,” the little girl fucking sobs.
“I’m doing my best here, Abigail!”
“Please point that somewhere else,” Peter begs.
“You’re not touching that girl.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Put it the fuck down, Joey,” Adam orders, again. (Anyone else, and he would’ve shot them point blank.)
It’s escalating. This whole shitshow is escalating and it’s getting to the point where Adam might not be able to stop it before it’s too late. God, why couldn’t he have bonded with someone else? Someone fucking agreeable for once!? Fuck. Fucking. Motherfucking—
“Don’t make me shoot you, Joey!” He shouts.
She shows off her canines. “None of you are hurting that kid!”
“Joey, fucking listen to me—”
“Fuck you, Frank. You’re not my fucking alpha—”
“GUYS! ” Sammy wails, and God, can everyone just be QUIET for one fucking second?
“Sammy!” He screams. “Shut the fuck up!”
Adam glances to his left and—
“What the fuck?” He inhales. “How in the fuck’d she get out of those cuffs?”
Something’s wrong. Something smells wrong. Something smells rotten and awful and like not fucking right in the slightest.
Angelina Ballerina bows.
What shrieks in her place is not a little girl. Little girls don’t have rows of very sharp teeth. Little girls aren’t fucking monsters.
“HOLY FUCK!”
The little monster jumps on Peter’s back and in the confusion Adam has about three seconds to make a decision—he shoots the little bitch right between her eyes.
Black blood splatters on the wall; it’s thick and gooey and all fucking wrong.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes out.
The little monster is on the ground. The little monster is dead. Right? It’s…
Adam picks on Joey’s shock, her need to fucking inspect, to have a bleeding heart.
“Joey, get back!”
The little bitch gets back from the floor, eyes wild like an animal’s. She wipes off the blood from her forehead. No hole. No wound. She smiles with her razor sharp teeth.
“Joey,” he calls. “Get the fuck away!”
The monster howls.
His mate puts three bullets in their little body and it still doesn’t make any difference.
Adam acts quick, gets behind her, pulls on Joey’s waist to force her out of the room.
He slams the door shut and turns the lock.
“What the fuck?” He says out loud. “What the fuck? What the fuck?”
“I don’t know,” she says back. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.”
The monster continues to screech. The monster is going to kick down the door soon enough.
We’re not dying here, he promises. We’re not fucking dying, Joey.
“C'mon!” He hisses. “We need to go!”
Adam tugs on her wrist and it pulls her from the thick haze of fear. Her tender brown eyes come back to life. She nods, and nods, and lets him guide her to safety. They go back to the foyer, hand in hand; and for a moment, it’s like fate was right about them, like they were meant for each other, after all.
For a moment.