Penny For Your Saints

Violet Braxe

Copyright © 2025 by Violet Braxe

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact violet@violetbraxe.com

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Cambry DeSaturnine

Editing by Caity Hides

For Mel , Mr. Braxe, Pastel, Cera, Gwen, and all the girlies who read the content warnings as if it were a menu at a fine dining establishment.

All my love, Vi xoxox.

Introduction

Hello all! Thank you so much for reading Penny For Your Saints! If you spot any errors I would really appreciate if you could drop me an email at violet@violetbraxe.com

Thank you again, I hope you enjoy!

purple heartVi

Notes on Violet Braxe’s Omegaverse

Heats: Begin once an omega “ripens” or “blooms” (typically around 18 years of age, but sometimes later in somewhat rare “late bloomer” cases—sometimes as late as mid-thirties.) Heats, much like a period, can happen with different regularity and length from omega to omega, but the average cycle is once every 1-2 months for 3-5 days. During a heat the omega will feel as if they are in ‘fuck or die’ mode and will suffer negative symptoms and side effects if they do not engage in sexual activity (especially knotting), or they do not take suppressant drugs to stop the heat from happening.

Ruts: Unbonded alphas can go into ruts on a semi-regular cycle, much like an omega’s heat (once every month or so, for 2-5 days). This cycle will begin to sync up with an omegas heat cycle once the alpha has bonded to the omega. In this OV-verse, alphas don’t need to be in a rut to form a knot. Knots can form any time an alpha gets sufficiently excited. When an alpha is actually in a rut, they will similarly go into ‘fuck or die’ mode and will suffer negative symptoms and side effects in increasing severity unless they engage in sexual activity(again, with an emphasis on knotting). In this OV-verse, alphas can also take suppressants to help guide their ruts until they’re ready to come off their medication and start syncing up with their bonded omega.

Bonding: Can only be performed by an alpha, gamma, or sigma bonding to either an omega, sigma, theta, or gamma. The alpha/gamma/sigma in question seals the bond with a bite that must be allowed to heal on its own. If the bite scar is treated/removed/otherwise destroyed before it’s fully healed, the bond can be compromised.

Designations (Alpha, Beta, Omega, and beyond): there are additional designations beyond alpha, beta, and omega (such as, but not limited to: theta, sigma, gamma). Individuals of any gender can present as any designation. Typically, designations reveal by age 18, but false designations can appear at an early age…only to be amended later. (Surprise omega trope anyone!?)

Alpha: Socially dominant, experience ruts, strong scent profile, can perform bonding bites, have knots, elevated social status associated with their designation, can ‘breed’ aka impregnate omegas and sigmas, cannot give birth.

Beta: Socially Submissive, Do Not Experience Ruts, Cannot Perform Bonding Bites, Do Not Have Knots, Cannot ‘Breed’, cannot give birth, May or May Not Experience Elevated Social Status Via Association With Alphas/Omegas in their pack.

Omega: Can be Socially Dominant or Submissive–or potentially versatile. Omegas experience heats, have a strong scent profile, and are capable of being impregnated by alphas, gammas, and sigmas. Cannot perform bonding bites.

Gamma: Anatomically aligned with Alphas (has a knot, stronger scent, experiences ruts, can give a bonding bite, can breed, cannot give birth) However, Gammas are more socially submissive, more laid back, and more empathetic than typical Alphas. Additionally, they do not enjoy the same elevated social status as Alphas.

Theta: Anatomically aligned with betas (no knot, calming scent, purring as a calming method, cannot breed or give birth) Socially, they are fairly neutral/vers. Frequently loners, thetas can have an almost tranquilizing/hypnotic ability when it comes to their scent/purring. Their personalities may seem sleepy or boring at first glance, but often there are hidden depths to a theta. They do not enjoy any sort of elevated social status.

Delta: Anatomically aligned with betas (no knot, calming scent, purring as a calming method, cannot breed or give birth) Socially, they are fairly socially dominant–natural leaders like their alpha counterparts.

Sigma: Anatomically aligned with Omegas(heats, birthing, strong scent) with the exception that they can also ‘breed’ in addition to giving birth and they can also perform bonding bites. Sigmas are Dominant and frequently avoid large social groups due to their incredibly aggressive nature. It should also be noted that sigmas DO NOT NEST.

Content Warnings

Tropes Featured: Kidnapping, Why Choose, MMMMF crossed swords, Morally Gray MMCs, Forced Proximity, Knots/Nests/Heats, Voyeurism, Intimidation and Control, Bondage, Forced O's, DVP, DP, Double Knotting, Fated Mates (the boys know first!), Additional Designations, Designation Switching, Cliffhanger in book one to HEA in book two!

Content Advisory: Kidnapping, Captivity, Intimidation & Control, Gaslighting, Guns/Knives/Bombs used in action scenes that may include moderate violence/gore, Dubcon, Light Somnophilia, Rough Sex, Breath Play, Drug and Alcohol use, Death of family members (Mother and father) is a key plot point for the FMC, Death of previous partner is a plot point for one of the MMCs, Mental health discussions RE: Addiction, Intrusive Violent Thought, Self-Harm, Dissociative Disorders , and Suicidal Ideation.

The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas feel like some of the coldest of my early morning runs.

Not because it’s actually the coldest time of year, be it in my hometown of Lexington, Massachusetts, or in my current stomping grounds near Quantico; but instead because my body—no matter where I’ve spent the holidays—hasn’t quite gotten used to that winter chill yet.

This was my fifth year returning to what had been my childhood home in order to celebrate the holiday with my Uncle Martin and my paternal Grandmother.

I’ll be leaving Lexington tomorrow, hopping a flight to DC to attend the retirement party of my mentor and exiting Section Chief of Behavioral Sciences at the FBI, Susan Lowry.

Six days; Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and the following three glorious cycles of twenty-four hours where I am not constantly bombarded by the spine-chilling whispers of the looming threat of a mysterious and sinister chemical weapon that spirit through the hallways of FBI headquarters.

Though me and my kind—the kingdom Susan leaves behind in Behavioral Sciences, are not directly involved in any pursuit, profiling, or hostage negotiations; the tales of a man-made virus affecting only omegas and sigmas with deadly symptoms, while making alphas asymptomatic carriers and leaving all other designations unharmed, have bubbled up even into our modest offices.

Not officially, though, of course.

Even though I have my few days of rest, of freedom—my morning run has yet again taken me from the Penny family home—through the center of our picturesque New England town, adorned with evergreen boughs, red velvet ribbon, and warmly glowing twinkle lights; past the park and the pond—all the way through the iron and stone gates to Westview Cemetery.

I never seem to know I’m doing it until my carefully architected running stride gutters to a stop in front of the polished pink granite slab that bears the name of my dearly departed parents: Landon and Margot Penny.

Even though I know the stone will be biting cold, my fingers reach for its glossy surface—the pads of my index and middle fingers tracing the words “Loving Mother and Father, Brilliant Minds, Devoted Husband and Wife.” The cut stone is ice beneath my touch.

My breath diffuses in tiny clouds of steam as I tuck my hands back into my pockets, little packets of iron and other chemicals oxidizing and toasty warm.

I kept my eyes on the aisles and access roads on my way in. My only other company, a hobbled old woman in her champagne sedan monstrosity with a tattered wreath in her hands to lie on the grave of her late husband. I didn’t think I’d slipped too deeply into my own thoughts, but I almost jumped when I heard the snap of a twig behind me. For a fraction of a second, I long for my duty piece—my running tights, micro fleece, and featherweight running shoes, my only current defense against the cold or any other threat.

Then I catch his scent; peat, orris, and wood-smoke. My uncle Martin Penny, ex Department of Justice special agent, turned assistant section chief of the Department of Reproduction. He’s also been back in town for the holiday, staying at his own place in town along with his mother, my grandmother; on leave from the residential memory care unit.

“I find myself here on every run when I’m home, too,” he sighs thoughtfully, reaching out a gloved hand to rest atop the headstone fondly. My father, his ‘baby’ brother, laid to rest beneath the frost crisped grass under our feet.

“I’d say it’s a good loop , but we both know that’s bullshit.” I scoff a gallows laugh and Uncle Martin returns it in kind, cuffing me on the shoulder lovingly.

“God, you remind me so much of your dad—your mom too, but sometimes you make a joke, and I swear…” His chuckles taper off into a clearing of the throat, keeping the waiver of tears from his voice.

Most people probably think I’m cold for my stiff upper lip, my steadfast expression of dutiful grief. The truth is, I nearly fell so completely apart after losing my parents—I simply have not fully put myself back together.

Loss isn’t even the right word. You lose people to illness, horrific injury, or age. Accidents can give the feeling that someone is taken from you—long before their time. When someone is murdered? It is something so entirely beyond.

“Are you going to the send-off for Lowry?” I nimbly steer us back to safer territory. If I play my cards right, maybe I can swing a seat on the exec jet with ol’ ‘Party Marty’. Lord knows that Compton would have made me drive the damn Lincoln to and from Quantico for the holidays if he could have. Thankfully, the transportation office at least sprung for nonstop tickets, even if they are in coach.

“I’m trying to see if I can beg off. You know how much I loathe parties and command performances,” he groans, dropping into a low squat to clear away some of the more scraggly looking dried grass at the base of the headstone.

Now it’s my turn to be reminded of my late father, despiser of parties and small talk—ever in motion, in pursuit of the next big project or idea—like a hammerhead shark, eternally fiddling with or fixing something.

Even though Uncle Martin is only a handful of years older, I can’t help but feel a swell of affection as I notice the spot at the crown of his head where his hair has begun to thin gently—a glimpse of shiny scalp in the gray winter morning sunlight. My dad had still looked so youthful when he and my mother had their lives stolen from them, only just approaching his sixtieth birthday.

“Yeah, if it were anyone other than Lowry—I would have tried to move heaven and earth not to be there.” I shake my head, shifting my weight from foot to foot with a bouncing rhythm to keep my muscles from cooling down too much—I still have to run the rest of the loop home after all.

“Of course, there’s no way you could miss it.” He nods sagely, polishing away my greasy fingerprints with the soft fabric of his gloved thumb. “Is what's-his-name going with you?” Martin adds casually, as if it's an afterthought—even though I know he’s clocked the fact I haven’t mentioned Tom, the alpha investment banker with whom I recently had a blowout breakup.

“Tom and I decided to call it quits two days before Thanksgiving,” I admit with a wince.

“Because you finally realized he was a turkey?” Martin snipes back, not missing a beat.

I let out a surprised laugh.

“Yeah, something like that. Lucky me, I’ll be drawing even more looks of consternation from the old men who already think that a sigma in her mid-thirties should be prioritizing bonding and babies before her career. Even Lowry was really hoping that I was going to start making plans to get the whole business out of the way early,” I groan.

“Easy with the ‘old men’ talk—I resemble that remark!” Martin chuffs a warm laugh as he rises from the cold ground, and I’m grateful for this lifeline—what’s left of my family.

“My mistake, sir.” I play at the professional deference I’m forced to offer him whenever we overlap in bureau settings.

“Don’t fret Louie,” he croons affectionately, calling me by the nickname my family has used since I was a little girl. He drapes his arm over my shoulders in a sidelong hug before adding conspiratorially: “You didn’t hear it from me, but Lowry tapped Compton—an old dog like me, as a glorified seat warmer.”

“Come on, that’s bull,” I snort dismissively.

“It’s not bull. You know Compton is no spring chicken. This is to give him the requisite respect before his sunset into retirement. He’s there to do an extended victory lap and to prepare Lowry’s heir apparent to seat the throne in the next five to seven years.” He raises his dusty nutmeg brows meaningfully, squeezing me against him.

“Well…shit.” I blink, my stomach reeling as if in free fall—my emotions not yet caught up to this new kernel of information.

“Again, you didn’t hear it from me, but maybe you might wanna approach Lowry’s retirement gala with that in mind… More conservative on the outfit, and a date wouldn’t be a bad idea if Tom the turkey is out.” He pauses carefully before hedging: “I bet if you asked, agent McBride would be your meat shield for the occasion, even if you’re not partners anymore.” Uncle Martin winks and lets go of my shoulder, his bouncing steps in place signaling his readiness to get back to his own run.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just suggest that I invite Dennis-Apple-Polisher-McBride to Lowry’s gala.” I bark a laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “She’d be likely to think I’ve totally lost my better judgment.”

“Yeah, while the other old men like me will approve of the boy-scout of behavioral sciences—Lowry would probably shake you.” Martin throws back his head and laughs—clapping me on the shoulder before he turns his dark brown eyes to me one last time. “If I end up being forced to go, we’ll catch each other being trotted about for the company.” He gives a quick wave as he starts up, jogging away from me down the narrow, paved lane.

“May you be gracefully excused! I’ll see you and Gram for Christmas Eve at my place if you don’t end up getting roped in!” I call after him, already jogging backward toward my own path home.

I did my best to take Uncle Martin’s words to heart, but I was only able to succeed in half measures.

Yes, I was able to find something that would be both conservative enough to avoid ridicule or suggestions of impropriety by my superiors without also condemning me to old-maid-spinsterdom—almost as sure to end my career as being too risqué.

Pleasing men in power enough to encourage them to share a crumb of that potency and influence—truly a hellish high-wire act if ever there was one, and here I am—traversing the line, arms outstretched in a silent prayer for balance, the threat of being dashed on the rocks of professional ruin ever lurking below.

While inviting a date—even apple-polisher-McBride—might have offered some form of a safety net, I was unable to produce any civilian companion for the evening and unwilling to invite my former partner, Dennis, for such a purpose.

The old brass will have to deal. I spent almost four hours getting gussied up for this gala—they should be happy with what they get.

“There’s my girl!” I hear Susan Lowry—warm alto and distinctive vocal fry over the murmur of voices and the tasteful jazz band facilities hired to play the function.

I turn to face her and can’t help but snort a nervous laugh. As it happens, we’re wearing nearly identical outfits; high-necked sheath dresses with modest keyhole openings in the back—mine a shade of dark green to compliment my coppery auburn French twist—Lowry’s a navy blue to flatter her silvery blond chignon.

“What a fabulous dress—you have excellent taste,” she crows happily, her diamond bracelet winking in the romantic lighting. She raises a half empty champagne flute,and reaches for me with her free hand.

“I learned from the best.” I clink my flute against hers, the crystal making a resonant chime, clutching her soft, knurled hand in mine. “Good thing we didn’t actually buy the same one.” We exchange air kisses—her sigma perfume; lily of the valley, sweet grass, and tart white grape, washes over me, and I feel the rare comfort that I’ve chased time and time again since I lost my mother.

Lowry darts a glance over either shoulder—her husband and a cluster of high-ranking military and bureau officials chatting spiritedly just behind. Satisfied that we can gossip in relative peace, she threads her arm through mine and guides us toward the outskirts of the bustling party conversation.

“Is Tom here with you tonight? Are you two…?” She purses her lips suggestively, her eyes darting to my hand to look for a telltale diamond engagement ring.

“On the contrary,” I sigh, bringing champagne to my lips and taking a less-than-ladylike swig before finishing my answer to Lowry’s question. “We broke up right before Thanksgiving,” I groan

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” Lowry makes a clucking noise with her tongue and pats my arm affectionately.

“Don’t be.” I toss back the rest of my champagne on a strangled laugh. “He was not only trying to talk me into taking my dreaded repro sabbatical but also doing his best to sell me on changing gears on my career.” I roll my eyes.

I see the light of anger flicker in Lowry’s eyes at my words, her arm unlinking from mine.

“Of course he was.” She shakes her head, reaching for my empty glass—grabbing the bit of crystal and flagging down a nearby waiter in one fluid motion. “I remember, before I had Jeremy—people wouldn’t stop squawking about when I was going to go on mandatory repro leave. If Phil had even breathed a word about me not returning to the bureau afterward? Divorce would have been the least of his worries.” Susan seethes, placing my empty glass on the passing waiter's tray, exchanging it for another.

Truly, I don’t know what I would have done without Susan Lowry. Having lost my mother just as I was starting grad school really fucked me up in ways I hadn’t been anticipating. Without her mentoring, her deep understanding—as another sigma woman at the bureau—I’m not sure I’d be standing here tonight.

“I know it won’t buy me that much more time.” I sigh wearily, allowing myself to lean against Lowry in a sign of affection, trust, and appreciation for her offered support. “But Compton should be off my ass for at least another month or two once I tell him that Tom was a no go.”

Lowry snorts a dry laugh and drapes her arm over my shoulders, drawing me against her in a half-hug.

“Well, he’ll be off your ass another month or two, as long as you can be a bit more discreet about your extracurriculars.” She gives me a roguish smirk and a near imperceptible wink.

I swallow hard, doing my best not to pull away from her on instinct—unwilling to cede any ground, even to her.

“How do you mean?” I attempt to play dumb, even though I know a professional like Lowry can see right through me in a moment like this. Still, my pride won’t allow me to admit the truth of her first accusation.

Lowry drops her chin and gives me an almost plaintive look to let me know how pathetic my attempts at denial are.

“What?” I bristle, squirming under the suddenly crushing weight of her arm; pale and delicate. Even in my ambitious spiked pumps, I’m still a few inches shorter than her—and I feel like a child about to be whisked away to time-out for my fresh mouth.

“Oh, come on Louie!” she hushes in a horse whisper. “You can’t think that I’m getting senile or something, do you? I have seen the notes scattered on the desk at your place near Quantico.” She mouths the word ‘Covartis’ and purses her lips in challenge.

It’s pointless to argue. Even though Walt Compton and the other boys from the bureau have never been to my home—if I’ve gotten sloppy enough for her to take notice of my off-hours investigation into my parents murder so close to her retirement… I really do need to clean up my act.

Of course, my pride and my temper get the best of me—just like always.

“Ok, fine—why not just call Walt Compton over here and bust me right now?” I hiss, sudden heat in my voice, blackest hatred racing through my veins as I feel my best chance at vengeance begin to slip through my fingers.

Lowry, a seasoned professional, gives a single laconic blink.

“Let’s get it over with—I’ve got my badge and duty piece in my car. Just don’t you dare have goddamn McBride bring me the box of shit from my office.” I push past any semblance of gallows humor into outright hostility.

“Put a muzzle on it, Louie.” Lowry snorts dismissively. “Don’t try to out-bitch thee bitch—I’m simply giving you the warning of one friend—one woman to another.” Her brows set low and angry. “Everyone’s going to be looking for any excuse to install some man in Compton’s place when he goes. Right now, I’ve convinced Walter that you’re the only natural choice, but you can bet Donny Krendler and those dipshits in the DOJ are going to be pulling for Kent or even ‘goddamn McBride’,” she warns icily. “Don’t undo all the fucking work that we’ve both done to get you here.”

It’s not a threat but the plea of a woman who is desperate to pull me along behind her through the shattered glass ceiling she’s left in her wake—praying that I won’t get shredded to ribbons by the glittering shards that crowd my path.

I feel something inside me go slack—the rippling flames of my rage momentarily quenched by shame.

“I’m sorry, Susan—Chief.” I bow my head contritely.

“Cut that out, too.” She gives me a gentle nudge with her elbow, her expression soft and smiling when I look back up at her. “I could have waited to tell you more delicately at a more appropriate time, but I just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Lizard brain just makes me paranoid. I had to say something.” She shakes her head ruefully.

“No, I understand—it pays to be paranoid. Otherwise, how would we have ever gotten here?” I agree, offering her my arm once more.

“I for one, am happy to have arrived at the age where I can now continue my paranoia at the retirement level. I’m ready for my mountainside cabin with my rocking chair, my quiet, and a shotgun to keep my lap warm.” Lowry hooks her arm through mine, easing back into our comfortable rapport—the pair of us giving vacant glittering smiles to nearby onlookers as we make our way slowly back toward Susan’s husband and the other officials chatting with him.

“I just won’t be able to protect you from these idiots from the peace of my front porch,” she grits out through her perfect white teeth.

“Understood, loud and clear.” I bend my elbow slightly—giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. “Sorry again for biting your head off back there.”

Lowry’s nostrils flare and she lifts a brow at me.

“I get especially prickly close to my heat, too,” she says knowingly.

“I’m not—I mean, I just haven’t been able to go for my injection since I got back into town late last night. Before the holiday I had thought there was the possibility of—” I blurt out, immediately defensive, but Susan cuts me off with a deliberate laying of her hand over my bare shoulder.

“It was a self report as much as anything else, Louise—take a deep breath. Remember, I’m not out to get you here.” The skin around her eyes crinkles gently, her crows feet only making her somehow more lovely. I’m once more undone by the maternal affection of her gaze, my shame like an icy spike rising in my gut.

“I’m sorry, I really am all out of sorts tonight—I keep snapping at you and it’s your goddamn party.” I wince.

“It’s fine, really. I cornered an animal, and she bit me back good.” Lowry beams at me like a proud mama, her pale eyes wet with something like love. “It’s one of the ways I know I made the right choice, kid. You’re going to need to keep that bite sharp and that fire burning to make it to Section Chief. Always trust that righteous anger, follow what I’ve taught you—it may take a lot to be top dog, but you’ve got something special, Penny.” She uses my last name without the prefix of ‘agent’, one of the most clear cut signs of respect and peerage you can be given by a superior—allowing the appellation to sink in before finishing her thought: “You’ve got what it takes to be top bitch.”

After saying my hellos to Phil Lowry and doing the standard dog and pony show small talk and glad handing with Compton, Krendler, and the better part of the leadership of the ATF—I manage to slip away from the larger conversation in favor of one of the open bars at the far end of the ballroom.

Even though I technically quit two years ago, stuffy social events like this make me crave the socially acceptable escape of a cigarette. I look longingly out of the glass sliding doors to the terrace; guests huddled beneath the canopy of large outdoor propane heaters, flicking ash into the winter wind, and contemplate grabbing my stole from the coat check and trying to bum a Dunhill or Nat Sherman off of one of the fools.

I’ve begun to drift closer to the end of the bar nearest the cloakroom, when I catch sight of a curious young man standing twenty feet away from me.

He’s wearing the same cheap black polyester slacks, white button down, and likely rented black rayon vest and bowtie as the rest of the catering staff, but the telltale wisps of black and multicolored tattoo ink creep up over the top of his collar, nearly to his ears—which may or may not be pierced—hard to tell beneath the absolutely embarrassing halloween-special, dark brown wig he’s wearing.

What the hell is that plastic mop supposed to be giving? ‘Smokey and the Bandit’? ‘Aging 80s pop star’? Whatever it is—kid isn’t selling it.

At first, I mentally scold myself. What if he’s in cancer treatment? Or maybe he’s got alopecia—and I’m being a complete and total asshole here expecting the twenty something to be able to afford a decent lace front on a catering gig paycheck. Then his eyes catch mine, focused and startlingly blue. That’s when I notice his eyebrows—so blonde they’re nearly white, completely at odds with his unkempt, dark wig.

He doesn’t break eye contact, just keeps his gaze locked to mine as I drift slowly toward him. Only after I traverse half the distance between us does he casually turn on the heel of his Walmart-special dress shoes and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction.

Without conscious effort, I gather the skirt of my dress, lifting the hem to allow myself a greater range of movement. My speed picks up as much as possible while remaining surreptitious. I follow his narrow back in the crowd, watch the slight bob of his head as he weaves between party goers and other waitstaff as he exits the main ballroom, on course for the cloakroom and stairwell, back down into the main rotunda.

I manage to close more than three quarters of the distance between us with ease—my heart thudding beneath my tongue, ears ringing with rising adrenaline—as I press my pursuit. The curious caterer is only a few bodies away from me in the crowd when a hand closes around my bare bicep—the palms warm, but rough with callouses.

“Lou! Yeah, you—I’m talking to you!”

I round on my sudden captor, breath snapping into my lungs like wind into the sails of a tall ship.

“Hey! Where’s the fire!? I’ve been calling your name for like the last minute and a half, don’t tell me you’re already half in the bag—I haven’t even finished my first drink, and I don’t wanna have to rush to play catchup.”

Dennis Fucking McBride. Could he have worse timing?

My head snaps back, my prey long since disappeared into the crowd—the wind leaving my metaphorical sails with an exasperated sigh.

“I was on my way to the head. You want to hold my purse while I take a piss?” I snip at Dennis.

“No fucking way,” he scoffs, the mere suggestion that he might hold my bedazzled clutch for a total of two and a half minutes clearly an affront to his dignity.

“Good, then unhand me, you oaf—my eyeballs are practically floating.” I grumble, wrenching my arm from his hand.

“Jesus Lou, you might clean up nice—but your mouth could still use a bar of soap.” Dennis withdraws, adjusting his black satin bow tie beneath his clean shaven square jaw, his blue-green eyes glistening with laughter—his strawberry blond hair meticulously coiffed for the occasion rather than matted beneath his otherwise omnipresent FBI baseball cap.

“Oh no, I’ve failed to meet a man’s expectations of demure subservience, whatever shall I do?” I bat my lashes dramatically, clasping my hands beneath my chin.

“I thought you had to take a piss? Why are you still here giving me grief?” Dennis rolls his eyes, but there’s no denying the telltale quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“I have to wait until you’re done being a smarmy pain in my ass, and you make yourself useful—by offering to go to the bar and grab me another drink, or possibly an entire tray of those little mini brie and apple cheese puff things. I’m fucking starving.” I prompt him, already in motion for the hallway, the bathroom, and any lingering possibility of finding my catering quarry from earlier.

“Manhattan?” Dennis calls after me, already on his own trajectory for the bar. I give him a thumbs up and continue weaving my way through other party guests.

I turn the corner, eyes scanning the crowd in vain for my mystery man in the bad wig. No luck. I’m on my way to the ladies room to refresh my lipstick and make a show of taking a powder after making my excuses to escape Dennis—when I nearly crash headlong into uncle Martin—his eyes similarly somewhere other than his direct walking path.

“Uh oh, they made you fly out of Logan short notice and put on the full monkey suit.” I extend an open hand to keep him from walking directly into me.

“Oho! Agent Penny, fancy seeing you here,” he chuffs warmly, giving me a sarcastic wink with the overly professional ‘Agent Penny’.

“Everything ok?” I notice the thin sheen of sweat at his hairline, the sallow look to his usually rosy complexion. He really does fucking hate these kinds of gatherings, always has.

“Yeah, just claustrophobic in this cluster… I just got here a few minutes ago and I’m already wondering how soon is too soon to leave.” He shifts uncomfortably, pulling at the cuffs of his tuxedo self consciously—darting looks back over his shoulder every so often.

“I’ll tell you what, I’m stuck here until Lowry makes her big speech—then you can use me as an excuse to get out of here,” I offer, hoping to help relieve some of his misery.

I am rewarded with a big toothy smile and the crook of Uncle Martin’s arm as he offers it to me.

“Deal. Shall we, Louie?”

I link my arm through his and allow myself to be escorted back to the main party.

First day back on the job without Lowry, and already I can feel the difference. It’s outright palpable if I’m being honest, and I don’t fucking like it.

I knew that I’d have to get used to seeing Walt Compton behind her desk, in her office—that the timbre and the vibe of the discussion would be intrinsically different without Lowry at the helm. I just didn’t realize how different it would be, and how quickly I would feel the effects.

Already I’m getting more lip before lunch than I’ve gotten in the nearly five years I’ve worked for the BSU. Maybe it’s just a particularly shitty Monday, but the fact that McBride, Gertz, and Tennant have all been thorns in my side at the same time makes me feel like it’s not coincidence.

I have only just finished settling at my desk after making the rounds for report collection from the grouchy BSU boys—unsub evals and profiling course curriculum notes littering my workstation, when Walt Compton pokes his silver head from the narrow opening of his new office door.

“Penny!” he calls me, allowing me this show of respect in front of the others.

“Yes, sir.” I pop up from my desk like a meerkat—surveying my path to his office as I await his inevitable beckoning, assuring I don’t need anything from my desk before I take off—my heels make dull thudding noises on the ancient low pile carpet as I hustle toward Compton.

“Do you have the Karston reports?” he barks, his half-moon glasses almost dangling off the tip of his nose as he eyes me from his doorframe.

“Yes sir,” I chirp back, collecting a thick folio of documents from the wire rack on my desk.

“Bring those and the damn Tamerlin summary and get yourself a cup of coffee, Penny—I need to bend your ear on a couple of other things, too. I’ve got you for the next three hours, easy,” Compton adds before slamming his door closed.

I give my co-workers a withering look as McBride, Gertz, and Tennant all smirk at me from their desk chairs.

“Lowry’s not here to be your meat shield anymore, sweetie,” Gertz snickers, kicking his feet up on the edge of his desk, his fingers knit over his ample belly as he leers at me. “Compton’s going to be able to decide for himself whether or not you’re best girl anymore.”

“Oh? What are you getting at Bob?” I play dumb, gathering the plastic summary binder and stacking it into my arms along with the Karston folio, my thick leather agenda and my work issue laptop—using the stack to knock Bob Gertz’s loafers off the corner of his desk, so I don’t risk the dirty rubber soles brushing against my navy Givenchy suit. “Are you gunning for my spot?” I scoff at him as he’s unexpectedly launched forward, his wheeled office chair tipping forward out of its reclined position with the shifting of his own body weight.

“What if I am?” Gertz grouses, barely catching himself from being dumped unceremoniously to the floor.

“Who says you’d be first choice?” Tennant sneers—flicking an elastic band at Gertz, striking him directly in the beer gut. “You’re a has-been, Gertz,” Scott Tennant scoffs, pushing his frameless glasses up the narrow bridge of his nose.

Gertz makes a blustering noise as if he’s going to respond, but Dennis cuts him off.

“C’mon Scotty, Bob isn’t a has-been,” he begins, soothing Gertz’s bruised ego—spreading his hands in a benevolent gesture as I prepare to pass his desk—the closest to Compton’s closed door.

“Oh, yeah?” Tennant crosses his arms—sinking into his desk chair with an air of challenge on his gaunt, rodent-like face.

“He’s a never-was.” Dennis snorts a cruel laugh before turning those ocean eyes on me, a smirk curling his full, coral lips. “Go get ‘em, killer.” He reaches out and gently punches my shoulder, and I feel the rare swell of affection for the idiot.

I give Dennis a wink and a single finger gun gesture before slipping inside Compton’s office.

“The paperwork you wanted, sir,” I offer dutifully, placing the stack of documentation on the richly stained mahogany desk that used to be Lowry’s. There’s still a trace of her here, technically; in an old picture from an awards presentation nearly a decade ago that I can just barely make out as Compton shuffles documents and folders in his weathered hands. Compton looks a much younger man in the photo even though it isn’t that long ago, Lowry, Jim Roach and Ned Bloom–the former section chief of the Department of Reproduction and AG accordingly; the three big wigs bracketed by a very young and impressionable looking Dennis Mcbride, and two handsome men I don’t recognize in their matching blue suits with square jaws and well coiffed hair looking like they’ve come straight from the Hoover administration. All give tight smiles from behind the pressed glass of the picture frame.

In the present day, Walt Compton’s owly brows knit together in a stern expression—his gut grown soft enough to hang slightly over his polished brass belt buckle. He’s got more gray than chestnut brown in his hair, and even though he thinks it’s subtle—I notice his hand move self consciously to adjust the hair at the back of his head that covers his expanding bald spot, the gold of his wedding band winking under the lights as he brings his hand back down, all the while fixing me with his steely blue gaze.

“Penny, I don’t want to waste your time—so I’m going to get right to the point,” he cuts in gruffly, pulling his half moon bifocals off his nose, allowing the silver wire frames to dangle from his clasped hands as he rests his cleft chin atop the bridge of his knuckles.

“Very good, sir.” I stand up straight, settling into parade rest—since Compton hasn’t invited me to take a seat.

“Lowry always said you were her top dog—that you were her natural choice of successor,” he explains flatly.

I say nothing, just retain eye contact with Compton as he continues his monologue.

“I’ve watched you closely since you joined the BSU, so I’m inclined to agree with her,” he puffs imperiously, carefully folding his glasses closed before placing them beneath his desk lamp.

“That being said.” He winds up pushing back from his desk, slowly rising to standing on his middle-aged knees. “There’s the matter of your mando-repro leave.” He makes a little lasso motion with his right index finger.

“Sir, if I may—” I interject, but Compton silences me with an open palm, raising his hand in a wordless command of silence as he continues his spiel.

“I already heard from Lowry. You just broke up with the LDR boyfriend and you’re hoping to push it out for a year.” He glares at me like a disappointed father. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep you on a track to the top if you keep on dragging ass on getting knocked up—even if you aren’t going to get packed up.”

“Sir!” I protest, the word slipping past my lips as I ball my hands into fists.

“Don’t give me that face Penny, you know that Lowry had to deal with this kind of shit and then some to get to the top. Back in her day, she was the only bitch on the whole block—now there’s at least twenty of you here in the basement with us,” he warns, and I feel my rage surge. I don’t need a fucking history lesson on women in the bureau from fucking Walt Compton, but I hold my tongue.

“My superiors want you married or bonded with a fruitful repro leave under your belt before this time next year if you expect to be taken seriously as far as your career path goes.” Compton’s voice softens slightly, and he has the decency to look stricken by the details of the directive for which he has been charged to play messenger.

I feel a little dizzy and off balance as I do the mental gymnastics to process Compton’s news. He wants to help me climb the ladder straight to the top. He agrees with Lowry that I’m the best choice to helm the BSU for the long term—but to get there? He wants me to have a fucking baby in my arms by this time next year, when I don’t even have a casual hookup lined up after my still incredibly fresh breakup.

What the actual fuck?

“Sir, with all due respect,” I begin, grasping the edge of his desk to steady myself. “I’m not entirely sure I can guarantee that—I don’t know if it’s possible.” I shake my head, staring at Compton in disbelief.

“You can—you have to if you want this job, Penny.” He crosses his arms definitively in front of his chest, his cleft chin jutting out as he looks down at me—his alpha scent; cordite and white pine reaching my nose across the short distance between us.

“Let’s say that I agree to this premise,” I start, cautiously testing the ground as I go. “It takes more than one person to make this work, Compton—I can only guarantee my own complicity, and I doubt the bureau is going to be cool with me being a single mother?” I bare my teeth, my sigma nature threatening to get the better of me when I should be more submissive and turn the other cheek.

“I’ve already got a solution for that.” Compton waves his hand dismissively, turning away from me to pull an acrylic clipboard loaded with paperwork from the top of a file cabinet.

“A solution for what?” I snap back with more attitude than I should, Compton halting mid-pass to dangle the rectangle of plastic and paper between us.

“Drop the attitude, Penny, or I’ll be suggesting administrative leave instead of a short pack-placement retreat.”

The room seems to spin slightly as I process his words.

I’m so taken off guard by this bold overstep that my expression must change, because all the heat of anger leaves Compton’s features and he completes the motion of passing me the clipboard.

“Listen Penny, I don’t like this any more than you do. You’re my most competent resource. I’ve got McBride, but he’s still soundly second place.” Walter heaves an exhausted sigh as my eyes scan the pages—schedules and services for the most prestigious partner placement center for omegas and sigmas in the country detailed alongside signup sheets and registration requests stapled just behind.

“I know reproductive leave is a fucking racket, but my hands are tied. If you don’t do this, I can’t make a path forward for you.” He crumbles into his desk chair, looking defeated, but prepared to act on my response—whichever way it goes.

“So… I go to this glorified matchmaking spa, get myself paired off with some eligible alpha and/or his pack, I put dates in the calendar to pop a baby out—and I’ve paid my dues?” I grit through my teeth, my knuckles bloodless white as they clutch the clipboard.

“As soon as you’ve met your minimum repro requirements, yes. I get to tell the rest of the bureau to fuck off. Just like Lowry and Joshy—nothing but smooth sailing until my dinosaur ass retires and you inherit this fucking mess.”

I look down at Compton—his hands extended, gesturing to the open seat across from him at his desk—a glistening fountain pen laid out for me.

For a fraction of a second I contemplate breaking the clipboard over my knee—telling Compton off and storming down the hall—my entire career and everything I’ve worked for be damned.

Then I think of my mother and father, proud and smiling in the front row of my graduation from Yale—how excited they were when I decided to start my masters at Harvard—Uncle Martin introducing me to his superiors with pride at Lowry’s retirement gala; Lowry herself, my champion and professional mentor—handing me the keys to her hard won empire if only I would take them and the heavy responsibility that comes with such power.

Almost as an afterthought, I think of myself—of my own romantic life or lack thereof. I’ve never felt that deep, abiding affection for anyone—only the biological imperative of heats. There’s no romanticism, no one that got away to mourn—only my surprising indifference to romantic and emotional attraction beyond my need to… well, meet my needs every few weeks. Even then, I’ve managed through plenty of heats with lackluster partners or heat helpers not to mention that one time… well I’d rather not think about it—but that was once and out of necessity due to being in the field.

“Penny! Earth to Penny! Are you still with us, Louise?” Compton grumbles, thumping his hands on the table, bringing me back to myself.

“Yes, sir,” I grumble, doing my best to play at something more resembling demure than defeated as I take a seat before him and lift the pen from the table. “It says here…” I follow my fingertip to the first line of the crowded itinerary. “I start the program at the end of the week!?” I hiccup, incredulous, as I actually read the words aloud.

“Good to see that you can still read, Penny. I was worried your wires had gotten crossed or something. It looked like smoke was coming out of your ears,” Compton snorts, sitting back in his chair—eyes on the pen in my hands.

With a deep breath, I swallow my pride and sign my name on the dotted line.

Ispent most of the night tossing and turning, my small duffel bag glaring at me accusingly from the wingback chair in the corner of my otherwise Spartan bedroom.

One could blame the doubles of whiskey I had at the bar, griping about my plight to Dennis, my ex field partner—and the only person who I might be able to pass off as a ‘friend’ besides Lowry. Lord knows Dennis himself would. He was in rare form last night, seemingly in a dastardly mood—even though I’m the one being shipped off to an expensive matchmaking center on the government’s dime for the next few weeks; an expectation that I’ll get pumped full of babies hanging over my head like an axe waiting to fall.

When dawn finally breaks, pinky orange and freezing cold—I drag my hungover ass out of bed and into the shower, preparing to face my fate.

Out of paranoia, I had already locked up all my personal ‘research’ materials into my parent’s deaths in the fire safe in my bedroom closet—the hard drives for my personal computer tucked lovingly into my duffel bag along with the trappings of my placement center stay. What can I say? I haven’t ever been upset about making arrangements for ‘just in case’. Better safe than sorry.

I arrive at the Diamond Center for Pack Placement just before lunch hour, the bright eyed and bushy tailed receptionist at the front desk beams at me as I push through the revolving doors in my sage green lounge wear and oversized sunglasses—duffel bag slung over one shoulder, like some kind of disgraced celebrity shuffling conspicuously into an expensive rehab facility.

“Welcome to the Diamond Center, Miss Penny!” The perky blond attendant chimes as she makes her way around the huge glass reception desk.

I offer her a curt nod.

“We’ll start with a little tour, then we’ll get right into getting you nice and rested and relaxed—you look exhausted!” Her smile only widens as she takes in my rigid posture and the sunken wells of darkness beneath my eyes, still visible beneath the frames of my sunglasses.

The spritely young lady starts off at a brisk pace down the hall, leading me to a bank of elevators as she continues yapping a mile a minute about the top-notch facilities the center has to offer.

“Your room is part of the Diamond Club Concierge level of service and has a beautiful view of our very own botanical gardens, as well as access to the Diamond Club lounge that serves a curated continental breakfast, elegant high tea, and hors d'oeuvres and cocktails at happy hour each day,” she explains as we pack into one of the elevators, her perfectly manicured finger pressing the button for the 5th floor as the brushed stainless doors close us in.

“We have some bodywork sessions scheduled for you this morning, a hot stone massage followed by some pampering pedicure and haircare time in our premiere on-premises salon.” The receptionist gestures to the smartphone in my hands, her customer service smile still sparkling. “At any time, you can see what your schedule is via the Diamond Center app.” She waits expectantly for me to open the application, so I do—demonstrating my ability to find my schedule by navigating the minimalist menus.

“Tonight after dinner, which is served either in the main dining room—or in one of our à la carte eateries starting at six P.M., you’ll have an appointment with one of our department of reproduction certified scent matching specialists to get the process of matching with your potential mate or mates underway.” She gives me a cheeky wink, gesturing to the elevator doors as they peel open.

I nod numbly, struggling with the cognitive dissonance of being in this all white, lavender and lemongrass scented palace with beautifully manicured indoor plants and the accessible beige accents of a resort while preparing to be matched with some anonymous alphas and their pack—when less than twenty-four hours ago I was sipping burnt coffee in the behavioral sciences basement with mildewy Berber carpet beneath my Aerosole pumps.

“There’s a comprehensive map of the facilities in the Diamond Center app.” She uses a plastic card with the center logo emblazoned on it to open the door to my temporary home away from home with a wave of her hand.

“Your bodywork appointment will be at the Diamond Spa on the garden level, your salon appointments will be right across the hall at our in-house salon, Morganite,” she continues on, pausing to take a breath—her eyes expectantly on the phone in my hands once more.

I drop my duffel bag on the queen bed at the center of my quarters and bring up the facility map, making sure my screen is still rotated enough for her to get a good look at it.

“Your scent specialist appointment will be in the placement wing on the third floor. Daniela will be your scent expert this evening—you’re going to love her. She’s literally the best.” The receptionist gushes, handing me my plastic room card.

“All of your daily schedules will be available in the itinerary tab on your app, and once you’ve made some scent card selections from Daniela tonight, you’ll begin to see match profiles in the ‘Pack-Up’ tab,” she adds with finality, her bright smile gleaming before she asks with that bubbly voice, “Is there anything else I can do to help you enjoy your stay right now, Miss Penny?”

“No, thanks—you’ve been so helpful, er…” I let my eyes dart to the little gold plate name tag affixed to her snowy white polo shirt; the name Daisy emblazoned in etched print. “—Daisy.” I offer her the warmest smile I can manage, considering my grim mood—hoping she’ll see herself to the door.

“Thank you for choosing Diamond Placement Centers! If there’s anything I can do to help you make the most of your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask. You can reach me or someone else at the front desk by pressing the ‘call a concierge’ button on the home screen of the Diamond Center app!” Daisy adds sunnily before making her escape.

Thank you for choosing Diamond Placement Centers. Pfft. I didn’t ‘choose’ shit, but starting this mess off with a hot stone massage is hardly something to complain about, so I set to unpacking my things before I wander my way down to the spa.

The locker rooms shared by the center gym and spa are immaculate. Key card activated lockers, huge stacks of fluffy white towels, plush terry bathrobes, and scuffer slippers, emblazoned with gold embroidered Diamond Center logos as far as the eye can see, expensive shampoos and conditioners in the shower dispensers, and hair dryers that cost more than my first car all reflecting the level of luxury I’d expected out of the FBI’s placement center of choice, but still—it’s a bit jarring after coming from my nearly empty apartment, sparsely furnished with bargain basement items.

I swipe my card and jam my duffel bag into the locker; a fresh set of clothes and my hard drives zippered carefully inside. I shimmy out of my loungewear and into one of the snowy white bathrobes—my long, red hair tied back into a low ponytail.

The reminder notification for my one P.M. hot stone massage makes my phone vibrate, the application gently suggesting that I make my way to my appointment with ‘Hans’ in the Diamond Spa now.

I slip the phone onto the top shelf of the locker, swing the door closed, and swipe my card past the locking mechanism before I slip the plastic key card into the pocket of my robe—ready to go.

The spa is just like any I’ve been to before. A small, low lit waiting room, redolent with the scent of lavender and spearmint—the soft sound of pan pipes and brass singing bowls wafting from hidden speakers.

“Miss Penny?” A tall, well-built man with shoulder-length blond hair, a distinct large, hooked nose and a thick Scandinavian accent leans halfway into the door frame, reading from the clipboard in his hands.

Without a word, I stand from my seat.

“Hello miss! My name is Hans, and I’ll be your massage therapist today,” he greets me with a firm handshake before leading me down the hall to the treatment room.

“Is this your first massage, hm ja?” he asks sunnily as he opens the door to the dimly lit space; the massage table turned down amidst the reed diffusers and pink salt lamps.

“Not my first ever, just the first in a long time,” I admit on a sigh, leaning against the massage table as Hans makes markings on his client worksheet.

“Any problem spots you would like to focus on today?” he asks, his eyes traveling over me in the perfunctory way of professional body workers rather than the typical leering gaze of my male coworkers or men on the street.

“My neck and right shoulder are kind of a mess,” I admit, rolling my neck slightly, working the shoulder up and down.

“Hmm, ja.” He jots something down, moving down the list. “Any spots you’d like to avoid?”

I shake my head.

“Oh-kay then! Why don’t you decide on which massage oil you’d like to use for today’s session, then I’ll let you get settled before we begin.” Hans grins—placing his clipboard on the small space of counter beside the en-suite sink and gestures to the bank of large pump bottles on the far wall.

“Thanks.” I turn, barely halfway to the lineup of scented oils, when I catch the stretched silhouette of Hans’ dim shadow spring into motion on the wall above the bottles. There’s only a fraction of a second between the flickering motion of the shade before the loop of towel descends before my face—poised to pull snugly around my neck. Luckily, that’s just enough time to get one of my hands between my windpipe and the swath of terry cloth before Hans snaps it tightly closed like a noose.

I let out a muffled grunt—my own knuckles digging painfully into my voice box and windpipe, a scream dying on my lips as I struggle to make enough space to keep breathing.

My hips jut back—slamming my pelvis into his crotch with great force—a pained whoosh of breath leaves my attacker as he curves over my back instinctively from the groin strike. I use his own momentum to complete the motion of his forward flip—laying him out flat on his back. A shocked groan-gasp escapes him as the wind is knocked out of his lungs.

Newly freed from my towel choke collar, I let out a loud scream. “HELP!”

My hand is on the brushed stainless doorknob when suddenly I’m yanked off balance by my ponytail—pain screaming through my nervous system as I fumble backward—the room kicking off at an angle as my head is forced back.

I’m about to let out another pained yelp when the blade of Hans’ hand swiftly meets the side of my throat—a strangled gasp escapes me as pain blossoms hot and fast, my hands moving instinctively to the sensitive area.

With a single strike, he’s likely disabled my ability to use my voice for at least a minute or so. This isn’t your run of the mill A&B, this guy’s a professional and I am unprepared, unarmed, and in deep fucking trouble.

Working against my rising panic, I reach out for the edge of the sink as I begin to fall backward—my hands unable to gain purchase on the beveled linoleum. Blessedly, my fingers close over the stick-clicker pen at the edge of the counter—my fist closes around the modest writing implement as I fall to the floor.

Hans struggles to swallow down his own scream of pain as I slam my fist backward with enough force to jab the dull ballpoint pen into the side of his muscular quadricep, just above his knee.

Once more, pain forces Hans to lose his grip on me and I bolt for the door—too fast for my assailant—the pen still jutting from the bloody wound in his thigh.

With one hand desperately clasped over my bruised throat, the other smeared with blood, I take off down the hall barefoot—my feet making loud slapping sounds as I tear down the hall, crashing through aestheticians carrying trays of tools cursing me out as soon as I’ve barreled through them.

Whoever is attacking me—whoever is after me—they aren’t going to stop for Diamond Center staff. They may not even want me alive.

The hard drive.

My bloody hand snatches the plastic card from the pocket of my robe as I round the corner into the women’s locker room—a chorus of clucking, pissy cosmetologists erupting into shrieks of fear as I careen down the hall.

Vaguely, I register another wave of squeals and screeches as my pursuer, Hans, breaks through their line—his footfalls heavy and fast behind me.

I sprint flat out to the locker room—not bothering to stop and dress once I make it to my locker on the wall of narrow doors. I smash my plastic keycard against the lock mechanism until the motorized cylinders chitter open. I grab my duffel from the brass hook, before I hurdle over the wooden locker room benches toward the swinging doors out to the pool area.

My hand has only just made contact with the metal push plate of the double doors when I hear a ripple of screams from behind. Hans busts into the locker room—the proverbial fox in the henhouse.

Numbly, I realize that I have no real endpoint—no safety in a finish line or a sanctuary that I am running to. I don’t have a car in the lot with a gun strapped to the underside of the driver’s seat, no saferoom, no backup on the way.

My eyes scan the surface of the pool—a few swimmers getting their laps in, a dozy lifeguard sitting in a metal chair at the far end of the room, a line of floor to ceiling windows that open into the interior courtyard let sun into the sweltering tiled room, thickening the air with the scent of chlorine.

My best bet would likely be to make my way back to reception, and the possibility of one of the staff members calling local law enforcement. Hopefully, one of the aestheticians Hans and I bowled over—bleeding and screaming—would have already sounded the alarm to management; a few black and whites already on the way to bail me out.

Then again, if my digging and sniffing around Covartis is what has brought the likes of Hans to the Diamond Placement Center to dispatch me… Who knows how much the local pigs are going to help.

No time to dither. I make my way—still barefoot—across the tile, grabbing one of the metal framed lounge chairs from the perimeter of the pool and charging at the pane of glass with its legs stretched before me to break the barrier.

I hear the high tinkling sparkle of breaking glass sing out around me—my feet suddenly aflame with the pain of treading broken glass. Instinctively, I throw the chair to the side—having served its purpose in shattering the plate-glass window standing between me and a potential path to escape. I’m about to jump over the knife-like protrusions of glass at the base of the broken window—adrenaline muting the pain in my feet as I flee my would-be captor—when I am unexpectedly slammed to the ground by a laundry trolley filled with used towels.

I look up frantically from my place on the ground, expecting to see Hans—bleeding through his work-issue white athleisure pants, a look of rage on his face. Instead, I am brought face to face with the catering service kid with the bad wig from Lowry’s retirement party. Except he isn’t wearing the bad wig right now—a blue gray canvas ball cap to match his janitor’s coveralls covers his low bleach blond buzzcut; his patchwork of intricate tattoos spilling onto his hands and neck from the cuffs and collar of the purloined jumpsuit.

“What the fuck?” I manage to croak out, my voice starting to return to me after Hans’ open hand strike.

Before blondie can get his hands on me—I’m up and scrabbling for the door to the men’s locker room on the opposite wall of the pool area. My feet leave smeared bloody footprints in my wake as the fake janitor yells something unintelligible after me.

I burst through the doors, my duffel bag slapping against my lower back as I shove my way through the group of alphas, talking excitedly about their placement appointments as I continue my mad dash for safety.

Exploding from the men’s locker room—I slingshot myself out of the main hallway and down one of the side aisles of guest rooms—fists pounding each closed door as I make my way down the narrow corridor, my hoarse screams begging for sanctuary in vain.

I’m nearly at the end of the hall. An abandoned maid cart is the only thing standing between me and the alarm-wired door at the end of the hall; the tiny green ‘Exit’ sign glowing as if heaven sent.

My hands, numb from adrenaline and clumsy with panic, close over the edge of the cart as I prepare to swing it out of the middle of the hallway when I catch the animalic scent of sweat against an undertone of sweet neroli, bright ginger, and silken oud.

Click.

I hear it before I feel the muzzle—cold as ice pressing into the base of my neck.

“Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast, mon petit pièce brillante.” A man’s voice, ragged with laboured breath, purrs from over my shoulder.

I freeze in place as the man strides into my peripheral vision, the handgun in his teacup grip glaring at me down its black shining snub nose.

“Hands where I can see them, Chère,” he warns, his silky voice firm as he jerks the muzzle of the gun upward to illuminate his instruction.

I say nothing, just lift my hands clumsily off the cart—knocking the push broom from its metal bracket and onto the floor as I go; a spray bottle of glass cleaner lands on the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

“Did Covartis send you?” I grind out through gritted teeth—hands held limply above my head.

“Of course not, Chère—I may be a criminal, but I’m not a servant of the devil himself,” my attacker laughs.

I can’t see any detail in his face—in his frame, only the vague positioning of his hands and the gun.

“Well, that’s a relief,” I test the waters—shifting my weight onto my right foot ever so slightly.

“You gave a good chase, but now it’s time you come with me, eh? Much easier this way." The edge of my vision robs any details of his face from me, but it's good enough to judge distance.

"So, be a good girl and let us leave quietly—what do you say mon petit pièce brillante?"

I'm no secret-agent level polyglot, but I know enough to understand the name my attacker has gifted me, 'My little shiny coin.’ Or perhaps, the less direct translation, 'my little shiny penny'.

The momentary panic of his acknowledgment of my last name slashes at my confidence, but I bat the intimidation away, turning to face my assailant directly as I lift my left foot—bleeding, throbbing with pain—off of the carpet.

"I say, fuck you, Frenchie," I hiss, slamming my foot down onto the head of the push broom in a fevered explosion and blossom of agony.

The gunman doesn't have the time to react—the long wooden handle of the broom rises up from the ground to meet my open hands as I deftly help the makeshift bow staff along its arcing path through the air and into the delicate wrist bones of my attacker.

The crack of the gun next to my left ear nearly drops me to my knees, the loud ringing and near deafness threatening to keep me from gaining a proper grip on my improvisational weapon, but somehow, through the haze of adrenaline I manage.

"Putain!" The gunman spits. His teacup grip disintegrates and his gun falls to the floor, blessedly not firing on impact.

Even though I know it will only press the jagged shards of glass deeper into my foot, I step on the handgun and kick it down the hall in front of us. The murderous hunk of metal skims over the low pile carpet nearly silently.

Though he nurses the wrist that I made contact with first—the hand cradled limply against his soft stomach, the bones quite possibly broken—his other hand snaps out like a pit viper. His deft, tattooed fingers threaten to close around the cowl neck of my bathrobe, or possibly the cross body strap of my duffel.

I twirl the broom over my wrist like a majorette spinning her baton. The wooden handle sweeps through the air with a whistle as I guide the polished shaft over my lower back. My other arm locks the staff in an uncompromising line as I spin toward the gunman—his eyes widen desperately as I pinwheel past him. The outstretched handle strikes him squarely in the back as I whirl away from him in a whipping of fiery red ponytail, a flourish of bloodstained terry cloth, and rip-stop nylon duffel.

I hear the gratifying sound of the air being knocked from his lungs in a low 'oof,' but not the expected clatter of him eating shit after being knocked off balance.

Instead, I complete my spin—my face nearly coming to blows with his heel as he rounds on me with a blisteringly fast back fan kick.

I unhook my arm from the broom handle, swinging the bristled head up from the ground to catch his kick as it zooms toward my head. The polished wood of my makeshift staff meets the curve of his achilles, halting the momentous arc of his strike and sends him reeling backward.

"Oh, shit!" I hear a voice from behind and risk a backward glance over my shoulder. It's everyone's favorite fake janitor bringing up the rear—his hands distinctly free of weaponry.

"Make yourself useful and go get Q, eh!?" My sparring partner shouts down the hall.

Deciding that blondie is the lesser of the two evils, I turn back to my immediate problem—his eyes track me warily as he flexes his injured hand, testing to see if it's in usable condition.

"I can't find the boss man! Q's knee is fucked up—I have to get him back to the van—can you handle this!?" I hear the blond man yelling from the far end of the hall as I dodge a lightning fast jab from the gunman's apparently not-so-broken hand.

"Don't worry about le patron, just get your skinny ass to the van." My temporary 'dance' partner grits out as I redirect another of his punches with a circular wauke block—using his own body weight and momentum to guide him easily past me. His muscular frame nearly tumbles to the floor on the follow-through.

I'm so busy being proud of myself and keeping my eyes on the green illuminated exit sign prize that I don't see him from his place on the floor, his leg sweeping low, with deadly speed, for my ankles.

With the broom still instinctually locked in a death grip in my hands, my teeth clack loudly as I hit the ground. My chin strikes the carpet with a telltale burst of heat and subsequent sharp sting of rug-burn. I let go of the broom and flounder onto my hands and knees—struggling to lift myself off the ground and sprint for the fire exit.

Another slash of heat and stinging pain flares at my throat as the cross-body strap of my duffel bites into the tender flesh of my neck—my attacker's hands gripped tightly into the dangling straps, unwilling to let go.

In a split second decision, I shrug out of the nylon webbing strap and abandon my precious hard drives to my pursuers. As much as I hate to do it, they won't be any good to me if I'm dead.

Like a sprinter launching from the starting blocks, I launch forward—newly unencumbered adrenaline screaming so loudly through my veins that I don't even feel the shredded soles of my feet—towards the metal exit door as it looms larger and larger in my tunnel vision.

My fingers splay out, arms stretched before me in anticipation of slamming into the push bar, the howling whistles and lights of the triggered fire alarm. It’s only a stride or two away—just within reach, when the door suddenly swings outward—the outside sunlight dazzling my vision; the screaming alarm blurting out the pounding of my own heart in my ears.

I barely have time to register the silhouette of the man in the doorframe—tall and rugged, Burnt coffee brown hair in a wild toss above his crazed electric blue eyes, a gleaming manic smile visible through the bushy thatch of his thick beard, the gleaming barrel of a tranquilizer gun catching the high afternoon sun.

"I see we got us a lively one here, boys!" he barks in a trashy north shore accent before firing the tranquilizer rifle directly at me.

Dumbly, I look down at the little tufted dart protruding from the exposed stretch of thigh peeking through my all-but-totally-destroyed complimentary bathrobe.

I feel the spread of fuzzy warmth seeping through my quadriceps, my heart beat slowing as my eyelids begin to droop with the heaviness of sleep.

"Grab her before her head hits the floor!" The man in the doorway yells to the French guy now wearing my duffel bag.

I catch sight of him in the sidelong tilt of my peripheral vision just as my eyes flutter closed—the carpet rushes up to meet me in slow motion as I pass out.

“So, you’re really doing this?” I hear Michael’s voice before I see him, per usual.

“Yep, there’s not really any way around it—we want to get to the bottom of this shit, we’re going to have to take matters into our own hands.” I shrug, shuffling coffee orders for the boys—waiting in the van for my triumphant return—around in the cardboard drink tray next to the sugar, plastic stirrers, napkins, and insulated bottles of cream, milk, and plant-based-coffee-whitener on offer.

“Really Frank? You’ve jumped straight to kidnapping an active FBI agent as your best plan of action? You really have lost your touch, haven’t you?” Michael scoffs—his square jaw clean shaven, the gray at his temples reading as distinguished rather than past his prime.

I catch my own reflection in the glass window of the coffee shop; hair mussed, scars on my face from a lifetime as a soldier, beard unruly, dark smudges of sleeplessness circled beneath my droop-lid eyes.

Maybe Mike is right—maybe I’m washed up, maybe I’ve lost it.

Won’t stop me from trying, though.

“Alright… that’s my answer, I guess.” Michael scoffs a laugh, shaking his head and adjusting the Windsor knot in a shimmering blue satin necktie—his button-down blizzard white, and the lines of his navy felt suit, cut clean and angular—Michael Duboze; forever the portrait of what a man of the bureau should look like.

“And what would you do, negative Nancy?” I grumble back, pocketing a wad of napkins ‘just in case.’

“What? So you can ignore my sagely advice?” Michael scoffs, folding his arms over his chest, giving me a challenge in his raised brow and false smile.

“If you’re about to say something profound, could you hurry it up? The boys are holed up in the van waiting on their much-needed caffeine. I’m still on a tight timetable today, even if the king of the boy scouts disapproves.”

“Just try not to get yourself killed, ok?” Michael groans as I pull my sunglasses from my inner jacket pocket, preparing to step out into the early winter morning sun once more.

“I’ll try not to, but I’m still not in the habit of making promises I can’t keep.” I snort a laugh, but when I look up—a farewell on my lips and my hand ready to offer a warm shake—he’s already gone.

“One large coffee, black—” I lean through the narrow opening between the driver’s and passenger seat to pass Quentin his coffee, the brilliant white of the Diamond Center uniform seeming to issue a silent challenge as Quentin delicately pops open the thin plastic sipping window on the lid; his prosthetic nose and blond lace front wig making him look the part of ‘Hans, the deep tissue masseur, rather than Quentin Beckett; former MI6 turned ne’er-do-well vigilante.

“Medium hazelnut latte,” I continue down the line—passing Sébastien the sweet-smelling cup, his fingers—heavily laden with tattoos and chipping matte black nail polish—clutch greedily for the hot drink; an unlit cigarette pressed between the index and middle fingers of his left hand.

Sébastien only see’s marginally more daylight than our resident nocturnal beast, Cazimer—and those sunshine hours Seb does see are mostly through the hazy tinted windows of his ‘lab’—or the colorful glow of his bedroom; vibrant scarves from his native Morocco draped over the windows, Beni Ourain rugs of different sizes in a wide range of rich hues overlapping themselves on the floor. To see him, his warm brown skin and messy dark chocolate curls in the harsh, cold grey light of winter morning feels out of place.

“Extra large freezy mocha chip with extra whipped cream,” I sniff through my disgust at the frozen confection Cazimer has ordered—passing the drink with its swirled peak of whip cream under the plastic dome to Caz in the driver’s seat; his janitor’s jumpsuit beneath his quilted parka—the matching cap stowed safely in the glovebox; a plain black beanie pulled down over his distinctive bleach blonde buzzcut.

“Oh thank fuck, I still feel like a goddamn zombie,” Caz sighs with relief, trading me the empty energy drink can from his cup holder to make room for the frozen caffeinated confection.

“Are we really going to send Caz in again? You know ‘field work’ isn’t his strongest suit,” Quentin sighs, eyeing me through the rear-view mirror before side-eyeing Caz in his undercover garb.

“Um, Q—I’m sitting right here,” Caz snips testily, making a loud slurping noise as he struggles to suck the thick coffee frappe through the bright orange and pink plastic straw.

“You did fuck up your bit at the Gala.” Sébastien yawns, sipping carefully at his steaming latte.

“Oh, come on—you guys sent me in as literal bait and I hooked her. It was just that fucking tightwad in the monkey suit who fucked everything up.” Caz argues—one hand on the wheel—the other clutching his precious caffeine in a death grip; his startlingly blue eyes hidden behind a pair of mirrored bug-eyed sunglasses.

“Caz may not be aces at field work or the ol’ fashioned smash and grab, but we need to make sure we are covering our bases here. The hackerman bullshit was mostly prep work for this job, and our target is potentially going to need all four of us to ensure a smooth transition,” I explain with as much patience as I can muster. Sometimes it really feels like I’ve become scout master of a band of misfits I never signed up to babysit; this morning is one of those times.

All three of them bristle at the idea that nabbing Louise Penny, FBI agent, sigma—and most importantly, daughter of the deceased Margot and Landon Penny—would give them any amount of trouble.

“Listen, I know none of us are particularly used to being ‘team players’ anymore.” Quentin and Sébastien squirm in their seats. “Fuck, some of us haven’t had any experience—period.” I catch a flash of Caz’s eyes over the rim of his sunglasses in the rear view before I continue.

“But all of us know what’s riding on today—so let’s try our best, yeah?” I reach across the bench seat and snatch the unlit cigarette from Sébastien’s hand.

Before he can protest, I light the cigarette and turn my face to the dreary downtown landscape passing outside my window.

“Q, why don’t you walk us through it—one last time,” I prompt Quentin, his delicate, almost feminine features completely obscured by prosthetics and makeup, the fabrication of the burly, Scandinavian caricature of Hans speaking with Quentin’s incongruous polished aristocratic British accent.

“Caz will drop Sébastien at the front doors. Seb will make his way around to the reception desk and will complete the check-in process as our fabricated John Doe,” Quentin continues academically, pausing only occasionally to delicately sip at his black coffee. “Once he’s checked in, he’ll wait in his suite until Caz makes the drop later.”

“Our bunk laundry van gets parked out back next to the patient transport sprinter vans. I make my way into the staff entrance and get settled into my body work appointments for the morning while Caz and Frank make their way in through facilities with the laundry cart; packing the night-night gun and heavier restraints in the unlikely event that there’s a struggle.” Quentin counts off his fingers as he goes, machinelike in his recitation. “That leaves us approximately two hours between when we enter, and my scheduled appointment with Miss Penny. Once she’s in my massage suite, I’ll tranq her—Caz and Frank will swing by, ostensibly to collect the linens. We pack Penny in the laundry cart. Caz and Frank bring her down to Sébastien’s room while I finish out my next appointment.”

“Yes, yes—and then we put her in some ugly tracksuit and a wig and roll her out the back door in a center-provided wheelchair and wheel her out to the van. You get your fake-Swedish-ass back in the car and Cazimer baby-driver’s us away from this disgusting place,” Sébastien interjects impatiently—his warm maroon eyes still half closed with sleep, his long oil black lashes fanning lazily up and down as he slurps up the rest of his coffee.

Sébastien nods along, pulling another cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, pulling the lit butt from my mouth to light his with the glowing red cherry of its ember.

“If only you were good at following simple directions, putain,” Quentin sniffs imperiously, his French—much like the twelve other languages he spoke, indiscernible from a native speaker’s.

Seb flips Quentin the bird. Quentin responds with a come-hither pursing of his lips and a fetching wink.

“Now, now, Q, children. No fighting. We’ve got to work together on this one—‘well-oiled machine’ and all that shit,” I caution them like some kind of bizzaro sitcom father figure.

“I’ll well oil your machine, Daddy,” Caz razzes back in the twinkiest of tones; reluctant laughter bubbling up from both Q and Seb.

“And I’ll return the favor—if you boyos can manage to fly in formation for this one.” I give the crotch of my own janitor’s jumpsuit a hyperbolic grab, before adding soberly: “Seriously though—we don’t have a lot of wiggle room today. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you,” I warn.

Everyone’s smiles fade and the emotional temperature inside the van plummets once more.

There isn't time to build more angst over the job. The manicured hedges lining the white stone and brushed brass lettering sign for the “Diamond Placement Center” rapidly approach in the sprinter van’s view.

“Showtime,” Seb sighs—both of us flicking our cigarette butts out the window as Caz rolls up slowly on our turn into the parking lot.

“Alright boys, don’t fuck it up,” I offer my final dire pronouncement as Seb slides the back door open, hopping out of the van with his small rolling suitcase, making his way to the main entrance.

“Eyes on Penny, she’s en route to the spa now,” Seb’s voice crackles over my in-ear monitors as I run my squeegee over one of the massive courtyard windows in the Diamond Center’s lobby. I clear my throat twice, our signal for confirmation while in high-traffic areas where someone might overhear a curious janitor ‘talking to himself’—and start the process of moving on from my current task so that I can inconspicuously connect with Caz and the laundry cart in the service elevator, as planned.

We cased the center a few weeks ago, got a good lay of the land, and set the groundwork for getting Quentin’s alias, ‘Hans Wulf’—body worker and all around attractive employment prospect—a job in the Center’s famous spa. All of our careful preparation and planning seems to be paying off. So far, everything has run smoothly—completely without incident. Not to mention, our target looks like she’s maybe 160 dripping wet—and she can’t be more than 5’5”. I’d seen pictures of her on the Internet, seen her stats and partial FBI academy records—but it’s hard to tell exactly what someone’s going to be like in the flesh until you’ve got eyes on them in the material world.

We’ve got nothing to worry about.

The service elevator doors open and I wait for two waiters pushing trolleys of spent room service dishes and utensils clear out of the way—revealing Caz and the massive laundry bin on wheels at the back of the elevator.

I use the mop handle and the wringer lever on the bright yellow wheeled bucket and cleaning caddy as I slip through the open doors.

“My last appointment before Penny, just left,” Quentin whispers into my earpiece. Caz and I exchange nods as he hits the button for the spa floor. I ditch my yellow bucket and mop, moving in alongside Caz to help him push the massive laundry bin down the hall toward the locker rooms between the gym, pool, and spa.

“I’m collecting our coin now, boys.” Quentin’s voice, soft but sure breaks the silence as I glide toward the massage rooms, the sweet chemical smell of indoor pool chlorine giving way to the earthy, herbal scents of the spa—the tang of acetone and nail polish hovering between both as we push the laundry bin past the line of salon-goers having their fingers and toes painted.

This time it’s Caz who clears his throat twice in affirmation, our strides casual and unbothered as we approach the line of massage suite doors.

I count the seconds silently, stopping into the salon to collect a bin of hand towels from a nail tech eagerly awaiting our arrival.

One, two, three, four, five…

Less than a hundred feet away, Caz and I see Quentin, in full Hans costume, lead the unassuming Louise Penny into one of the massage rooms down the long hall.

Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten…

It should take less than half a minute from the time he’s gotten her, to lights out for agent Penny. Quentin’s one of the best in the business, and she’s guaranteed not to be carrying in a premiere placement center on mandatory repro leave. A bathrobe and slippers are just shy of getting her completely naked and defenseless. We couldn’t have asked for a better setup. No smash, just grab.

I’m about to count off the last twenty seconds when a clatter and muffled scream breaks my concentration.

Caz and I shoot one another a glance—but there’s no time for discussion; the heavy wooden door Q and our target had disappeared through only seconds earlier bursts open; nearly swinging into a passing esthetician—her tray of tools rattling loudly in time with her surprised scream.

“Oh, shit,” Caz hisses under his breath as Louise Penny tears out of the massage suite like a bat out of hell—arms windmilling in time with her long strides as she makes great time down the hall.

Quentin lurches out of the doorway, his hand grasping at his knee.

It takes me a second to register the growing red blotch beneath his hand, but quickly my mind connects the dots as I watch Q pull a plastic ballpoint pen from just above his knee.

“Fuckin’ hell,” I groan softly, picking up our pace as we move down the hall—Quentin struggling after her, blood seeping down his pant leg as other staff members in the hall begin to scream.

“Seb, we have a big fucking problem,” I seethe as quietly as possible while Caz and I close the distance between us and Q. “We have a runner,” I grunt under my breath as we weave the cart through the panicked women crowding the hall.

“Merde,” Seb clucks on the other end of the line.

“Go, you try to catch up to her. There’s just not that many options for where to go—I’m going to get Q back to the van. If you can’t nab her in a minute or less—fucking bail—come back to the van and we roll,” I growl, low and heated with anger. I reach into the laundry cart, pulling the thin black nylon case containing the tranq rifle and darts from the pile of used sheets and towels, sling it over my shoulder and move to grab hold of the hobbling Quentin.

Caz keeps pace down the hall as I drape one of Quentin’s beefy arms over my shoulders. He’s almost a whole head taller than me and built like a comic book superhero—but I manage to get him off his bleeding leg and moving at a brisk pace toward the staff elevator and out of the building.

“What the fuck happened in there?” I spit as soon as the staff elevator doors close, whisking us down to the basement and the loading bay exit in relative obscurity.

“I paid for our hubris with my so-called ‘pound of flesh’.” Quentin sucks in air through his teeth with a wince, ripping a snowy white sleeve off of his athleisure zip up as if it were a wet paper towel, doubling over momentarily to tie the piece of fabric around his thigh with enough pressure to help stop the bleeding. “We seriously underestimated Miss Louise Penny,” he admits, though I can see how much it costs him—a wound to his pride and mine.

“Holy shit, she is fast and squirrelly as hell,” Caz huffs, his voice low and feathered by his ragged breathing. “I thought I had her, but she took off through the men’s locker room. Her feet are bleeding everywhere now though, so she shouldn’t be hard to track.”

Quentin nods, opening his hand in a signal for me to throw him the keys to the van.

“Ditch the bin Cazzy.” I grin at Q, tossing him the spare keys and dongle for our makeshift laundry van. “Follow our little friend as close as you can, Seb—you’re already on the west side of the building, Caz—funnel her down Seb’s hall, and I’ll get her at the fire exit bottleneck. Q will bring the van around to the west lot.”

Quentin and I take off in different directions out of the service elevator.

“She’s heading to Seb's hall—be ready,” Caz warns, as I swing out of a service exit—crouching low in the neat row of ornamental cypress hedges that act as cover for the unsightly utilities—air vents and electrical meters; my hands working all the while to assemble the tidy little tranq rifle as I approach the west fire exit.

The crushed white stone crunches beneath my boots, my eyes never leaving the fire exit door with its heavy push bar and bright yellow and orange signage.

“Intercepting now,” Sébastien bites out before falling silent again.

I listen to my heartbeat, bu-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.

As sideways as this whole thing has gone, the fact is—Louise Penny has a terry bathrobe and slippers to her name right now, and Sébastien is packing a handgun. It’s no contest.

Still, the acquisition should have been essentially instantaneous…

“Seb, what the fuck is going on in there? Did you nab her yet or not?”

“Shit!” Caz yelps suddenly. “Oh fuck, are you serious!?”

“Caz, talk to me!” I bark back.

“She’s going full on kung-fu movie on Seb’s ass right now—she disarmed him and now—Oh shit!”

That’s all I need to hear. I’m on my feet and kicking in the fire escape door in my next breath.

You know that they say: if you want a job done right—you gotta do it yourself.

The bright midday sun beams into the mood-lit resort hallway, Louise’s eyes narrowing to slits instinctively against the sudden burst of brightness.

Even stripped down and bleeding, Louise Penny’s sigma aura is absolutely insane. Even though I’m an alpha, I can feel it exerting its pressure on me—like someone adding one cinder block to your chest, then moving on to a second one.

There’s no time to waste, then.

"I see we got us a lively one here, boys!" I cheer before pumping a tranquilizer dart into the meat of her thigh.

Behind Louise, I see Sébastien’s shoulders droop with relief—the conspicuously inconspicuous duffel bag Louise had entered the center with earlier in the morning slung across his chest.

Louise’s eyes, so vibrant cinnamon brown they’re almost red, like her hair—glare back at me with pure hatred as they glaze with the telltale haze of artificial slumber.

"Grab her before her head hits the floor!" I shout at Sébastien as she begins to lurch backward.

Caz lets out a strangled squeak, lunging to spot Sébastien as Louise begins to fall in earnest.

Between the two of them, they lift her dead weight ungracefully—hefting her rag doll limp body clumsily through the open fire escape door as Quentin howls into view on screaming rubber tires.

“Move it Q!” Caz shouts, hurrying the wounded Quentin out of the driver's seat as Seb and I negotiate the unconscious Louise into the back of the van—Caz hopping into the newly vacated driver’s seat as soon as he can.

“Alright boys—not the cleanest job, but let’s motor!” I bark, and Caz obliges, doing his best not to peel out of the lot as we make our escape.

Iwake to the sound of old steam heat radiators clanging loudly—their thunderous clatter dampened slightly by the dense clutter that crowds the small room I’m in.

My eyes, lids still heavy and vision clouded by the dregs of the heavy duty tranquilizer I was shot with earlier; struggle to adjust to the dim kaleidoscopic lights that paint the room.

I’ve been laid across a half-disintegrated sofa—a threadbare quilt tossed over me; my left wrist handcuffed to the feeder pipe of the radiator clunking angrily less than a foot away from my head. I flex my hand, my fingers stiff, but no pins-and-needles from lack of blood flow.

My tongue feels dry and dusty like a salt flat, my lips cracking painfully as I manage to open my mouth—which still feels as if it belongs to a stranger, my jaw not quite working in time with my brain’s commands.

Scanning the room, there’s simultaneously a great deal and nothing at all to see. Colorful overlapping rugs cover an ailing, ancient hardwood floor—bits of soundproofing foam, corrugated cardboard laden with decoupage, mismatching posters ,and long empty record liners cover the walls. The large bank of windows on the far side of the room have almost all been papered over with yellowing newsprint; only a few panes here and there open to the night, letting the soft blue light filter in through the open panes.

Movement catches my eye. And my gaze falls to the hammock by the doorway; the fabric swaying as a body emerges from the taut fabric—the gunman from the hallway I exchanged blows with earlier wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Good evening, Chère,” he yawns, nodding lazily in my direction before traipsing to the door and swinging it wide.

“Hey, boys. It looks like our Sleeping Beauty has awoken,” he calls to the others, lit in the greasy wedge of yellow light from the hall.

There’s a distant commotion, and the sound of footfalls as the rest of my captors make their way towards us.

Now that I can get a good look at him, I'm surprised that I was able to handle him in the hall. He's gotta be at least six foot three and built like a damn bear; with those ceiling beam arms, thighs, and a soft dad-bod tummy.

I see the bruise, deep blue and purple, high on his bronze cheekbone, and realize vaguely that I must have given him that earlier.

“So how was the nap?” he asks, not quite a taunt. His heavily tattooed hands with their matte black polish crawl over his zip up hoodie—moth eaten and full of holes—sleepily dipping into one of the half-unstitched pockets for a beaten-up pack of cigarettes and a plastic bic lighter.

It’s not easy to sit upright, but I manage it—left wrist dangling over the arm of the sofa so that I don’t put tension on the hand cuffs or myself. My throat struggles to work itself, no saliva to swallow down—my voice a shriveled husk of its normal tone as I force the sound through my parched vocal folds.

“Water,” I croak desperately. The feathered dry skin of my lips underlining my urgency.

“Hey, Cazzy—bring our guest some water, eh?” My recently woken captor leans backward out of the lit doorway to call down the hall, lounging against the door frame as he places a cigarette between his lips and spins the spark wheel backward with a faint rhythmic clicking—his glacial blue eyes still fixed on me.

“Did you sleep well?” he baits me, his full lips quirking in a cruel smirk.

I don’t say anything, just glare back at him for a dramatic beat before hazarding a glance out of one of the rare, unpapered panes of window.

Tracks of rainwater, bright colorful reflections of neon and LED signs dance in the disjointed squares of glass. We are no longer in the DC area… if I had to make a guess. I’m not sure how long I’ve been unconscious, but the hot water radiators and wintry rawness to the air make me think NYC is most likely.

“Goodness, she looks like death warmed over—you may need more than water to fix that.” The posh British accent snaps my attention back to the doorway. A man with well coiffed copper brown hair and vibrant chartreuse eyes leans on the door frame, the top of his head just barely grazing the lintel.

I recognize his hulking frame—even if the face and the hair have changed since our tangle in the massage suite. Vaguely, I remember seeing his face—prosthetic nose peeling away from his finely sculpted visage; the fine mesh of the lace-front coming unglued from his sweaty forehead as he threw the ‘Hans’ nametag out the window of a panel van.

Buzz-cut, absolutely-not-a-caterer, blond boy bursts through the two meatheads in the doorway—a chipped mug that reads “World’s #1 Poodle Mom” in flaking pink glitter paint clutched in his extended hand.

I snatch the cup greedily from his hands—forcing myself to take the sweet, cold water in small sips instead of gulping it down like I want to. Well, if there was any doubt, that shockingly refreshing swig of tap water sealed the deal—we’re somewhere in the Big Apple.

“Hoo boy Q, you really weren’t kidding—” that familiar accent, simultaneously comforting in its immediate feeling of home, and jarring in its Pavlovian association with me getting shot with a tranq gun earlier.

Now that he isn’t merely a silhouette against the midday sun—I can see the de facto ringleader of this band of criminal idiots; a well-built man with a toss of wild shoe polish-black hair and a shaggy beard over his square jaw; something familiar in his Prussian blue eyes besides the flickering fires of hatred.

I keep my eyes on my captors over the chipped rim of the mug, slaking my thirst enough to manage a few words that don’t crumble to dust on my tongue.

“Sorry I fail to impress after being drugged and kidnapped. Oh wait… I don’t give half a rat-fuck what you amateurs think,” I snip back.

Grim though it may be, I take stock of my surroundings. Quiet, mostly clean. While I don’t have a working memory of the last… I don’t know how many hours; from what I can tell, they haven’t done any tampering with me besides the initial tranquilizing.

Lucky for me, these idiots are still running amateur hour—I’m still alive, and my left arm is blissfully intact, and thus the digital tracking device installed deep in my forearm is still broadcasting my location to my superiors back at FBI headquarters. It’s only a matter of time until they successfully trace the signal and get me the fuck out of here.

Now, I just gotta play for time.

“Kitty’s awake, and she’s still got claws.” Mr. Most-Likely-In-Charge beams, his eyes wild with possibility.

I pass the empty mug to my handcuffed hand, offering the boss man my middle finger—thumb extended, as my quartet of captors looms over me.

“She’ll play nice and be a good girl if she knows what’s good for her,” the tall one scoffs, like some cruel prince laying forth his edict.

“Please, you’re obviously one of those insecure men who’s pissed off that I kicked your ass.” I roll my eyes, extending the empty cup to the blonde one—the obvious baby of the crew, batting my auburn lashes at him. “Can I please have some more water?”

The loud burbling of my stomach seems to remind me that this water is the only thing I’ve taken in since breakfast before checking into the Diamond Center, god knows how long ago.

“No water or food until we get some cooperation out of you,” Bossman interjects, reaching into tall, dark and handsome’s ratty sweatshirt pocket to retrieve the beat up box of 27’s.

Like a petulant child, I keep eye contact with him—those dark blue pools of deep cold fixed on me—as I lift the mug high over my head before spiking it downward onto an exposed square of hardwood, my legs folded protectively beneath me on the sofa; the white ceramic and pink glitter paint shards scatter everywhere in a high-pitched shatter of glass.

“That’s about as much cooperation as you shit stains are going to get out of me,” I sneer, slumping back against the beaten up couch cushions, my eyes still locked on Mr. Leaderman.

I’ve been so focused on the boss I don’t even see the tall, fancy one until he eclipses my vision—his massive frame suddenly all I can see. Before I can open my mouth—his open hand flies across my face in a stinging stroke of pain.

He hits me with such force that everything dazzles—little stars dancing at the edges of my vision.

“I have a feeling you’re going to be changing your tune sooner rather than later, darling,” Posh Spice sighs as if he’s bored, leaning down so that we’re nearly nose to nose.

Then his perfume hits me like a ton of bricks.

Panic grips me. I should be able to sense his aura, but I’m on higher-than-market-grade suppressants provided by the government that not only block my sigma perfume production, but also minimize my susceptibility to impact from others’ scents. Such precautions are mandatory for field work, but I’m admittedly on the downward swing from my last dose, considering I was anticipating several weeks stay at a placement center in order to be matched with my prospective partner(s)—and right now, I am feeling the impact of his omega scent deeply.

Rich, creamy Bulgarian rose—sweet, earthy sandalwood, and peaty scotch invade my nostrils, threatening to bring me to my knees.

He’s 1000% omega—and he smells so delicious that it takes every last fiber of my being to keep my head clear of lascivious thoughts and focused on maintaining a closed, cold front until the cavalry arrives.

I must be making one hell of a face, because pretty boy’s lips part in an easy smile as if he knows he has me exactly where he wants me.

“There we go. Someone seems a bit more pliable now.” His yellow-green eyes soften, lids hooded with pleasure as he senses the edge of my desperation.

I sit on my right hand, so that I don’t try to reach for him with it. Quentin, that's what the boss man called him.

“Tch, that’s cheating! Cazzy could put her to sleep too—but you don’t see him flexing that shit.” Tall, dark and handsome scoffs, waving his smoking cigarette through the open air as he gestures to both boss man and blond buzz boy; as if making his case to a judge or an umpire at a sporting event.

“Jealousy isn’t a good look for you, Sebby,” Quentin sniffs imperiously, tilting his head like an observant bird of prey at me. His big chartreuse eyes with their coppery lashes are almost in line with my own gaze. I bite my tongue, unsure of how much my body—my mind—will betray me in favor of my base sigma biology.

Right now, every cell in my body is screaming out to touch him—to crush his mouth with mine and taste him.

I don’t trust myself, even with my hands tied and my pride on the line—so I close my eyes and breathe deeply through my mouth, doing my best to minimize taking in his scent, but the damage is already done. I can feel his aura expanding, encroaching on the frayed edges of my resolve.

“Oho, she’s a tough one!” he croons approvingly—one of his long fingers tracing its way through the open air to rest beneath the point of my chin. “She’s already shown more resolve than any of you lot did the first time I flexed my aura on you.”

My eyes fly open, and I grit my teeth in silence—lest I beg him for the opportunity to… I don’t know what—do something.

“She’s on government issue suppressants,” tall, dark, and moody with the French accent grumbles—his maroon eyes setting on me almost pityingly. “Give it six to ten days and that shit will have completely left her system—not to mention once she’s in heat…” he sneers officiously. “Little red fox would probably gnaw off her own arm to get that remaining hand on our favorite hussy.”

“Uh guys? I hate to interrupt, but I think we have some bad news,” the buzz cut blond pipes up from his place at the back of the pack—a small tablet balanced in one of his hands.

The others turn to face him with looks of annoyance—like the cool, older siblings forced to endure the youngest of the bunch during a treasured hangout session.

“What is it this time, Cazzy?” Quentin sighs, the pad of his index finger traveling along the line of my jaw to tuck an errant lock of hair behind my ear.

“Uh well,” the so-called ‘Cazzy’ hiccups anxiously, as he approaches the pair of us—me on the couch, Quentin, squatting on the ground before me. “Unless I’m mistaken, our dear miss Penny is hiding a little bit,” he mumbles, his fingers flying over the touch screen in a series of complicated gestures—his boyish features twisted with fear.

“Quit burying the lead Caz, spit it out,” Bossman grunts, losing patience.

Caz fiddles with the smart watch with a shattered screen on his wrist—checking his tablet again before his hand shoots out over my right arm, my legs, the top of my head, the nape of my neck; his tablet is a mess of tiny nested windows I can’t quite make sense of.

He sweeps his hand over my shoulders and the front of my chest before working his way toward my left arm, handcuffed to the radiator pipe.

With nascent horror, I realize what this Caz is doing just as a loud machine beep issues from his tablet—his hand returning to the space beneath the hinge of my left elbow where my implant is.

“Fuck,” Bossman hisses under his breath.

“Yep—so uh, we better figure out uninstalling that bad boy, and a new safehouse ASAP,” the tech-wizard informs his bozo buddies—much to my chagrin.

“Well, isn’t she just our lucky Penny,” Frenchie grouses, grinding out his cigarette on the nearby windowsill before running his hands back through his curls, Quentin already on his feet and in motion—no longer demanding my entire focus.

Before I can protest, or get a better handle on where we might be headed—Caz taps the screen of his tablet—eyeing me uneasily, almost apologetically, as he leans in.

“Sorry about this, but I doubt you’re gonna cooperate and we have a tight window for escape.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a long, skinny gray plastic cylinder with a bright red plastic button at one end.

I rise up onto my heels—free arm ready to swing, but his theta aura expands fast; poppy, dragon’s blood sap, and smoked vanilla pods threatening to pull me down beneath the current of sleep as he jabs the auto-injector into the meat of my thigh.

“Sorry about this, but I doubt you’re gonna cooperate and we have a tight window for escape.” I wince before carrying out my dreaded deed.

Those cinnamon eyes of hers look at me with such profound hatred as I shoot her full of the sleeping serum Seb concocted for just this purpose.

Thank goodness, the searing glare is short lived. As soon as I’ve injected her, Louise Penny’s eyes roll back into her head and all the fight leaves her posture as she slumps, boneless, into the couch.

“Alright, everybody start moving!” Frank barks, his alpha aura expanding with oppressive force as he rallies us into action.

“Caz—start torching the tech,” Frank commands me before moving down the line. “Q, figure out our next safehouse and travel arrangements.” He spins on his heel—grabbing a tall metal drum from the far wall and rolling it into the center of the room, dumping clothes, blankets, papers, and trash inside as he goes. “Seb, give our Lucky Penny a little something stronger than the sleep serum—and deal with that pesky tracker,” Frank grunts, reaching into his pocket for his gentleman’s folder—tossing the closed blade to Seb, wooden inlay handle flashing in the light as it arcs through the air.

“Ah-ah-ah!” Seb catches the knife, but tosses it reluctantly from hand to hand like a hot potato. “You want me to cut that thing out of her!? I may allow it when you call me your ‘chemist,’ but I’m not a fucking doctor Frank!” he balks, Seb’s thick, dark brows pinched together with dismay.

“She don’t need a fuckin’ doctor Sebby, we just need that fucking chip out of her arm,” Frank spits disapprovingly—pulling a silver flask from his coat pocket and dribbling the clear liquid inside over the contents of the metal drum before he flicks his lit cigarette into the barrel; the crackle of orange flames flickering to life inside.

I feel a shiver crawl down my neck.

This is far from the most gruesome shit I’ve seen happen on a job with Frank Stone and the rest of his ragtag ‘Saints’—but I can’t shake the feeling of wrongness that creeps up my spine when this FBI chick comes to harm at one of our hands.

It’s bogus to concern myself with this kind of shit of course—she’s a fuckin cop and the kid of Landon and Margot Penny, genius scientists.

Even though she may really think that she’s ‘one of the good guys’ behind that tainted badge and she may not have been complicit in their work, she’s the best chance we have of getting some answers about what the Penny’s were up to. If that doesn’t work out? Well, she’ll make an excellent hostage-bargaining-chip.

“Seb—are you fuckin’ listening!? I said get that chip out now!” Frank uses his alpha bark this time, hurdling Seb into action.

I turn away as Seb launches himself down the hall, muttering under his breath, “Maudit cochon, you wanna cut her up to get the chip out—do it yourself, fucking charcuter.”

Before I can take off for my own room and my machines, Q finishes a hurried call in what sounds like it might be Brazilian Portuguese and tosses his burner phone at me. Frank follows suit—pushing past me to collect his go bag.

Six months ago, I was still living in my Mom’s basement, working day shift as third tier tech support for Saleshorse—balls deep in a Galaxy of Guilds addiction; subsisting on pepperoni hot pockets, schwaggy weed, energy drinks, and the latest seinen anime serial.

I met Sébastien in an Eris server for Sorcery Battle Academy Masters. He and I had the same characters, the same ships, the same totally batshit headcanons for every little bit of show lore that wasn’t explicitly laid out by the creators. We didn’t even talk about work stuff or the so-called ‘Saints’ until almost a year after we met. I had just begun to let on my particular set of skills when it came to technology—unbeknownst to me, Seb had been considering bringing me in on a job Frank was cooking up.

Of course, when he heard my name, Cazimer Rybecki, he dissolved into manic laughter.

“Well, that all but decides it! Another Saint!”

The rest, as they say, is history.

I scrap the phones, my machines, but keep hold of my tablet and the shitty smartwatch I used to scan her tag; then gather my own go-bag, making my way back down the hall to the others just in time to witness Seb—whispering something under his breath as he draws a pale blue solution from a glass ampule into a fresh syringe.

“Oh good, petit phantom,” Seb sighs with relief as he sees me enter the room—his maroon eyes fixing me with a silent pleading. “I’m going to do my best to make sure our piece brillante doesn’t feel any pain or wake up from her beauty sleep—but I’m going to need you to hold on to her just in case, mon ami.”

My backpack rattles to the floor as I cross the room to Seb.

I swallow down the saliva flooding my mouth—the telltale precursor to a technicolor yawn.

“Hey—don’t fucking puke on me, Cazzy,” Seb warns me—catching wise to my draining color and notoriously weak stomach when it comes to blood and viscera.

“Ok—then stop dicking around and get it done,” I snap back at him, doing my best to avert my eyes.

I hear the soft hiss of breath from Louise as Seb injects her with whatever potion he’s brewed in his makeshift lab on the other side of the horsehair plaster wall. Her slow, steady, sleepy breathing fades to shallow near-silence as she slips further from consciousness.

“This is going to be quick and dirty,” he warns, tossing the spent syringe into the flaming barrel behind us, a set of gauze bandages and medical tape laid out on the nearby side table; producing a small steel key on a ball chain hidden beneath the neckline of his sweatshirt.

“Lose the cuffs—hold her down, once the chip is out, we bandage her up—and haul her down to the wheels, yeah?” Seb tosses me the handcuff key, then flicks the folding knife open—the blade shining, cruel and poised above Louise Penny’s arm.

I’m so focused on unlocking the handcuffs from the radiator that I don’t see Seb drive the point of the blade into her soft flesh—but the wave of her scent that escapes her, along with the trickling of ruby blood as Seb quests deeper in search of the tracker chip, nearly knocks me on my ass.

While the medical-grade suppressants Louise has been given don’t actively give off a false scent profile or designation, before her blood made contact with the air she had given off almost no scent at all beyond a vague, clean, sweetness. Now that her precious claret flows—so much blood for such a tiny little hole; I have to struggle not to be crushed by the velvety sweet Iris, juicy-tart green apple, and spicy, floral pink pepper.

For a dizzying moment I’m struck with the wild, possessive fantasy of pressing my lips to the wound in her arm like some vampire prince, so that I might drink of her fragrant, sanguine bounty—forever hiding part of her deep within myself; a treasured secret ever belonging only to me.

“Aha! Le voici!” Seb cries victoriously—shaking out a teensy cylinder of metal and glass beaded with blood onto the couch cushion.

I confirm that Seb has been successful, my scan clearing away any shadow of a doubt that the tracker has in fact been removed before taco-ing the tablet over my knee, ditching the watch and the hunk of metal and glass into the burning barrel.

“Go get your bag.” I nod to him, grabbing the roll of gauze from the side table. “I’ll get her patched up.”

“Bless you, Cazzy,” Seb blows out a breath.

It’s been a little over forty-eight hours since we relocated to the safehouse Quentin lined up for us on short notice, and our piece brillante has decided that she’s on something of a hunger strike.

While our little pied-à-terre is hardly what I’d call luxurious; a low-income unit in the Independence City slums, built from three and a half former steel shipping containers, it serves our needs and happens to be a marked improvement over the absolute rattrap we were holding up in good ol’ New York City.

Caz and I got stuck sharing quarters with our prisoner. Me with my hammock slung by the door and Caz on a blow up camping mattress. Louise’s wrists are handcuffed and passed through a chain around her waist; the whole mess threaded through a steel fitting welded to the shipping container wall expressly for such a purpose (though, admittedly, with much kinkier original intent…)

Once it became clear that there was no one coming to save her, she stopped speaking entirely and began refusing anything other than water—no matter how much Quentin or Frank smacked her around in attempts to loosen her tongue.

While Caz and I remain pleasantly surprised that neither Quentin nor Frank have escalated the severity of their incentivizing Louise Penny to spill what she knows about her parent’s research and the role her bosses have played in both their research and the possible fruit it has bore—I can’t help but feel that something has to give; lest the current delicate status quo crumble under the building pressure.

Maybe it’s me being selfish, trying to shield myself from Quentin’s dark side and Frank’s unbridled rage spinning out and seeking other targets, such as myself—possibly it’s that unquenchable fire of survival instinct deep inside that’s somehow managed to keep me alive these thirty some-odd years. Or maybe it’s some tiny scrap of human decency that my survival instinct hasn’t killed off; but I cannot accept simply letting her starve herself out while Quentin and Frank try to find an effective lever—lest we end up with a dead FBI agent on our hands, along with our best hope to get to the bottom of the mysterious emergence of the Zietnot virus—and its connections to the FBI, and possibly even to the cabal known only as “The Windmill.”

Frank and Quentin are both sleeping—having taken day shift dual guard dog and interrogation duty. Caz and I, the resident night owls in the Saints—took the torch from boss man and his number two—Monsieur Merde.

Caz had barely rolled off of his camping mattress and into his temporary battle station—a pressure board desk from Mykea; the blue light of his laptop casting over the growing graveyard of empty energy drink cans, candy wrappers, and spent roaches overflowing their shallow ashtray—when I told him I was taking a step out to pick up cigarettes for me and the boys, along with a few other essentials. He didn’t question me—just grunted his acknowledgment along with a muffled request for additional energy drinks, miniature candy bars, and sour gummies.

When I return to the safehouse, Caz is seated next to Louise on her threadbare futon—attempting to coax her into eating a spoonful of canned pasta rings in ketchup-y, tomato ‘sauce’.

Like a petulant toddler, she turns her face away from him as Caz sits across from her—both of them cross-legged, Louise’s handcuffed wrists in her lap, and blanket drawn around her narrow shoulders.

“C-mon, dude!” Caz cajoles, nearly getting the spoonful of ‘mater-O’s to Louise lips before she shakes her head—forcing him to smear a line of sauce across her porcelain cheek.

“You’re trying to feed her shit I wouldn’t give a dog—maybe that’s why she won’t eat,” I tease, knowing full well the real reason she’s refusing meals.

“Seb, you aren’t helping,” Caz grumbles under his breath—reaching out with a ripped section of paper towel to wipe the smear of sauce from her face, not unlike a doting parent caring for their sullen toddler.

I feel a warm swell of affection for Caz in that moment. Somehow, he’s managed to retain so much of his softness—his gentle nature since joining up with the rest of us Saints. More and more I find this to be one of the things I admire most about him… of course, his abs and tight little ass don’t hurt either—but I digress.

“She doesn’t have to eat if she doesn’t want to,” I call back to the pair as I make my way into the spare kitchen, arms laden with paper sacks full of groceries. “She’s got another week and a half or so before she’s really circling the drain,” I sigh wistfully, Caz and Louise still visible out of the corner of my eye through the cutout buffet window that separates our makeshift bedroom and the galley. “That is, of course, assuming that cher Tin-tin et Frank don’t just decide they’re going to tube feed her,” I shrug, beginning to unload the groceries onto the counter.

Caz goes rigid at my words while Louise only slumps further, obviously defeated.

“Of course—if it’s simply the fact that our piece brillante refuses to be fed on scraps like la pute and instead is holding out for le plat fit for a putain de palace such as herself,” I sniff haughtily, laying stew meat, prunes, onions, blanched almonds, bulbs of garlic, and an assortment of tiny spice jars onto the poured concrete countertop.

At this, Louise turns herself as much as she can toward the narrow opening in the wall—trying to catch a glimpse of what I might be up to—her entire body slightly inclined toward me and the sounds I’m making in the kitchen.

Caz pops up from his place beside her on the futon—tossing the spoon angrily into the open can of slop he’s been trying to feed her for only god knows how long before I showed up as he swoops into the kitchen, his voice low, so that only I can hear, “What the fuck are you playing at, Sebby?” he hisses—his platinum brow almost pressed against my own.

“You, mon coeur, if you don’t get those beautiful lips out of my face.” I flash him a naughty wink and Caz just rolls his eyes, pushing back from me with an exasperated sigh.

“Frank and Q are going to be pissed you went on walkabout for fancy groceries when we’re on double lockdown.” He scrubs a hand over his silvery lavender-blond fuzz—his palm resting on the perfectly round crown of his head. “If you fuck up things with the fed bitch, they’ll absolutely go through the goddamn roof.” He glowers at me, pale blue eyes cold as ice.

“How do you think I am to ‘fuck up things’? She already refuses to eat or talk—next it will be refusing water and then she really will be dead quick,” I snap, my hot temper getting the best of me—even though it’s not even doux Cazimer I’m mad at.

Caz slumps against the refrigerator, the fight gone out of him.

“Fine, whatever. I’m gonna go roll-up. What can I snack on?” He cranes his neck to get a look at the spoils of my grocery run.

“I brought you a little something,” I smirk, shrugging out of my dry, cracking leather bomber jacket—pulling a pack of pull-apart cherry licorice and a sleeve of dark chocolate peanut-butter cups out of the breast pocket before tossing the old heap of leather onto a nearby folding chair.

“Seb, You spoil me!” he gasps gleefully, his blue eyes alight with joy—his whole face glowing with palpable delight.

“You go roll-up; I’m going to get some dinner on, eh?” I give him another wink—the two of us strangely bashful about exchanging even a stolen kiss in front of our hostage; lest she understand how much leverage she might have by playing us against one another.

Almost two hours into dinner preparation, and while I don’t have a proper tajine to prepare the dish—the beef and prunes smell incredible; my couscous—studded with golden raisins, chickpeas and a rainbow of savory vegetables wafts its spiced cardamom-cayenne-clove steam into the small kitchen.

I can actually hear the loud gurgling and burbling noises issuing from Louise’s stomach—even though there’s three quarters of a wall between myself and her in the next room.

“My Maman was a lovely woman,” I begin to reminisce—half to Louise, half to myself as I go about trimming small, seedless cucumbers for the salad. “The chocolatier's daughter, sweet and pretty and perfect.”

I can see her, the sallow crescent moon of her face as she begins to turn toward me ever so slightly.

“My baabaa had the face and body to outdo any fashion model when he was a young man, so it’s not hard to see why my maman fell for him—even though he was a hustler, and a bad one at that,” I laugh, pulling the ancient casserole dish I’ve had to make do with making my beef and prune ‘tagine’ from the oven with a pair of floral quilted oven mitts.

“He used to say he fell in love with her cooking first. The cakes, the tartes—the big crusty loaves of bread—the poulet roti with all the trimmings,” I sigh wistfully, remembering my early days in the kitchen with her; my first experiences as a chemist of chaos.

Louise Penny, still refusing to look at me straight on, sits in profile—her eyes cast down, moving slowly beneath her hooded eyelids as she listens.

I open the glass covered casserole dish. A fragrant, sweet, earthy scent of the beef, onions, prunes, wine, and rich spices fills the air as I watch the muscles along Louise’s jaw fire wildly, her lips pressing together as she swallows down her saliva.

“I didn’t see it until she passed, but my maman had been the source of all my baabaa’s sweetness. Once she was gone, he was left a bitter husk of himself. Sour and rancid till the end of his days, but—what can one do?” I admit on a deflating huff of breath, a pang of heartsickness clutching at me as I begin to assemble a plate; careful scoops of fluffy couscous, a generous serving of the braised meat and stone fruit, and a crispy, cold toss of cucumber and greenleaf salad studded with salty oil and cured olives in my very own tangy yogurt-herb dressing.

Carefully, I collect a set of flatware and a section of paper towel and bring the plate around the corner into the other room with Louise.

She watches me with silent desperation as I stick my stocking foot out, my big toe poking through one of the holes in my worn tube socks as I hook my ankle around the leg of a nearby metal folding chair and drag the rickety thing in front of where Louise sits cross-legged on the lumpy mattress.

Her pale throat bobs as she struggles to swallow, her eyes darting—corybantic, between my face and the steaming plate of food I place between the makeshift place setting before her; as if serving her at our own private fine dining establishment.

“It must have been hard to lose both your parents at once,” I offer sympathetically, flopping down on the floor beside the ad-hoc dinner table.

Her cinnamon eyes snap up to meet mine, a flicker of deepest contempt flashing with liquid malice.

“Even though he was a bastard, I was thankful I got a few more years in with the old man before he ‘bought the farm’—as they say.”

I watch as Louise’s hands ball into fists; her left arm limited by the handcuff still fastened around her wrist—her nostrils flaring as her body demands that she redirect her attention to the food she has spent days without.

Fine, she needs more of a push? I’ll give her more of a push.

“Were you… aware of the sorts of things your parents were doing with their work, eh?” I wonder aloud. Reaching for the fork, delicately lifting it—taking my time to pierce a tender piece of beef, translucent caramelized onions, and a succulent stewed bite of fruit before turning my wrist over with a flourish. I bring the morsel to my lips with intentional theatricality before I close my mouth around the piece of perfection—a rumbling sound of pleasure buzzing up from deep in my gut.

Louise shifts from her rooted cross-legged position onto her bended knees—her body moving as if magnetized toward the food.

“Surely, the big scary government men know about the Zietnot virus that seems to be affecting only Sigmas and Omegas, non?” I flick my empty fork through the air like a conductor leading an invisible orchestra as I make my way around to getting a bite of couscous—her wide eyes are shrink wrapped in a wobbly film of tears, her lips pressed together to keep them from wobbling.

“Someone must have wanted to keep them quiet.” My shoulders lift in a lazy shrug as I scoop up a forkful of couscous. “From what I’ve heard, it was pretty gruesome though,” I cluck disapprovingly before taking my bite.

Tears begin to spill down her wan cheeks, Louise’s dry lips part to allow her tongue to dart over her lips—her hunger, like a human presence with us in the room now.

“Of course, I’m sure they kept a great many things from their daughter,” I tut thoughtfully, spearing a tuft of salad with the crooked tines of my fork.

“Why burden you with their attempts at playing god, eh?” I lift the silverware to my mouth, and like a viper striking—Louise’s right arm snaps out with blinding speed; her fingers closing around the curve of the scratched white glass plate, bringing it back in close to her body in the blink of an eye.

She drops the whole plate onto her lap and uses her bare fingers to pinch together a piece of meat—packing it into her mouth greedily before closing her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose mid-chew; forcing herself to eat slowly—lest she puke it right back up.

We sit in silence like this for almost a half hour, Louise nibbling on bits of her dinner while keeping me pinned with her acrimonious stare. Only when the plate is empty does she lift back onto her knees and place the spent dish on the metal folding chair—licking every last bit from her fingers before slugging down half the glass of water I provided with the modest feast.

“You’re a shit conversationalist, but an excellent chef,” she grumbles drowsily, sated on such a rich repast after almost half a week without eating anything at all.

“Aha, you have not forgotten how to speak!” I clap, reaching up over my shoulder, onto the edge of Caz’s temporary desk for the red plastic ashtray, pack of 27’s, and half empty lighter.

Her lip curls, flashing a pearly canine as she sneers at me.

“So—you really didn’t know anything about what your Maman and Papa were doing, did you?” I challenge, opening the cardboard pack and tapping it on the back of my wrist—a cigarette rising from the messy rip in the foil packaging.

Louise doesn’t say anything—just shakes her head no; her eyes flicking to my pack of cigarettes before latching back onto mine.

“But you know about the virus, yes?” I purse my lips around the cigarette and pull it from the pack—offering her one.

She considers only a moment before reaching out with her free hand to pinch one from the pack.

“Yes,” is all she says—placing the golden filter between her full lips as I lean in, the tips of our cigarettes nearly touching as I coax a tiny flame from the plastic lighter beneath them.

“You’ve been looking into who murdered them yourself, haven’t you?” I push the envelope a little further, scooting the ashtray into the open space of floor between us.

The glowing ember of her cigarette flickers orangey-red as she inhales, her features still hard and unreadable as she glowers at me.

I wait, allowing her the opportunity to fill the silence—even though I know she will not.

For the first time, I notice the diamond shaped birthmark, high on her left cheekbone near the corner of her eye—la passione.

A woman with a birthmark like a tear—destined for great love and even greater tragedy.

“Of course, the bureau has almost certainly told you to give that up.” I raise a brow, tapping the feathery bit of ash from the end of my cigarette into the shallow plastic tray.

“You can talk all you want—I’m not telling you scumbags shit,” she scoffs, taking a deep drag on her cigarette, ignoring the long fluffy gray ash as it snows down gently onto the ratty futon. “I still don’t know what the fuck you thought you were going to get out of kidnapping me, but whatever you want?—I’ll happily die before giving it to you.” She lets slip a gallows laugh—the sharp lines of her clavicles peeking through the stretched neckline of the yellowing cotton t-shirt we put her in after getting free of the diamond center a few days ago. She looks more like a starving wretch than a trained agent of the FBI—she’s closer to her breaking point than she’s willing to admit—to me or to herself.

“Louise,” I begin carefully—but she cuts me off.

“Don’t use my name asshole, I don’t know you,” she snips back—blowing her smoke directly into my face.

My eyes water, stinging from the direct cloud of smoke.

“What should I call you then, eh? ‘Agent Penny?’” I ask the last part in my best approximation of a clipped American accent.

She turns her face away, lifting her handcuffed hands to her face to pull the cigarette away from her lips.

“Don’t fucking talk to me at all,” she growls, her eyes sliding sideways to the outline of the gun in the leather shoulder holster under my moth-eaten zip up hoodie. She’s a glorified cop, so I shouldn’t be surprised—but it’s still a little spooky that she seems to know exactly where it sits, even though I’ve given no indication that I’m armed.

“And here you were—telling me that I’m a poor conversationalist,” I scoff, hopping up from my place on the ground to sneak back into the kitchen for the Kaab el-ghzal I picked up at the tea shop on the corner, putting the kettle on the stove.

She sits sulkily on the bed—watching me openly this time, craning her neck to get a look at what I’m doing.

“I would take seconds of that superb dinner, shitty conversation skills notwithstanding,” she jeers, flicking a long ash from the end of her cigarette into the red plastic tray.

“You’re too kind,” I scoff, spooning my favorite mint tea into a steel diffuser ball, closing the little apparatus before dropping it into the small teapot on the counter before decanting some of the boiling water over the diffuser. “What if I were to tell you that we have also been looking into the murder of your parents?” I venture cautiously, arranging a few of the crescent-shaped kaab el-ghazal on a folded paper towel; the faint smell of honey and orange blossom wafting up alongside the herbal mint scent of the brewing tea.

Louise becomes very still once more—her cigarette poised carefully above the red plastic ashtray’s dimpled rim.

“Or—what if I told you a little birdie happened to sing us a song of fated mates and magical designation metamorphosis?” I press, slightly more cautious.

“How would I know you weren’t full of shit?” she sneers—her eyes trained on me as I prepare myself a cup of steaming mint tea.

A gulf of silence spreads between us as I carry the tea and pastry into the other room to present to our prisoner.

“Seems awfully convenient that Margot and Landon Penny were murdered in cold blood just before this curious Zeitnot virus appeared. Even stranger are the rumors that swirl around their privately funded research.”

I pierce the silence and let the veiled accusation hang in the air, laying the pastry and steaming cup before her. Our eyes lock, neither of us wanting to back down.

Louise’s chained wrists jingle as she carefully sets her still burning cigarette in one of the fluted holders on the edge of the ashtray, her nimble fingers snatch up one of the nutty-honey-orange blossom confections, and she begins nibbling at one end of the crescent, still scowling at me.

“Convenient for whom?” she seethes icily; her cinnamon eyes boring into my soul.

“Pardon?” I chomp half of my ‘gazelle horn’ pastry in a single bite, leaning an elbow on the folding chair as I wait for her to elaborate.

“Who was the death of my parents convenient for?” she grits out, taking another bite.

“For you and your dipshit pals running around playing caped crusader and boys blunder?” Louise snorts a mirthless laugh. “Or for Bronson & Bronson—who lost multi billions on the incomplete research my parents left behind?”

I wait for her to show her hand, even slightly as she stuffs the last few bites of pastry into her mouth.

“I can tell you it sure as hell wasn’t convenient for me,” she growls, her voice wobbly with tears.

I almost feel sorry for her. In fact, I do feel a little sorry for her—her parents, well… not so much.

Without a doubt, it’s the body chemistry talking, but she looks like a haunting renaissance painting in the spare light from the bare bulb overhead—her creamy skin and coppery red hair in the greasy yellow light as she looks mournfully down into her own reflection in her cup of tea. Rossetti’s ‘Lady Lilith’ in a flop house.

“Louise,” I sigh, reaching for her face without thinking, drawn by the magnetism of her whispered scent beneath the damp, dusty must of the safehouse; iris, pomme verte, poivre rose.

I can see in her wild eyes that she wants to recoil with every fiber of her being, just as I am called to touch her, but she masters her own disgust to remain as still as a statue.

“There are a great many things I’d love to tell you—that the Saints could help you with if you only just told us what you know.” Her skin is so soft, so warm—my hands cannot help but give in to the desire to cup one of her high, carved cheekbones with my hand, my thumb finding the diamond shaped birthmark that looks so much like a tear; my calloused flesh sweeping gently over the spot with reverence.

I’m not sure what other comfort I could offer. I don’t want to issue threats, but I know it would be better for her to talk to me or Caz. Telling her as much would likely make her dig in her heels, all but guaranteeing her silence, but if she refuses Caz and I and our relative leniency and forces Frank or Quentin’s hand, well… I actually shudder at the thought of what la belle et la bete will do to her.

As if reading my thoughts, she speaks—breaking the heavy silence.

“I don’t know shit,” Louise sobs quietly—her hands moving slowly to the steaming cup of mint tea laden with sugar.

“Shhhh,” I soothe, her beautiful alabaster skin soft as silk velvet beneath my fingertips. Though I know I shouldn’t—that it’s the witchcraft of her sigma perfume, not quite sufficiently suppressed by her fading medication—I can’t help but be drawn to her. I want to press my lips to that pretty rose petal mouth so badly I have to make a conscious effort not to bring my face closer to hers as she cries into her steaming cup of mint tea.

All of my blossoming affection, my growing softness for her—my pity sublimates into the void as I watch her. As if in slow motion, as her hands close around the cup of scalding tea—her nimble hands toss the cup’s contents in a searing spray across my face.

Fuck.

These men with their egos—their complete inability to see me, a little sigma woman, as anything other than their inferior will reap what they have sown.

My hands close around the ceramic cup, the steaming tea inside burning my tender palms as I lift the cup from the folding metal chair and spray its contents into Sébastien’s face.

His hands move instinctively to his scalded face, and I take my opportunity to strike.

I am become blade.

My bound wrists reach out and over his head, already so close to mine; lured in by my feigned weakness. Sébastien cries out as the short chain that connects my handcuffs finds its way around his neck and I pull the loop made by my arms and the links of steel taut—forcing him into a basket hold with my legs. The chain bites into his tender brown throat as I subdue him with my makeshift garotte—the ball chain with its tiny steel key charm is just visible from my vantage point over his shoulder as he struggles to be free of me.

Without air, he strains to make a sound—his arms thrash wildly as his lungs and brain beg for oxygen.

“Be still, sleep now,” I hiss quietly in his ear. I don’t want to snap his neck—but if he doesn’t pass out soon, he’ll leave me no choice.

The sound of my own heartbeat in my ears grows louder and louder as the sounds of his panic fade with his waning consciousness.

Holding my own breath, I wait for his long, oil-black lashes to lay flush against his high cheekbones—his body settling into stillness. I allow a fraction of a second of loosened chain—a precise window for escape, if Sébastien was still awake to take it—but he just lays unconscious against me, his chest rising and falling with near imperceptible shallow breaths.

No time to check the strength of his pulse, my hands fly to the chain around his neck—pulling the key from its hiding place, releasing myself from my bonds—wrists oozing blood, a ring of raw, chafed flesh beneath my oversized t-shirt where the waist chain has rubbed against me through the spare fabric.

No time for shoes, no time for a coat—just bare feet pounding linoleum as I sprint for the door to the apartment.

I am become arrow—demanding aim, true.

The doors that stud the hallway smear from my peripheral vision as I take off for the entrance to the stairwell at the far end of the floor. My hands slam into the push plate—hurtling through the heavy metal door and down the stairs as I speed desperately toward the exit.

I burst onto the ground floor—bashing my fists against every door on my way to the bank of buzzers and mailboxes that herald my imminent escape.

“Holy Shit!” A woman with a flip phone wearing a fake fur bolero, sequined mini dress, and a scuffed pair of flamingo heels that had seen better days screams as I explode from the building entrance beside her—her heavily lined eyes with their clumped mascara lashes are wide as saucers as she looks me up and down—a half smoked capri dangling from her gently trembling fingers.

“Sorry, I need this,” I snap at the woman who is more likely than not a blameless sexworker in the wrong place at the wrong time as I grab the phone from her hands, ending her call as she watches on in horror—merely an unfortunate bystander simply trying to do her job.

“Hey—hey!” she screams after me as I turn away from her, already in motion.

I take off down a nearby alley—punching Dennis’ mobile number into the shitty burner phone as I run down the narrow brick passageway—a tall chain-link fence less than forty feet ahead and coming up fast.

Dennis’ voicemail recording doesn’t quite register in my brain—the sound of my own blood roaring in my ears as I strain to hear the computerized beep.

“D, I don’t know where they have me. I’m ditching this phone in the trash outside their flop—” I gasp into the receiver as the fence grows larger and larger in my field of vision.

“Don’t fucking touch me! She went that way!” I hear the woman scream behind me, and my stomach rises into my throat—stealing what little breath I have left.

Someone’s already on my heels. I don’t have much time.

I open the plastic lid of the dumpster at the far end of the alley and toss the phone inside, praying the shitty little clamshell phone hasn’t been tampered with, and that they’ll be able to pull a trace from the GPS.

My hands newly freed—I leap for the cold metal links and begin my ascent—the sound of footfalls on the pavement growing ever louder behind me.

I’m barely three feet off the ground when I feel his grip around my ankle—the blunt strength of fingers threatening to crush my delicate ankle bones in his brutish grasp. Pain tears through my fingers as I am unceremoniously stripped from the chain-link fence—my body lands on the asphalt with such force that it knocks all the air from my lungs.

I croak desperately for air as my arms cradle my aching ribcage, my body curling in on itself in a vain attempt at protection as the tall, pretty one looms over me—rancor rising from him like the tendrils of steam off his sweat slicked skin in the tawdry alley lights of the cold winter night.

“Now, now,” he grits through bared teeth. “What did we say about cooperation?” he tuts, that perfectly received pronunciation giving him an incongruously regal air as he glares at me—half my face in the gutter.

I don’t have a chance to respond, because his heel makes startlingly fast contact with the space beneath my right eye—sending the world careening into darkness once more.

Say what you want about Louise Penny, but the bird certainly has fight in her.

I am embarrassed to say this is the second time I’ve underestimated her. I know well enough to know there won’t be a third opportunity—one of us will end up dead.

Who’s to say which one of us it would be… While my pride is dear to me, I’m not so foolish as to proclaim my own guaranteed victory.

I scoop up Louise’s limp body and toss her over my shoulder, the working girl who had pointed me in Louise’s direction, has already departed—likely looking for greener pastures, or at the very least—an alleyway more readily stocked with John’s.

When I make it back into the safehouse, Seb is conscious again—though probably wishing he wasn’t—his tall, muscular frame is folded in on itself as he sits before Frank like a contrite child, head hung in shame.

“You think that she’s some soft, tender little girl?” Frank snaps as he paces to and fro before Sébastien.

My eyes flit to Cazimer—his heavily inked arms wrapped protectively around his own body as he watches Seb take his punishment, warily.

Louise’s body slides easily from my shoulder into my arms as I lay her back down on the empty futon mattress.

Caz’s eyes find me as I kneel in the dirty sheets, my hands working deftly to close Louise back into her handcuffs and waist chain. Those shockingly blue eyes fix me with silent accusation. This is your fault too. You’re the only one who can stop him now.

I hear the loud cracking sound of Frank’s hand flying across Seb’s face and can’t help but wince.

“She’s a professional! Louise Penny is a fucking murder weapon, honed and perfected by years of training, and stoked by the fires of vengeance. Step it the fuck up,” Frank barks, his alpha aura so stifling—styrax, cedar, and smoking-gunpowder flood the room, and I actually have to crack a window to be able to think straight.

“It’s on us too,” I grumble at Frank—my eyes not quite willing to meet his when he’s like this.

Even for me, Francis Stone can be a terrifying monster. Moments like this—it truly feels as if there’s someone else inside there looking back at me. I don’t know that man, but I know enough to fear him.

Frank turns on me, those steely blues alight with ecstatic rancor—and it takes every ounce of my strength to push on. “We all underestimated her that day at the center. Once we realized the reality of what we’re dealing with, we should have taken a few steps back—redrawn the map. None of this shit has been properly set up for someone like—” but before I can finish, Frank has somehow seemed to teleport within the bubble of my personal space.

Even though Frank is a few inches shorter than me, it doesn’t stop him from getting as physically ‘in my face’ as he can—his perfectly sculpted nose with its always-angry-looking sharp up-turn.

“So what now, Tin-tin? If you can see the error of our ways so fuckin’ clearly, how the hell do we deal with the shit now that we’re stuck with this little viper in our midst?” he challenges.

I know he expects me to defer to him—the alpha at the helm of this ship of fools—but if he expects me to act as his goddamn second, I’m going to stand my ground until he makes me bend the knee. He may be the leader of the Saints, but he’s not my alpha—as much as I may wish he was sometimes. Moments like now, I’m not sure if I’m thankful or mournful that our fucked up little quartet isn’t actually pack.

Ten years ago, I met Francis Stone. Back when good ol’ Frankie was still on FBI payroll and I was doing dirty work for MI6—before Michael Duboze got his hooks in Frank, before the accident.

The two of us worked opposite ends of a hostage situation at JFK involving a flight from the UK that was being hijacked on account of some “Alpha Rights” extremists attempting to kidnap some British diplo en route to the whitehouse to speak against said religious extremists being allowed to set up a branch of their church in the states.

One could argue that I’ve never really known Frank—even though we’ve gotten to ‘know’ each other in the biblical sense more than once while working the field as the proverbial one so often does. Even so—he feels more and more the stranger each day that passes in this bizarre new paradigm, as if the small glimpses I think that I’ve caught of the man inside—might not be anything more than additional smoke and mirrors.

Back then Francis had hardly been the perfect example of what a Fed should be, but he was more on the straight and narrow compared to the lawless anarchy of Frank Stone in the here and now—but what might actually be more frightening is the palpable shift in group dynamics since we decided to grab that little snatch Louise Penny.

As a seventeen-year-old freshly shipped off to an omega center after receiving my designation late in my last year of school, I had been told about how my body would become traitor and tool; how I would fall into heat cycles that would make me in equal turns insatiable and irresistible—that I would be driven to bond with my pack and breed; the fate of all omegas.

Because I had been such a sickly child—constantly in and out of hospitals with my mother, unable to play with most other children, unless there were others on the same ward as me; a rare but cherished occasion. I often found myself lonely and wanting for companionship that I could count on—not just the rotation of nurses and doctors with the occasional fellow wan, convalescent child to break up the monotony.

Ironically, I would grow up to be big and strong—uncommonly so for my designation. In fact—when I prepared to take my entrance exams, the physician in charge of my case was shocked to find out that I was an omega rather than an alpha based on my physiology alone; tall, broad, and muscular rather than the typical delicate, sleek body common to nearly all male omegas.

Once I had started down the tracks toward the MI6 of course, I would learn how to use my looks, my very omega nature as a lever. Greed, lust—powers that became mine to control; the tools of any successful honeypot.

Perhaps that’s why I found myself so shockingly off balance when we brought home our little unlucky Penny.

While Louise has been dosed steadily on literal government grade suppressants and scent dampeners, I have been dabbling in black market scent blockers and enhancers in my time as a free agent. When we intercepted her at the Diamond Center, I was doing my best to present the scent profile of my false identity—a beta massage therapist named Hans. I not only used drugs to conceal my own omega scent profile in order to present the false beta scent from my own black market brew of various enhancers, but I also took some incredibly strong scent and hormone dampener to avoid my own reaction to others in the center—but especially Louise; noted to have an incredibly strong sigma aura even while medicated—to say nothing of her break-through scenting…

Prepared to use my usual manipulations, I had made my first earnest attempt at flexing my aura on her in the safehouse after she came to. Not only was she able to resist me, but I could feel her—her own expanding aura overlapping, penetrating my own with a deep resonance that threatened to shake me apart if I held on much longer. All of this while, both of us had yet to run up the full dosage of our suppressants—neither of us in heat.

To think of what might happen if such a disastrous convergence were to occur while on the lam is an exercise in catastrophizing that I will not endure.

“Well, your majesty?” Frank sneers, his breath hot on my face, our noses nearly touching.

“If she isn’t talking, then perhaps it’s time for us to open up a little banter.” I lift my hands in the minimal space between us and sink the pads of my fingers into his chest—all ten digits pushing him backward as I expand my own aura, Frank’s right eyelid fluttering slightly as his nostrils flare.

He’s also been on protective suppressants, but he’s weeks out from his last dose—and a highly excitable alpha besides.

“That’s your brilliant fuckin’ idea?” Frank scoffs, incredulous.

“From what I understand—she doesn’t even know the full scope of her parents' dealings—nor does she have any understanding that external players are involved.” I cross my arms over my chest—standing at my full height.

Desperate to be back in Frank’s good graces, and to a lesser extent, my own—Seb rises cautiously from the background, an angry red splotch rising on his cheek—a bruise beginning to stand apart from the rosy rawness caused by his impromptu hot-mint-tea-facial.

“Q is onto something here.” Sébastien nods, gently strafing around Frank to stand just slightly behind me. “She was talking about Bronson & Bronson like her parents were actually still working for them—and it didn’t seem like she was bullshitting.” He holds up his hands, palms out—as if preemptively warding off another of Frank’s blistering open hand strikes.

“She’s BSU, you dipshit,” Frank fumes, beginning his pacing again in earnest. “She knows what questions to ask to get what she wants. She knows how to control the flow of information,” he snaps.

“So—if she’s an impossible nut to crack, why the fuck did we take her in the first place!?” Caz blurts out, his classically short patience running out.

All eyes jump to Cazimer—chest puffed with fresh indignation.

“I didn’t say she’s impossible—I’m saying we can’t show up pulling this amateur hour bullshit when we’re dealing with a consummate professional here!” Frank retorts.

“So let’s be professional about it then!” Caz volleys back. “We decide how much we want to tell her. We set up a proper interrogation space now that we know we’re here for the duration—or at least for the foreseeable future.” He starts pacing himself now, counting off his plans for action on his fingers as he goes. “We fuck with her sleep and feeding schedules, we incentivize cooperation, and we punish the slightest whiff of non-compliance.”

Frank rolls his eyes. Both he and I know these tactics—we’ve used them before. It’s not a matter of academic interest and analysis like it is for wee ickle Cazzy. Though, for reasons I myself can’t quite put a finger on, we haven’t employed any of these tactics yet. Perhaps Frank, like me, is feeling slightly sheepish right now.

“It will benefit us to do a bit of the old ‘good cop, bad cop’ song and dance as well,” I sigh, reluctantly backing Caz up, eager to ease my wounded pride by getting back on the right track.

This piques Frank’s interest, redirecting the momentum of his anger into the spinning gears of malicious scheming.

“I call ‘bad cop’, obviously,” Frank beams with vicious glee.

“Naturally,” I sigh, sweeping a hand back through my hair. “I’ll slip into something… more comfortable before our lovely lady comes around,” I purr, Seb and Caz’s dire expressions shifting to impish delight.

“It’s going to be a long night.”

Even though we’re supposed to be on double lock down, I’m using any excuse I can—including but not limited to Seb’s earlier sojourn for groceries to get myself outside of the dank slat of a safehouse we’ve been holed up in, and clear my head before Quentin tags me in for my turn in the makeshift interrogation room we’ve cobbled together in an attempt to make progress where Louise Penny is concerned.

We converted the smallest of the bedrooms, a glorified walk-in closet, really; no windows, no tv—just four white walls, two metal folding chairs, a folding TV dinner table, and nothing but a bare LED bulb dangling from a single wire overhead.

Well, almost nothing. High atop the door frame, perched like a housefly on the wall, sits a web camera and microphone installed by Caz—so that others might watch from outside the chamber; each exchange recorded for our own review, or for potential use down the line—should any harm befall miss Penny before our mission is through.

About halfway through the camera installation, my fading suppressant meds in the face of Louise and Quentin’s scenting and aura expansion really start to amplify the usual noise in my head. Despite my best efforts, the din in my skull has become too loud. To turn the volume down, I need fresh air, a double of rye, and at least one more pack of cigarettes.

“If I want to make it through the next few hours, I need to take a walk. Now,” I tell Caz and Seb that I’m going out,and I go—Quentin, unable to dispute me since he’s off showering and preening before we begin the interrogation in earnest.

The miserable mixture of snow and sleet means I don’t get far. I manage to make it to a corner bodega to buy cigarettes and a travel sized bottle of aspirin before the hole-in-the-wall-dive-bar across the street from the corner folds me into its loving arms—a double of rye feels like an old friend returning home as the crusty old bartender slides the dirty tumbler into my hand.

“What, you didn’t get one for me too?” Michael’s dry, husky voice rises above the background noise of the bar jukebox and my own private thoughts.

“Uncle Sam still has you on the payroll—he can pay for you to drink on the job,” I grumble, tossing back half of the rye in a single gulp.

“So, is your lucky Penny cooperating?” Michael scoffs, knocking the bar twice to get the bartender’s attention.

“She’s been reluctant to share thus far.” I give a clipped, starchy answer as if we were both back at Quantico—haunting the halls of the basement.

“Imagine, not wanting to cooperate with a bunch of thugs who kidnapped you—who may or may not have had a hand in your parent’s untimely death,” Michael sighs dramatically, taking his own tumbler of rye from the bartender with grace, and a three dollar tip.

“Well, Q and I are going to give her the ol’ ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine. I think I can manage to be sufficiently villainous to drive her into the arms of dear Tin-tin—especially if he rolls out the omega scent and aura like he was back in New York.” I pause to shudder with the memory of pleasure. “If he continued flexing on her like he was, I was about to have him right there on the floor in front of her—mission be damned.” Just thinking of the memory requires me to adjust my black jeans inconspicuously from my seat on the barstool.

Per usual, Michael handily dismisses my lascivious details in favor of cutting directly to the heart of the matter. “And what happens if you can’t get her to spill the beans even after upping the ante in interrogation?” He fixes his gray eyes on me, his square jaw set with a grim determination.

With a heartsick pang, I remember placing kisses along that jaw—my teeth catching that full bottom lip of his, but no.

Those days are gone.

I squeeze my eyes shut—willing away the loud ringing in my ears, the way my stomach lifts into my throat as I push away thoughts and feelings I’m still not ready to touch…

“She’ll spill,” I finally manage to grit out, finishing the last of my rye—sliding my crinkled ten dollar bill across the pitted wooden bar. “Once Q lays shit out for her and I bring it all home—she’ll be like putty in our hands.”

Michael lets go a gallows laugh.

“Sure, it’ll be easy—just like the snatch and grab. Smooth as butter.” He shakes his head, adjusting his deep burgundy silk tie. “By the way, how is old Tin-tin’s knee doing? Better?” Michael raises his brows, pressing his lips to the rim of his tumbler coyly.

“He’s a machine, same as ever. Even with a field injury—he has been able to keep up with our guest.” I button my jacket—turning my collar up in preparation to go back out into the raw cold and damp. I don’t say anything about Louise’s near escape, I don’t need to hear Michael’s lip about it.

“Well, best of luck to you then, Frankie.” He knocks back some of his drink before raising his glass to me. “If anyone can loosen those lips.” He winks at me devilishly. “It would be you.”

By the time I’ve returned from my side quest to the bar, the rest of the boys have settled in for the front end of the interrogation. Caz and Sébastien sit at the shitty pressure board desk, adjusting camera and microphone levels as Louise sits in one of the metal folding chairs, picking at a corner of the folding TV dinner table with one of her chipped fingernails.

Polished, scrubbed, and slightly pink from his shower and subsequent beautification rituals, Quentin slips in sylphlike—his beauty somehow untouched by the shitty webcam quality.

I watch Quentin begin his good cop routine from the grainy 360p playback on Caz’s laptop monitor; his cherry brown hair still damp from the shower and swept back from his classically beautiful face, his bare chest as if chiseled from white marble beneath the loosely closed front panels of his celadon silk robe.

He looks preposterous, like some kind of water lily floating in the sewers as he drapes his long, elegant form over the rickety metal folding chair like a delicate designer chiffon frock suspended from a rusty wire hanger.

Still, the way her eyes greedily drink in the sight of him is undeniable. That intense focus, that palpable tension—as if she could focus on a stretch of flawless skin, of sculpted muscle, and feel without touching, taste without pressing her lips or tongue to the spot.

“So, you really have no idea why we’ve taken you?” Quentin asks softly, his beautiful vowels extending into the quiet space as he reaches into the pocket of his robe, producing a flat, round silver flask and a pack of Dunhill cigarettes onto the middle of the TV dinner table.

Louise shakes her head ‘no’ in silence before dramatically demonstrating her inability to reach even the far edge of the small wooden table, the clattering of the chains threaded through her handcuffs and looped around her chest and ankles jangling loudly as soon as she reaches the end of her tether.

I watch with admiration as Quentin makes a show of looking over her shoulder at the camera, the apprehensive slump of his shoulders as he gets up from his seat and pretends to tamper with the camera—placing what appears to be opaque over the lens.

“If you can promise to behave, I’ll take off some of the chains so that you can at least have a drink and a smoke like a civilized person. I would have brought you coffee, but I don’t want to end up like pauvre Sébastien,” he tuts like a doting mother.

Louise looks cautiously at the camera, which hasn’t actually been blocked, only mildly filtered by a mirrored lens cover. Evidently, the ruse is enough to merit her playing along at least—because she lifts her chin and offers her arms to Quentin before adding imperiously. “In this shithole, I’ll take what I can get.”

She watches him intently as Q rises from his seat, graceful as a dancer—and drifts over to her like a flower petal floats gently down a stream.

“If you were more cooperative in general, I could maybe see about Frank letting us take these cuffs off,” Quentin coos sweetly, his long willowy fingers lingering over the raw bands of flesh at her wrists with surprising tenderness.

“Probably not,” Louise sighs wearily as Quentin steps around the back of her seat—carefully undoing the chains that bind her to the chair while leaving her wrists bound. “And if you did—I’d probably have to kill each one of you with my bare hands if you stood between me and the exit.”

Quentin only laughs indulgently at this, which only seems to stoke the fires of Louise’s rage.

“I bet you would try,” he smirks as he begins to unscrew the flask, towering over Louise as he wafts the open vessel beneath his perfect little upturned celestial nose.

Louise shifts uncomfortably as Quentin lets loose a little moan of pleasure.

“It’s only a 12 year Aberlour, but in this shithole it might as well be liquid gold.” He extends the flask to her, but Louise only looks at him with apprehension.

“Worried I’m trying to drug or poison you?” He raises a brow before taking a swig to allay her fears before offering the flask to her again.

“If it’s iocane powder or some shit, I guess I’m fucked,” Louise sighs, taking the flat circle of stainless steel in her cuffed hands and knocking a good bit back in a single slug.

This reference pulls a laugh out of Quentin—a real one; something I haven’t heard in a long time. I am simultaneously impressed by how quickly the two seem to have established a baseline rapport—and jealous that Louise Penny has managed to do what I could not for the past several weeks.

“I’ve built up plenty of resistance to different toxins, but I’ve never actually been able to go full-Westley on someone with real poison.” He grins, taking the flask back from her—opening the pack of Dunhills so that she might pull one of the skinny white cylinders of expensive tobacco from its confines and place it between her full, chapped lips.

“So that’s why you’re immune to my charms, hmm?” Louise snorts derisively, taking one of the cigarettes. Her big dishy red-brown eyes turned up to Quentin as she waits for him to light her cigarette.

“Indeed,” he smirks, placing a cigarette between his own lips before lighting it with a brass plated butane lighter. “Aposematic little princess that you are—as much as you shout with every fiber of your being that you’re dangerous.” He leans down so that the glowing ember of his cigarette falls into line with the end of Louise’s cigarette—still dangling from her sealed lips. “—you don’t want to be touched,” Quentin almost whispers the last words around the cigarette in his mouth as he presses the lit tip of his cigarette to hers.

None of us miss the microscopic flinch that passes, electric, through Louise’s body before she closes her hands into fists—breathing deeply so that the end of her own bogey catches the Promethean gift of flame.

“I know better than that. I can smell it on you,” Quentin purrs, his eyes locked with Louise’s—barely inches apart.

The gesture is surprisingly intimate. I can see out of the corner of my eye. Seb and Caz at the very edge of their seats—Caz’s hand draped absently over Seb’s knuckles so that Sebby doesn’t chew his nails anxiously.

“I can tell that you and I want some of the same things,” Quentin continues, his motions slow and syrupy as he retreats to his side of the table, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Yeah, like what?” Louise encourages Q to elaborate.

For the first time in days, I see her posture sag gently—her hypervigilance softening for the moment, even if only slightly.

“I know that you didn’t have very much insight into your parent’s research, but it would be an insult to your obvious intelligence to assume you didn’t know that they had broken some very important ground when it comes to pre-determining designations; the possibility of changing them—something that has been widely held to be scientifically set in stone since the inception of the department of reproduction back in the 40’s.” He rotates his wrist casually—offering her the flask once more.

Louise watches in complete stillness, waiting for Quentin to furnish his monologue with something of interest to her.

“It would appear that they were more successful than they bargained for. Not only did your parents make huge breakthroughs in our understanding of designation assignment, early indicators and genetic markers that could potentially find out a child’s designation while still in utero,” he adds nonchalantly, giving the flask a gentle swirl before taking a last swig and screwing the cap back into place.

“So? Whatever testing methods they may have been developing haven’t been approved by the FDA, nor have said methods been socialized to the public.” Louise shrugs Quentin off coldly, her posture still slack.

This isn’t news to her.

“Rumor has it, they managed to use that information to reverse engineer designation to some extent—to truly be able to change one’s metaphorical stars.” Quentin presses carefully, his reverent gaze soft and seeking.

Louise rolls her eyes and sucks hard on her cigarette—the feathery ash at the tip nearly doubling as she takes her drag.

“If your rumor mill has so much to churn out, why don’t you bring them to this charming establishment?” She makes a small loop with the glowing cherry of her cigarette, gesturing to the makeshift interrogation room. “They seem to have more to say on the matter than I do.” She taps her cigarette on the side of the ashtray, looking bored.

“Well, my little birdies also told me that good old Landon and Margot stumbled onto a bit more than they bargained for—I’ve heard tales of a strange sickness, fated mates, and a lucky little shiny Penny that the good doctors might have kept for a rainy day,” he floats the suggestion on a ribbon of smoke as he exhales.

“Fascinating story. Can’t help you, though.” Louise only shrugs and brings her cuffed hands up to her face once more to take another lazy drag of her cigarette. “You all could have sent me an email from a sockpuppet account and saved yourselves a shitty time in federal prison—but hey, I get that most of your ‘business’ has likely been face-to-face, or possibly sniper rifle sight to back of head or whatever—but you know what I mean.” She pantomimes a bored yawn.

“You know—you’re right. I had wanted to ease into things, give you a little bit of a break after our uncouth… acquisition the other day,” Quentin sniffs, his robe falling ever slightly more open, his rippling abdominals now visible in the greasy light of the overhead bulb. “But I don’t have that much time before he busts in here and starts doing things the hard way.”

I feel the smirk pulling at the corners of my mouth as Quentin begins to lay the groundwork for my entrance.

“What if I were to tell you, that we know that your parents had been successful not only in determining someone’s designation at birth, but that they had also managed to unlock the secret to identifying the fated mates of adults who have presented their designation? That your dear old mum and dad had tried their hands at playing god and changing designations and fated mates—and were so punished for trying to take that power as their own?”

Any ease in Louise’s posture has sublimated; her spine straight as an arrow—her gaze, razor sharp.

“I’d say you’re off your fucking nut, or a colorful liar,” she seethes back at Q.

“The word is, that they used their beautiful little girl like a guinea pig without her even knowing—that you may have unknowingly contributed to the creation of their abomination,” Quentin divulges this last bit barely above a whisper.

“We’ll never know if your little birds are full of shit or not—because the only people who could have confirmed or denied those allegations are six feet under a poorly irrigated stretch of cemetery lawn in Lexington, you shitstain,” Louise snarls, her lip curling away from her sharp canines as she flicks the still burning cigarette at Quentin’s face.

Q bats the lit butt away without blinking and heaves an exasperated sigh.

“Well, if that really is true—then I’m sorry for what’s about to happen.” He shakes his head with resignation, pushing back from the TV table to collect the smouldering butt from the ground. “I only ever worked these kinds of little interrogation sessions on the right side of the law,” Quentin clucks his tongue thoughtfully as he grinds out the cigarette in the little red ashtray. “Frank, on the other hand, specializes in techniques to help… inspire detainees to talk.” He sucks air in through his teeth as if in pain, my cue to make my way to the locker.

Showtime.

Quentin emerges from the interrogation room, clinging to the back of the flimsy pressure board portal as it clicks closed behind him like a survivor clinging desperately to a raft in a shipwreck. Instantly, I am reeling from the blast of intermingled perfumes that wash over me in the small pouf of air from the swinging door; the combination of Q’s rose, sandalwood, and expensive single malt scotch against Louise’s iris, juicy green apple, and pink pepper nearly brings me to my knees.

I must start reeking something fierce, because Q’s head snaps up—his phosphorescent green eyes crackling with need.

“Maybe we should have waited on this till everyone re-upped on their suppressants,” he manages to bite out, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he makes a bid to swallow—Quentin’s gaze drops to my cock, already at half mast in my unforgiving black denim pants.

“You better get movin’ before I get too distracted to make it to the interrogation room,” I growl, reaching down to adjust myself before trying to run my ‘bad cop’ routine on Louise.

Quentin nods sagely, gathering his silk robe tightly around himself as he pushes off the door—giving me a wide berth as he retreats to the safety of the next room.

I burst through the door, kicking it closed behind me—my fresh pack of cigarettes rolled into the right sleeve of my black cotton t-shirt.

Louise’s eyelids threaten to flit closed as my alpha aura, my scent—crashes into her.

Patting down the back pocket of my jeans, I slide the small, cylindrical aluminum and glass atomizer to the far side of my left pocket, pinching the edge of the folded bandana just behind it—pulling the bit of cloth from its place with a magician’s flourish.

“Well, well, well—if it isn’t my little lucky Penny,” I cluck my tongue approvingly as I slink toward her. She sits bolt upright in her metal folding chair—her chest rapidly rising and falling with ragged breath as she watches my hands, eagle-eyed.

“I’m here for a little show-and-tell.” I grin manically, whipping the square of red paisley printed cotton open with a snap.

“Enjoy your soliloquy, asshole,” she manages to grit out through her bared teeth—pearly and perfect. “I’m done talking.”

“You seem to misunderstand the situation here, sweetheart,” I chuckle, carefully folding the bandana into a triangle—pinching the corners at either end as I draw them up toward my face.

“Since you decided to do things the hard way, I’m going to show you a little something that your parents cooked up—and then you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”

For the first time, I see something like fear flash in those cinnamon eyes.

Good. Be afraid.

I see her eyes dart from me to the camera to the door.

“Ah, ah, ah!” I scold, wrapping the bandana around the lower half of my face—covering my nose and mouth, tying the corners at the nape of my neck. “Don’t think about making a run for it—there’s three big strong men and a full syringe of night-night-juice on the other side of that door if you think you’re going to get past me.” I wag my finger, aware of the flex of my biceps under the bare bulb’s light; incentive for her to cooperate.

Louise’s jaw juts forward slightly, her sternum lifting, her eyes—though glittering with furious tears—still defiant as she presses her lips together into a hard, unforgiving line.

“Now—this little beauty.” I pull the atomizer from its hiding place, twisting the small, brushed aluminum cylinder until the push button nozzle rises from its top.

Louise’s entire posture becomes loaded—as if ready to spring into action, but before she can move a muscle, I press the button down and a fine, pale blue mist clouds around her face.

She reaches to cover her mouth with her cuffed hands, but the mist is pervasive—her eyes water. A chain of violent, wet coughs force her to double over with the effort of drawing a breath of untainted air.

“You see—this fun stuff is a little number your mom and pop cooked up for the US Military,” I explain dutifully as Louise struggles against her choking lungs—nearly falling forward out of her chair. “This aerosolized spray was developed to be able to completely cut through the effects of all known suppressant drugs in the short term, while also diminishing the half life of the remaining dosage in the affected person’s system,” I explain academically as I drop into a low squat, my face level with Louise’s as she finally begins to gulp down fresh air.

“You were only about a week or so out from your next dose, so you were already on the ropes—but now…” I rumble, grabbing a handful of her fiery copper hair before I rise to standing pulling Louise upright—her eyes wild and unfocused as they roll up to meet mine, her pupils dilated so large that her eyes look like pools of endless black. “I’m willing to bet you’re really feeling it.”

Louise lets out a little breathy moan as I close my fist tighter in her hair, drawing her head back.

“I know you’ve been wondering why we took you. I think it’s about time I gave you a little explanation,” I growl, watching as her lips part—her pink tongue gently lolling over her bottom lip as she pants with need, her glazed eyes half hooded as her gaze falls to my erection, valiantly straining against my jeans.

“I’m Francis Stone, but don’t fucking call me anything other than Frank if you value your life.”

Though she’s been swept far beneath the tides of her desire—a glimmer of the real Louise, the vitriolic fighter, can be glimpsed from the surface as I say my name aloud. No doubt I’ve rubbed up against one of her memories from the bureau, but that’s not what I’m looking to stroke right now.

“I used to work for the FBI… till we had a little misunderstanding and I had to make my exit. Now the Saints and I clean up the messes left by your parents' dirty work.” I gloss over the details, reaching down and begin to work my silver belt buckle open.

As if through the haze of intoxication, a lazy smile spreads across Louise’s petal pink lips, a slow croaking laugh creaking eerily from deep in her chest.

I’m about to ask her what’s so funny when she speaks; a funny little sighing sound compared to her voice earlier.

“Cazimer, Sébastien, Quentin, Francis.” She gives a girlish giggle and a chill runs up my spine. “I get it now.” She blinks in slow motion, her eyelids fluttering closed before slurring open again. “Where are your birds? Saint Francis,” she laughs.

“Shhh, I’m talking right now, Sweetheart. You listen, and when I start asking the questions—that’s when you can unzip those lips,” I shush her, letting go of my belt to press the pad of my index finger against her lips; my other hand still fisted in the hair at the crown of her head—my grip like iron.

She looks up at me. Those terracotta eyes—purest rancor under a gauzy sheen of lust. She purses her lips around my finger, tilting her head as far forward as she can under her current restraints, and she slips my digit into her mouth up to the second knuckle. Her eyes roll back under her drooping eyelids for a moment as her cheeks hollow with gentle suction and I can’t tell how much is her inability to fight against her own urgest and how much is her challenging me.

“And you—Little Lou, our devil, we think that you’re the missing piece—our lucky penny—Lucifer, our shining morning star,” I groan, my cock twitching as I pull my finger from her mouth.

Something happens and the two of us find ourselves frozen—electric stillness charging the moment; the very air around us suddenly crackling with unseen possibility.

Before I can regain my footing, Louise’s handcuffed hands are in motion, creeping up from my knees toward the heavy metal rivet button atop my fly.

“What makes you think I believe a word of what you and Mr. Fancy-pants-British-accent have to say?” she titters like a tipsy sorority girl, the belt buckle jangling against her cuffs as she begins to work the button through the heavy denim buttonhole.

“Why else would we have snatched up such a dangerous little thing?” I rumble, hooking a finger over the edge of the bandanna at the bridge of my nose— the mist settled—freeing the lower half of my face from the confines of the triangle of cotton. “No reason to risk our asses if we didn’t absolutely need the missing piece of our puzzle,” I rasp out, doing my best not to moan as she carefully undoes my zipper—my fingers woven in the hair at the crown of her head, allowing her the slightest slack as she rocks forward onto her knees.

“Even if I wanted to tell you, what makes you think I have anything worth sharing?” she croons, pulling down the elastic band of my boxers—my hard cock springing forth, a bead of precum at my head making contact at the corner of her mouth—leaving a glittering wet spot just beyond the boundary of her lips.

“I think that we can help each other,” I hiss under my breath as she takes my cock in one of her pale hands.

“You and Posh are playing crime-family house with the chem-himbo and the hacker twink. Don’t you have enough help around the house already? Or are you and Mum really that greedy?”

“That’s an awful lot of backtalk for someone who’s in cuffs, little girl,” I growl, giving her tresses a slight yank, bringing her to the upper limits of her kneel—my cock hard against her high, curved cheekbone.

“So what I’m hearing is that I can help you, but I’m not quite sure how you can help me, Daddy,” she growls defiantly before running her tongue up the underside of my throbbing erection, my knot beginning to swell.

“Is that so?” I grunt , taking hold of my cock at the base, tracing my head over her full, parted lips as she flicks her pink tongue over my cock head.

“Mmmmhmmmm.” Eyes glittering with a bottomless, liquid lust, Louise closes her mouth around me—my cock buzzing with the vibration of her response.

“Fuck,” I hiss, low and raw as I flex my hips forward, sliding further toward the back of her throat.

“I tell you what, Little Lucifer,” I growl, tilting my hips back so that my cock clears the suction of her lips with a loud, wet ‘pop’.

She looks up at me, a mix of purest acrimony and unfettered passion burning deep within.

“You make me cum with that fresh little mouth of yours, and I’ll not only get you proof that you should be working with us—but when those suppressants have faded away and you’re begging for a knot,” I slide my cock up her eager tongue as she hate-fucks me with those cinnamon eyes of hers. “I’ll be sure to stretch you real good,” I vow.

“If you can prove that I’m the missing link to finding a cure for the Zeitnot virus, and whatever horrors you claim my parents unleashed, I’ll co-operate.” She keeps those burning eyes on me as she closes her mouth around me again, cheeks hollowed as I rock my hips forward, pushing toward the back of her throat.

“Look up at me with those hateful eyes all you want—but you’ll do more than co-operate, sweetheart,” I grunt as I fuck her face.

The way Louise’s hips tilt back and her legs press together at my words isn’t lost on me. In fact—it makes that taught line of pleasure snap—my body jerking momentarily forward as I flood her mouth with cum.

“See?” I huff, catching my ragged breath as I pull my cock from her mouth, letting her hair go from my fist and wiping my cock on the side of her face. “You can be more than cooperative.”

Louise tilts her head back, pursing her lips closed only as long as it takes for her to spit her mouthful of cum and saliva back into my face; the mess splattering directly beneath my right eye, across the bridge of my nose—a droplet at the corner of my mouth; the mirror of my earlier attempts at humiliating her.

“If you can prove yourself to me—and that’s a near impossible ‘if’; you can cry and beg—you can drug me and use me like your little sex doll, but you will never-ever get me to cum for you,” she growls low and menacing, her teeth bared—even though I can smell the thick sweet smell of her slick from here. “You’ll never ever get the pleasure of begging me for sweet release—you’ll never make me cum,” she warns.

“I’ll teach you to threaten me with a good time, I love fucked up little brats like you,” I chuff, my tongue slipping to the corner of my lips to retrieve the stud of her saliva mixed with my own seed, savoring the look of horrified exhilaration in her eyes.

“Don’t get me going again, Sweetheart.”

The suppressant melter mist has only just begun to lose its potency—my wits and senses returning to me slowly rather than all at once.

I close my eyes but only see Frank’s stormy blues alight with manic glee, his tongue flicking out to catch a bead of my saliva mixed with his cum at the corner of his cruel mouth.

“Don’t get me going again, Sweetheart.”

That growl—low and menacing; pooling heat between my legs.

Groaning, I roll onto my side—back on the futon in the dingy gray light of winter morning, bleary sunbeams sweeping across the floor from the smudgy clerestory windows cut into the upper wall of the container unit.

The likelihood that Dennis or the cavalry are coming for me feels more and more impossible with each passing hour.

“Good morning Loulu!” Sébastien’s voice booms from the narrow pass-through window in the galley kitchen—the smell of burnt coffee slowly being joined by the scent of cooking bacon.

I only curl tighter against myself under the spare flat sheet I was provided for sleeping after last night’s turn in the interrogation room; the loud burbling of my stomach calling more to the sizzling bacon than in response to Seb’s greeting.

“How does our guest of honor prefer her eggs, eh?” he sing-songs, twirling about the small kitchen with ease; dropping slices of bread into a beat-up toaster, turning the rashers of bacon on the stove, pouring small, mismatched glasses full of the expensive ‘not from concentrate’ orange juice.

The defiant, willful part of me that has been determined to survive this ordeal at all costs warns me not to negotiate with these terrorists—no, that’s giving them far too much credit—these hackneyed vigilante morons.

Still, the hunger pain in my stomach is undeniable—and if I want to keep my wits about me, I’m going to need to keep my strength up. You never know with these bozos, at any moment—I might be able to find an opportunity to slip free like before.

“Over medium,” I snip back tersely, sitting upright on the futon—the sheet draped around my shoulders. “And some of that cheap ass coffee while you’re at it,” I add, nearly gagging as I catch a whiff of my own intense odor.

“Cazzy!” Seb shouts to no response.

“Ay! Caz-zy!” Seb shouts again, ducking out of the kitchen to toss a balled up paper towel at Cazimer’s head—still glued to the pillow, his mouth hanging open as he snores softly.

“Ay! Glandu!” Seb bellows as he gives the edge of Caz’s bed a swift kick—shaking Caz into wakefulness—his hands rubbing the sand from his eyes as he struggles to adjust to the bright room.

“What!? Is there a raid?” He stumbles to his feet, looking frantically from Seb back to me.

“No raid, just time to wake up and stop being such a lazy layabout!” Seb snips, turning his back on us to go back to breakfast production in the kitchen.

“Just because you stayed up too late dicking around on your computer doesn’t mean you get to sleep all your responsibilities away today, eh?” he scolds, clucking his tongue as he re-emerges from his short order cookery to provide Caz and I mugs of coffee laden with sugar and powdered non-dairy coffee-whitener.

Caz groans—taking the cup from Sébastien before slumping into his desk chair.

As soon as Sébastien disappears from view—Caz’s nose wrinkles and he gives a shudder before looking at me accusingly.

Sébastien rounds back into the room—balancing three plates on his arms.

“Scrambled with cheese for Cazzy.” He passes the first of the plates to Caz—then disappears down the hall, gently pushing both Frank and Quentin’s doors open with a foot to make his breakfast deliveries before returning down the hall with two new plates on his arm and a pair of juice glasses pinched together in his other hand.

“Two over medium for the lady.” He leans down and places the plate on my lap—a plastic spork stuck into a hunk of homemade breakfast potatoes standing upright between my eggs and bacon; the glass of orange juice making a low thud as he places it on the ground at the edge of the futon.

As soon as he’s leaned in close enough to pass me my plate—Sébastien’s face contorts as though he were suddenly in pain.

“Is that—?” he mutters incredulously, leaning in closer to me before giving a tentative sniff.

“Eugh, my goodness—you haven’t had a wash since we nicked you from the Diamond Center, have you?” He gags—recoiling as if he’s touched something hot.

“I most certainly have not—as you well know, I’ve been held captive by you fucking morons for nearly a week now and you’ve barely let me wash my hands after taking a shit.” I laugh, grabbing the spork from my plate, amused by their surprise at my ripeness when they’re the ones who’ve treated me with less care than the family pooch.

Seb and Caz exchange leery glances.

“For all I know—I’m growing moss under this shit,” I laugh dryly, pinching the oversized t-shirt I’ve been in for days—my hair falling in greasy strands around my face.

“She’s got a point,” Frank’s voice booms from the hallway. Caz, Seb, and I nearly jump out of our skin at the sound of his commanding baritone.

“You two can take care of making sure our little Lucky Penny doesn’t slit her wrists in the bath or escape,” Quentin adds in a chipper tone, slipping a pair of expensive looking sunglasses onto his face.

“And where are you two going—Maman et Papa?” Sébastien snaps back like a petulant child—his massive arms folded in front of his chest as if he’s preparing to throw a tantrum.

“Q and I need to make some arrangements—including but not limited to getting some clothes for our dirty Penny,” Frank smirks, his eyes falling on Louise hungrily. “We’ve got places to go, people to see, Sweetheart. Can’t take you anywhere looking like pigpen in Cazzy’s old gym clothes.” He winks at me and I return the sentiment with both of my middle fingers a blown air kiss.

“Be nice or I’ll only buy you ugly shit at ValuVault,” Quentin sniffs, lifting his nose high in the air like some sort of snooty show dog.

“Now, now—let’s all behave, shall we?” Frank turns up the collar of his worn leather half-trench, sidling up to the door to the outside. “We’ll be back in an hour, two at most with some fresh clothes for our little morning star, and some supplies to make the trip to Safehouse C,” he explains carefully as Quentin impatiently fusses with the cuffs of his shirt through the bottom of his felt jacket sleeve.

“If we don’t return after two hours; take Louise and book it to Safehouse D.” Frank warns, like a father telling the kids to behave for the babysitter before leaving for the night.

Seb and Caz say nothing, just nod dutifully—even if I can tell by the anxious ticking in both of their jaw muscles that they’re using the entirety of their willpower not to talk back to Daddy.

All three of us watch as Quentin and Frank sweep out of the apartment before Seb rushes in to lock the door behind them—slipping the door chain into its slot before pulling the dirty dishcloth from his shoulder with a heavy sigh.

“Finish up your breakfast, eh? I’ll draw the bath—Cazzy—you’re on kitchen cleanup.” Seb stretches, a cat in a beam of sun from the overhead windows, tossing Caz the dishcloth.

“Aw what?” Caz groans.

“Don’t whine to me. I’m not your maid or your mother, mon petit fantome,” Sébastien teases, his full lips pursed—his face so close to Caz’s that it looks as if they might kiss.

As if the two of them have only just remembered that I’m sitting here watching—Caz gives Sébastien a playful shove, threading the dishcloth around the back of his neck like a gym towel.

“Fine, fine—I’ll clean up. How are you planning on chaining her to the tub? There’s not a whole lot of options in there.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sébastien shakes his head dismissively. “Just come in once you’re done with the dishes. I’m going to need an extra set of hands to wash her hair, ok?”

Both Caz and I give Seb strange looks at this—to which he responds by snatching my empty plate from in front of me, placing it on top of Caz’s before unceremoniously hoisting me from my place on the futon by my upper arm with his impressive strength.

Seb drags me down the hall, past the powder room they’ve been having me use—a tiny bathroom where the door stays wide open, even when I’m on the toilet, with a tiny pedestal sink below a small, flaked foil mirror hanging on the wall. Seb pulls me past the two dingy bedrooms where Frank and Quentin have been sleeping and into the full bathroom at the end of the hall. A modern minimalist affair; toilet, sink, and stock tank tub/shower with a very psycho-killer-esque clear vinyl curtain bunched together at one end of a curved bar hanging from the ceiling where a rickety exhaust fan squeaks gently overhead and a long dead houseplant sits in one of the recessed clerestory windows beside a dusty bottle of lavender bath salts.

He snaps the toilet seat closed and motions for me to sit.

I take a seat, eyes fixed on Seb as he begins to run the water, crouching low with his back to the far wall as he dips a hand beneath the cascade from the tap.

Satisfied that the water is running hot enough, he jams a rubber stopper into the tub’s crude drain. Water drips from the black ink tattoos on his forearms; a scorpion, an eight-pointed star made from two overlapping squares, a rose in full bloom, and the skinniest of crescent moons.

I can tell that the suppressant melter has truly done its damage; my thighs pressing together as I look at those muscular, inked forearms.

“Alright, no funny business,” he sighs, removing the ball chain with the steel handcuff key from around his neck before reaching into the back waistband of his pants for his gun, the click of him disengaging the safety echoes against the rush of water in the small, tiled bathroom.

He tosses the key to me and I catch it from my place huddled on the closed toilet seat.

“You can uncuff yourself to get undressed—then get into the tub and handcuff yourself to the plumbing.” Seb nods to my wrists, then the stalky copper water pipe—green and patinated with use and age. “You try fucking around?” He clicks his tongue and wiggles the muzzle of his gun menacingly. “You will most certainly find out, I fear,” he tuts with mock pity.

“Good-looking guy like you wouldn’t have to ask me to do this at gunpoint if you hadn’t fucking kidnapped me,” I dangle the textbook assault deterrent in front of him, knowing full well he won’t take the bait.

“Trust me, Loulu—under different circumstances, I think you and I would have had a very, very different relationship,” he sighs wistfully as I pop the handcuffs from my wrists—thankful for a moment of freedom before I begin to peel the wretched, filthy clothes from my body.

“A great deal less talking, I’d imagine,” Seb purrs as I shed the t-shirt—my bare breasts like alabaster apples, my pink upturned nipples diamond-hard in the cold bathroom.

I shrug, stepping out of the gym shorts that I’ve spent the last several days in; making my way to the filling bath; a bottle of Castile soap, and some shampoo and conditioner that look like they might be old enough to buy a drink or rent a car sit on a slotted metal shelf that hangs from the main piping for the shower head above.

“Cuff yourself to the piping please, Loulu,” he asks sweetly, eyeing me through the sights of his gun.

He’s doing his best to keep focused, but I can see his arousal through his ratty jeans, the outline of his massive half-hard cock standing out against the blue-gray fabric of the distressed denim.

I probably can’t get around re-cuffing myself without getting shot, but I’m willing to wager that I can give myself just enough room to be able to slip out of my singular handcuff with enough distraction and soapy water—even if it means breaking my own wrist to do it.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Seb scolds me as I step into the steaming water—preparing to cuff my right hand to the piping so I can face the bathroom door.. “Cuff your left hand, please.” He jerks the muzzle of his gun meaningfully toward my left hand.

Of course, the motherfucker wants my back to the door, my dominant hand out of commission.

Fine. That’s what he wants? I can play dumb. I can do that for him.

“Do you have a washcloth?” I ask nonchalantly, allowing my hair to fall over my face and shoulder as I lean down to cuff myself to the plumbing—making sure to give Seb a good view of my bare ass and the slightest glimpse of my slick pussy from behind as I ratchet my handcuffs as loose as I can without it looking conspicuous to Seb.

I allow myself a little smirk as I catch Sébastien’s hand leaving the bottom half of his teacup grip on his gun to pinch at the leg of his jeans—desperately trying to allow his chafed erection more breathing room as his urgency grows.

“Caz! Bring a washcloth—and get in here. Her hair is filthy and needs a wash,” he barks, his eyes still on me as I ease down into the rising bathwater.

There’s a droning affirmative noise from somewhere deep in the apartment, and Sébastien adjusts his stance—his gun still trained directly between my eyes.

“You really did look like the devil last night when Frank let you out of that interrogation room,” he breathes, low and ragged as I cup my hand in the water—lifting a glittering handful of the sweet bathwater from the surface to pour over my shoulders and breasts.

“Lucifer, the morning star—dark and glowing and beautiful—.” His breath hitches as I allow my own fingers to linger over my hard nipples on their way back into the water; his eyes sparkling with a sharp lucidity once more. “And dangerous—and evil,” he hisses.

“What?” I sigh, cupping a breast—my head lolled back so that my long, red hair dips into the rising bathwater, tendrils of steam curling around us—carrying my scent to him. “Little old me?”

“Cazzy! Get in here with that washcloth, now!” Sébastien barks, his lip curling away from his pointed pearly canines. I can’t help but imagine them sinking into the flesh between my neck and my earlobe.

Right on cue, Caz bursts through the door behind me—that opium poppy top note of his intoxicating theta scent rolling through the steam slows my pulse—I feel myself melt into slow motion as he comes into view, towels draped over his arms and a large empty plastic deli container in his hands.

“I know—I know. Do you know how hard it was to find a clean washcloth in this place?” Caz protests, giving a little jump when he turns to see me, fully naked in the tub.

“Oh!” he squeaks—turning his glacier blue eyes up to the ceiling and away from me as he extends the washcloth to me, hunching slightly in his gray sweatpants as his cock begins to stiffen. “Here you go…” His nostrils flare—and I can tell he’s caught my scent too; still high intensity and cloyingly sweet after Frank dosed me with the suppressant-melters last night.

“It’s going to take both of you big strong men to bathe me? Gosh, I’m flattered.” I bat my lashes at the two of them, taking the washcloth from Caz and dragging the square of mauve terry cloth beneath the water’s surface.

“You better believe we’d like to do a lot more than wash you.” Caz lets out a low whistle and shakes his head, exchanging a look with Seb, who makes a ‘tch’ sound with his tongue and teeth in disapproval.

“Scoot back—I’m not doing anything to that crazy perfect body of yours—I’m just here to wash that greasy mop, sheesh.” Caz shakes off his starry eyes and throws a folded towel on the floor before he kneels at my side, his cock visibly bobbing in his gray sweats as he settles himself—carefully reaching across me in the bath to grab the shampoo and conditioner while Seb keeps his gun trained on me.

I inhale deeply through my nose, exhaling with a low moan as Caz lowers a large plastic cup beneath the water—pouring its contents slowly over my head—carefully using his free hand to shield my forehead and eyes as he wets my hair down.

Seb’s eyes laser focus on the washcloth in my hand as it slips between my legs—the bit of fabric flowing underwater as I move it aside—allowing him to see my fingers trawl up my trembling pussy lips to my swollen clit.

Part of me hates how much of this isn’t an act. Ever since my encounter with Frank in the interrogation room last night, my pussy has been achingly tight—my clit reminding me of my need with a dull throb every now and again—my legs sticky with my own slick before I could even sink into the bath water. I’ve never felt so compelled to make myself cum—or to beg for someone to do it for me since I first presented as a sigma nearly twelve years ago.

And I’m not even through with this cycle of suppressants. When I do run out and my heat hits… god help me.

I’m gratified to see Sébastien’s tongue slip out and trace his own bottom lip nervously as he eyes me; fingers slipping inside the petals of my slick flower as I lean back into Caz’s fingers, massaging cheap, clarifying shampoo into my scalp.

“Can you hurry it up?” Seb grunts tightly, his bottom hand leaving his teacup grip once more to stroke his hardness through the worn fabric of his jeans.

“Look, I’m going as fast as I can—just take a few deep breaths, you can take a cold shower after,” Caz teases Seb, pouring another round of hot water over my greasy hair before squeezing a good amount of shampoo into his palm.

“You know what—I don’t need this shit,” Seb grumbles, flicking the safety back on and jamming the shining black handgun into the back band of his jeans. “She’s cuffed, she’s not going anywhere for now—I’m going to go rub one out. I can’t even think straight right now,” he growls, stalking out of the bathroom—leaving me alone with Caz.

I sigh, leaning back in the tub—so that my head almost rests against Caz, seated behind me on the bathroom floor, just behind the lip of the metal tub.

“So, does that make you the ‘good cop’—between the two of you?” I ask nonchalantly—Caz’s fingers working gently to massage the shampoo lather into my scalp.

“We don’t really do that whole routine, that’s more Frank and Q’s—ope!” Caz stops himself as he realizes he’s giving me exactly what I want, his lips pressing sheepishly together as he continues about his work.

“Are all of you usually this… excitable?” I purr, allowing my eyes to fall on the mirror held to the back of the bathroom door by two cracked plastic brackets—a single hairline fracture running diagonally across the long, skinny reflection from bottom to top. In its warbled vision, I make eye contact with Caz, my eyes dropping to his tented sweatpants, insistent erection punctuated with a smudge of dark wetness where his precum has seeped through the heather gray cotton.

“Or is it all my fault?” I allow my own hands to run up my body under the warm water—my hands stopping to gently tweak my own nipples, my knees parting with a gentle swishing of bathwater.

Caz knows better than to answer this, his face as impassive as he can manage as his cock twitches at my words.

“You all watched on camera last night, didn’t you?” I sigh as Caz carefully decants another deli container of water to rinse my soapy tresses.

I savor the way Caz goes rigid—the memory of pleasure making his scent stronger in the closeness of the steamy bathroom.

“Don’t lie, y’all wouldn’t have let Quentin cover up the one camera you put in there—I’m a Fed, not a moron,” I laugh, my hands creeping down over my belly—the peaks of my hips, toward the apex of my thighs.

“If you know—why did you ask?” Caz grumbles—squeezing a glob of conditioner into his hand grouchily.

“Because I’m still fucking horny after he dosed me with that supressant melter,” I whine with kittenish need as I arch my back,lifting my breasts up and out of the water. My wrist tests the limits of the handcuff chain as I inconspicuously allow my conditioner saturated locks to slide over my raw wrist and the stainless steel cuff. I try my best not to wince as the slippery hair product seeps into the broken flesh, my eyes still locked with Caz’s through the mirror’s reflection as he eyes me hungrily.

“Believe me, I’d like to do something about it… but we all know how that would be likely to end up.” He scoffs a laugh—dragging his extended thumb across his throat in the universal motion for cutting one’s throat.

“Then why don’t you help me out, Cazzy.” I try out the nickname I’ve heard the others use, forcing a feeling of familiarity—of comfort.

Even though he’s only just begun to creep into motion, I can tell by the look in those icy blues—I’ve got him right where I want him.

“Then why don’t you help me out, Cazzy,” Louise purrs, her flawless body beneath the rippling surface of the bathwater like the promise of a water-lily-adorned-nymph, her fiery eyes boring into me from the crack’d reflection of the mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

“Yeah, and how do you figure that’s going to work?” I laugh, shifting uneasily as I rinse the last of the conditioner from her vibrant red hair.

“It could work any number of ways.” She bats her lashes at me coquettishly, leaning her head far enough back that I have to adjust myself not to get soaked by her dripping mane. “Why don’t you ditch those clothes and come soak with me?”

I can’t help myself. My eyes flit to the closed bathroom door, then to her handcuffed wrist laying limply against the rim of the tub.

“I’m so fucking tight and slick,” she whines, one of her hands disappearing between her legs as her eyelids droop, half hooded over her amorous gaze. “You don’t have to uncuff me to fuck me,” she moans with increasing desperation, levering her hips up and out of the water, her neat triangle of fiery pubic hair drawing my eyes.

“Jesus, those suppressant-melters were way more serious than we thought.” I struggle to swallow, wiping my dripping bathwater hands on my thighs—using every ounce of my willpower not to strip down and belly flop into the water on top of her.

“Did you like watching me give Daddy head?” she whimpers coyly, her eyes never leaving mine as she begins to stroke her own clit in slow, gentle circles—her pussy pulsing in the mirror as I watch her play with herself.

I don’t even realize I’m nodding in the affirmative, hand gripping my cock through my sweatpants until she lets out a satisfied little laugh.

“I wasn’t even doing my best work.” She purses her lips, letting her hips drop beneath the water once more. “If you need some convincing to put that hard cock inside me, why don’t you let me show you some of my skills?” Louise drags her middle finger from the slick petals of her cunt up her flat stomach, through the valley of her perfect breasts, up the point of her chin, to dip into her pursed lips.

Again, my eyes dart from the bathroom door to Louise’s handcuffed wrist guiltily. She’s not in heat, not even fully off her suppressants—but she’s already almost impossible to resist. It reminds me of the first time Quentin went into heat after I joined the Saints. I had been with men, women, and everything in between in my furious youth—but always other thetas like myself, occasionally an alpha or beta looking to hook up on KNTTR, never an omega or sigma—especially not in heat.

When Quentin had entered his heat—Frank, Seb, and I became like men possessed; none of us could keep our hands off of him for nearly a week. Seb and I had to take turns bringing everyone food and water—since Frank and his knot were needed overtime.

Since sigmas are somewhere between an alpha and an omega in terms of their reproductive physiology; I can only imagine that one or both of Louise and Q going into heat would trigger the most unhinged of ruts in Frank.

With my mind wandering into dirty places, I shake off my reverie—my theta perfume cranking out at a high enough intensity that I can see it affecting Louise.

Her pupils, much like the night before, are so dilated that they nearly touch the rim of her cinnamon irises, her tongue lolling gently from her mouth as her lips part.

Ah shit.

I lost track of my own fucking fantasies and boner and now I’ve accidentally begun secreting the psychotropic scent that thetas are known and often hated for; Louise’s very consciousness glazed over by mind-altering perfume. While the ability is linked to our designation’s role in enhancing sensation, pleasure, and deep emotional connection while the pack is in the height of breeding and bonding activity; my very theta perfume is the major key ingredient to the “night-night juice” formula that Seb has developed for our use in both tranquilizer darts and also aerosolized knockout gas.

Another guilty pang as I remember our first night with Louise as our captive; her body still, save for the gentle rise and fall of her breath as she lay stretched on the ratty couch in the New York City safe house. Something about her delicate beauty in dreamlike stillness; a peace and perfection that could never be attained in waking life that is simply irresistible to me—Theta Prince of Slumber; King of Dreams.

While the others slept, I stroked myself hard and fast until I filled my empty palm; my seed like a cabochon of opal in the moonlight as I knelt beside her sleeping form.

Greedily, I licked every last drop from my palm, escaping to my own room down the hall before I submitted to my even more base desires while I still had enough self-control to keep from touching her.

Now she lays before me, like a glistening mermaid broken from the seafoam to swallow my soul; eyes a bottomless black as her mouth opens wide.

My body moves of its own accord, shuffling on my hands and knees to the side of the tub, pressing up into the full height of my kneel. My thumbs hook through the waistband of my sweats and boxer briefs as I free my erection; hard cock studded along the underside with the four silver barbells of my Jacob’s ladder, the gold 10 gauge ring of my prince Albert winking in the light.

“What a fun surprise!” Louise drawls through the haze of my theta perfume as she props herself at the edge of the bath—greedily taking me into her mouth.

Her mouth is like molten velvet around me, her tongue running up and over each rung of my Jacob’s ladder as she sucks me.

“Fuck,” I hiss as I reach down, gathering her dripping wet hair, holding it away from her face. She pulls me free from the suction of her lips, flicking the gold ring of my prince Albert as she looks up at me—our eye contact, deep and intense.

“I’m so tight, Cazzy,” she whines, her coppery brows knitting together as if in pain. “Won’t you please help me?” Louise whimpers, closing her mouth around my cock head and sucking until my eyes flutter closed from the weight of my pleasure.

“Please, I wanna cum so bad,” she mewls, sitting back on her heels, spreading her knees.

Like some bizarre protection ritual, my eyes make their final round—bathroom door, handcuffed wrist, Louise laying in the water—reaching for me.

Fuck it.

I tear off my t-shirt, stepping out of my sweatpants and boxers already around my knees.

Carefully, I step into the water—still gently steaming. I kneel in the space made by her spread legs—reaching beneath the sloshing bath water to lift her hips to the surface.

“Hold on to the edge of the tub,” I growl at her—watching to make sure her hands clasp the edge of the metal tub behind her head. I cup her tight glutes in my hands, lifting her pussy up and out of the water toward my mouth as she clings to the bathtub—eyes wide and wild with shock.

She gasps as I bring my mouth to her slick pussy, my lips closing around her swollen clit.

Sweeter than honey, more addictive than whiskey or cigarettes—my tongue laps at her dripping petals before pushing inside, seeking deep within.

“Cazzy, your mouth feels so good.” She gives a breathy moan—our eyes locked as she bucks her hips against my face. “But I need you inside,” Louise begs, the backs of her thighs trembling against my shoulders.

My cock jumps at her words. I’m already so far past the point of return in regards to rule breaking, there’s really no reason not to give in to what we both want. It’s not like I run the risk of losing myself while fucking her and accidentally chomping down on her with a bonding bite—though, technically, she could do just that to me. That thought causes my cock to jump again—and I can’t help but curse my traitorous theta biology; desperate to become pack—to facilitate the longevity of my own family through my own special place in the cycle of heats, ruts, and breeding.

Before I know it, I’ve laid Louise back into the water—my knees forcing hers further apart as I crawl over her, one hand cradling the back of her head—the other bracketing her free hand on the edge of the tub.

“I want to kiss you.” The words are out of my mouth, low and husky, before I can stop myself.

“Then kiss me, Cazzy,” she croons, reaching out with her free hand, her fingers dancing over the back of my buzzed head to rest on the nape of my neck, drawing me to her.

I close my eyes, dipping my head down to press my lips to hers; her green apple tartness like a bright strike of lightning as I breathe in her scent this close.

Her lips part and her tongue pushes into my mouth, my hips flexing downward as I slide my cock against her slick pussy—the two of us shuddering as the rungs of my Jacob’s ladder rub against her throbbing clit.

She moans into my mouth, and I draw myself back—my pierced cockhead pressing against her tight, slick entrance.

“Please!” she breaks the kiss to wail—her lips still brushing against mine.

And then I’m inside her—hot, tight, sublime.

I crush her mouth with mine—the two of us moaning into one another’s mouths as I sink deeper inside her perfect pussy.

The bath water sloshes messily as I pick up my rhythm, pulling halfway out—pumping halfway back in before slamming the rest of my length home on each third stroke.

“You feel so good inside me,” she moans as I continue my rhythmic pistoning.

“It feels so good inside you,” I rumble, picking up my pace—pulling back as far as I can before sinking my entire length inside her.

Her legs coil around my waist as she sighs my name, my balls lift—the tight coiling deep in my abdomen threatening to spring forth in a jerking, spasming orgasm.

Not yet.

I angle myself downward against her—my pubic bone sliding against her slick, swollen clit as I pound her relentlessly. I can feel by the way she clutches me inside that she’s getting close—the more erratic the firing of her muscles, the closer she is to cumming.

There’s a jolt of unexpected pain as the almond-shaped nails on her free hand dig into my flesh—the sensation making my body sing with a rush of pleasure as she begins to unravel beneath me, limbs twitching and muscles shuddering as her orgasm rolls through her.

She can’t form any words—her breath comes in ragged gasps as she writhes beneath me—my pelvis juts downward in one final staggering stroke as I cum, adding my own honey deep inside her hive.

Our mouths find one another again—tongues swirling together as I rock gently against her—my cock not ready to stand down inside her tight heat; my body already begging to start fucking her again.

“I want more,” Louise whines, both of her hands slipping up over my hips to cup my ass—pulling me deeper inside her.

Wait just a fucking minute.

Both hands?

Fuck.

In a spray of water, I am flailing backward—my hand shooting out over the edge of the tub for my abandoned sweatpants and the tiny folding knife squirreled away into the pocket.

I have the tiny stiletto knife open in my hand—the point poised menacingly beneath Louise’s chin as she hovers over me in the bath—both of her hands free.

“You won’t do it,” she threatens—her cinnamon eyes burning into me.

“Don’t fucking push me,” I choke down a sob as she allows the soft underside of her jaw to rest against the very tip of the blade, not quite breaking the skin. She’s right of course—but I can’t let her know that.

“Coward,” she accuses coldly—leaning ever so slightly into the knife’s edge—a droplet of her scarlet blood welling where the blade barely pierces her skin.

Though it might make me a ‘failure,’ and it might cost me my place in the Saints; I can’t bring myself to do the deed. Something about the feeling of her, still on my skin,her taste still on my lips—that burning in her eyes—that stirs something deep within me. Maybe it makes me a coward, or a sick-sad-hopeless romantic, but I can’t bring myself to hurt her any more than we already have.

I withdraw my blade, tossing it away onto the cold tile floor—holding both my empty hands up so that Louise can see them.

“Call me whatever name you want, but we need each other if you really want to get through this alive. I know that we haven’t exactly made a sterling first impression, but trust me, compared to the people you work for? Compared to the Windmill? Once we start to uncover more together, you’ll see we’re actually the ‘good guys.’” I make my plea with a level voice—our gazes locked to one another—the gentle swishing of the bathwater giving a peaceful backdrop to our ragged breathing.

As if woken from a trance, Louise’s hand moves instinctively to her neck, where a small stream of blood has begun to run down her neck from the small cut under her jaw.

“It’s not bad,” I murmur, reaching up to touch her face. “I can get you a bandaid.”

Louise’s features twist in a mask of horror that explodes into manic, unhinged laughter—her trembling hands, dripping with blood-tinged water crawling up over her face as she sits back on her heels on the far side of the tub.

She sits there a moment—crouched in the water, laughing like a madwoman as tears stream down her face while I climb out of the tub, dry off and reapply my hastily abandoned clothes.

Her hysteria has begun to fade by the time I lean down into the bathtub and pull the rubber drain stopper.

“Hey, what do you say? I get you wrapped up in this towel like a warm, dry burrito—and you don’t try to murder me—and we can skip the handcuffs?” I offer comfortingly—opening a large, dry towel at the edge of the tub.

“Ok,” she sniffles; her expression unreadable once again as she curls in on herself in the draining water.

“Alright, let’s get you up and out of here,” I croon, wrapping the towel around her shoulders as I help guide her up and out of the tub.

Like a sleepy kid or a loopy marionette, she allows me to guide her to the closed toilet seat—the towel wrapped tightly around her—her hair dripping in ropy medusa waves in front of her face as she stares through the tile floor.

“Ok, hup-up!” I grunt as I heft her off of the toilet seat. Thank god I started lifting with Seb and Q when I joined the Saints, otherwise I never would have been able to even pretend to hoist Louise’s miniscule form, holding her against my chest in my arms as I carry her back to her futon—a pile of my gray sweats and a white cotton ribbed tank top folded neatly in the corner.

“I know that Q and Frank will be back with some real clothes soon, so you can wait for those—but if you don’t wanna freeze, I brought you some of my sweats. Not exactly chic—but they’re clean,” I offer, squirming a little at the sight of Louise Penny laying on her side—completely unrestrained.

We stay there in silence for what feels like a very long time before she finally speaks. “Thanks,” she sniffles again numbly, wiggling herself into a seated position.

“Don’t mention it.” I look at my feet, suddenly full of shame for keeping this other human being captive for so long—no matter what our lofty goals may be.

At what point do we become worse than our enemy?

There’s a profound sadness to the way Louise shrugs out of her towel—shoulders and breasts bare as she reaches, defeated, for the sweat-set at the corner of the bed; the cut beneath her chin, already beginning to form a scab.

She’s only just shimmied into the hooded sweatshirt, pulling her wet hair out from the collar before twisting it into a knot on top of her head, when there’s a loud bang, the apartment door blowing off its hinges before falling flat into the open living room.

Ifeel like a shoebox filled with tinkling little pieces of broken glass as Caz carries me from the bathroom into the dingy sitting room where I’ve been kept on a ratty futon for the last few days.

Each time I move one of my limbs, it feels like I rattle the box—little shards of glittering razor-sharp pain cutting away at my insides.

I wanted to fuck Caz. I wanted to fuck him so bad—and he felt so fucking good inside me that I almost forgot that the whole reason I’d entrapped him in the first place was to escape this shithole and get free of this fucking nightmare.

How fucked up do you have to be to feel like the only time you’ve ever connected with someone physically and emotionally at such a deep level… was while you were getting dicked down by one of your practically anonymous terrorist captors? I’ve read about Stockholm Syndrome—about how it’s essentially a hoax. I’ve listened to hours of testimony from hostages and FBI conflict negotiators… and I can’t explain myself. I can’t outrun this shame.

Even worse, I can’t deny the connection I felt with Caz; something I’ve never experienced—even with long-term partners.

I thought for certain, when push came to shove—any of these bozos would waste me rather than compromise their own safety.

If I had wanted to, I could have killed Caz. He put his life in my hands after I put mine in his. I’d be lying if I said the connection—the passion I felt with him, that I have never once glimpsed before now—didn’t play into my choice to spare his life.

Now we both have to live with the uncomfortable truth of the limits of our own cruelty.

Then there’s the matter of the ‘truths’ the Saints have been selectively feeding to me since Seb and I’s little dinner the other night; my parents weren’t just research scientists who worked for a large pharmaceutical company—they were working not only for the government but also for shadow organizations who wished to use my parents’ research into designations and fated mates for nefarious purposes.

Even though I was generally unwell as a young child and spent lots of time in and out of various hospitals, my parents never brought their work home with them to a place where I could see it. Both my mother and father were highly dedicated to what they saw as their calling, their life’s work—but neither had actually made any groundbreaking, life-altering discoveries in the field—as far as I knew.

For all I know Frank Stone was full of shit when he said that the terrifying ‘suppressant melter’ gas he dosed me with the other night was one of the fruits of my parents labors, but if there’s even an icicle’s chance in hell that he was telling the truth—then there’s a great deal to be afraid of.

Especially if my parents were somehow behind the mysterious Zeitnot virus and I am somehow the key to finding a cure.

I surface from my dissociative haze to the loud rumbling of my stomach, my body comfortably buzzing and warm from both the bath and the deep satisfaction of cumming on Caz’s hard cock.

Shaking off the memory of our bodies together—of the easy, almost inevitable feeling of our congress; I wiggle my toes in the wrinkled bed sheets on the futon, flex my fingers, and wet my lips slightly before I offer Caz a weak, ‘Thank you,’ unsure of how long we’ve been standing there in silence, or if I’m thanking him for the shampoo and condition, the clean sweats, or for making me cum—making me feel.

He looks away from me as I crawl into the sweatpants, tank, and pullover hoodie that he’s laid out for me while we wait for Frank and Q to return home with proper clothes for me, and a more robust plan of action for our next moves.

I’m about to ask him if we can go bother Seb to make us some lunch when the door blasts open, flying off its hinges into the room with us.

Two FBI agents in undercover duds with badges on ball chains burst into the living room—guns clutched in their hands pointed directly at Caz and I.

“FBI! Get down! Hands on the back of your head!” Dennis’ voice calls from the back of the pack—his telltale strawberry blond hair covered by a Liberty City Ballers cap.

My body moves on its own—my arms stretched wide, hands open—fingers splayed as I step in front of Caz.

“AGENT LOUISE PENNY, FBI—DON’T SHOOT!” I use my loudest, most authoritative sigma bark—two of the beta field agents up front lower their firearms immediately on instinct.

“Hold your fire!” Dennis screams—dropping the muzzle of his own gun as he pushes to the front of the group.

“Dennis!” I can’t contain the sob of joy that escapes me as I take a staggering step toward him.

“Louie,” he gasps—his own voice tight with tears as he holsters his gun. “Hold your fire!” he repeats himself, as I take another trembling stride forward.

I catch the movement from the corner of my eye. One of the alpha field agents up front moves his thumb to the hammer of his gun. The business end pointed between Caz’s eyes.

“Louise Penny, FBI—do not shoot!” I yelp, my voice cracking with desperation as I watch this nightmare situation unfold in slow motion before me.

Evidently, the alpha field agent has other plans—I hear the click of his hammer seconds before Caz closes his arms around my waist—dropping us both to the ground; the sound of the gunshot reaches me a split second before the burning sensation blossoms in my cheek.

In the split second that it takes Caz and I to fall to the floor, two shots are fired from behind us—through the narrow kitchen cut-out window, dropping the two agents at the front of the formation—pools of deep crimson blood spread beneath their slumped bodies on the poured concrete floor.

“I said hold your fire!” Dennis uses his alpha bark, withdrawing back through the metal apartment door frame to duck out of range.

What the fuck is this? Isn’t this supposed to be a rescue mission? A retrieval? This isn’t a beginner’s job. How the hell is some non-rookie ‘accidentally’ hitting me in the line of fire? No SWAT, no Kevlar, no uniforms. Whatever it is, I don’t fucking like it.

Suddenly, there’s more gunfire from behind me. Quentin has appeared, seemingly from nowhere; a gun in his single-handed grip. He peels off a couple of rounds—dropping the remaining visible agents that haven’t retreated per Dennis’ orders.

A small ferret-faced agent that I recognize as a member of an ATF field squad ducks his head into the frame only for a fraction of a second—the shining barrel of his dart rifle coming into view just as he fires at Quentin.

The dart doesn’t even have time to fully load the dose of whatever sinister serum is inside before Quentin pulls the tufted metal projectile from his upper shoulder.

The ferret-faced man looks on in shock and horror as Quentin seems totally unphased. His eyes dart to mine—making momentary contact. This man knows me, or at the very least, recognizes me. There’s a complete shock and terror that widens and hollows his expression—as if this outcome wasn’t imagined possible.

Admittedly, I’m a little shocked that Quentin hardly seems to have batted an eyelash. Was it a tranquilizer? Some other catalyst? Quentin is certainly massive for an omega—but even that wouldn’t account for his complete and total lack of reaction to a tranquilizer or some other inhibitor.

“I said stand the fuck down Navitz! We haven't been authorized to use—” Dennis begins barking at the agent with the gun from their safe hiding places behind the door frame when a loud metallic plink and a low thud draws the attention of the room, a small canister lands a few feet in front of us, rolling toward the door frame.

“Move it!” Seb screams at us from his place crouched in the kitchen—Caz and I shoot up from the floor just as the canister begins belching sinister looking plum colored smoke from one end.

“Cover your nose and mouth,” Caz snaps at me, pulling the sweatshirt’s collar up and over the lower half of my face—pushing me in front of him, behind Seb and Quentin, down the hall and toward one of the extra bedrooms down the narrow passage.

We scramble through Frank’s temporary bedroom and onto the rickety fire escape outside his window.

Beside me, Seb and Quentin clutch their guns as Caz dials Frank on his burner phone.

“We pulled up front—Q and I saw the Feds penetrating the building and he went in even though I fuckin told him not to! Now I see smoke—what the fuck is going on up there?” I can hear Frank loud and clear on the other end of the line as Caz kicks the fire escape ladder down its rusty tracks.

“Pull around the right side of the building,” Caz snaps as Seb reaches into the messenger bag slung over his shoulder—his hand emerging with another mysterious metal cylinder.

“But you’ve got company on the left,” Frank argues from a distance as a black SUV rounds the corner into the alley.

“Yeah, we’ll take care of that. Come around the right—keep the alley open from that side,” Seb quips at the phone in Caz’s hands, raising the mysterious metallic item to his face—his pearly canines closing over the metal ring threaded through the makeshift grenade’s pin.

“Cover your ears!” Seb spits the metal ring from his mouth before yelling to Caz, Quentin, and I.

I watch as one of Seb’s homemade incendiary devices sails through the air in a high arc—ending its downward trajectory on the hood of the big black monstrosity with a resounding, flaming BOOM!

An ugly, wine colored Lincoln sedan screeches around the right corner. Frank explodes from the driver’s seat—gun already in hand as he takes a wide, legged stance on the sidewalk beside the car.

“Let’s go!” Caz screams—hustling down the metal ladder—urging me after him.

The four of us all speed toward the Lincoln; Caz dropping easily into the driver’s seat with Quentin riding shotgun—Frank shoving me into the middle of the back bench seat, he and Seb lunging into the seats on either side of me before slamming their doors—tearing off into the busy city streets in the midday sun.

“Somebody wanna tell me why the fuck our hostage is running around uncuffed while we were getting raided by the goddamn FBI?” Frank bellows, cranking down the Lincoln’s ancient back window—his gun still drawn, eyes on the road, Caz’ side mirror all the while.

“Not particularly,” Caz groans as he screeches down another narrow side street, bound for one of the busy tunnel exits from Liberty City to the westbound highway that will carry us to our next destination—wherever that may be.

“Did you at least manage to bring the hard drives with us?” Quentin presses from the front passenger seat—his own gun drawn—his mirrored aviators obscuring his gaze.

“Yeah, I got ‘em, a good batch of night-night juice, and a few bric-à-brac for the road,” Seb pants, reaching a hand into the bag, rummaging around.

“Alright—then, what are you waiting for? Make Little Lucifer here go night-night; we need to start making tracks toward safehouse D,” Frank growls as we make our way into the westbound underpass, no evidence of a tail in our sights.

“She could have run!” Caz protests as Seb pulls an auto injector of the eponymous ‘night-night juice’ from his bag as Frank, satisfied that no one is following us, holsters his gun and grips my shoulders to keep me still. “She could have let them shoot me!” Caz keens—his icy blue eyes finding mine in the rear view mirror.

This gives Seb pause, even if neither Frank nor Quentin look unmoved.

“All of you fucking morons,” I croak a low laugh, going limp in Frank’s hands, my head lolling back as I laugh. “Whether crooked Saints or boys in blue—none of you sick fucks really care if I live or die, do you?”

I watch Q shift uncomfortably from his seat up front.

“What makes you fuckers any different from the people you say you’re fighting against, huh?”I laugh joylessly, hot salt tears streaming down my face.

“Absolutely fucking nothing, that’s what,” I snort, watching Seb’s hands—frozen above my right leg, the red safety knob of the autoinjector already disengaged.

“Oh, come the fuck on Seb!” Frank snaps—one of his hands flying from its place on my shoulder to snatch the tranquilizing serum from Seb’s hand, driving the needle into my thigh with a spring loaded click; the burning sensation in my leg is the last thing I feel before my consciousness melts away again.

We arrived at Safehouse D—unable to make the necessary transfers to get ourselves safely to Safehouse C to the south in Miami—a teensy old apartment wedged against a quiet community college campus in the greater Beach City area sometime before dawn; having ditched the Lincoln for another stolen car; a boxy old station wagon from a used car lot attached to a self-pump gas and service station. With luck, Koumaris Service Station and Used Vehicles won’t notice that the ancient Volvo has been lifted for another day or two.

Louise, still unconscious from the dose of night-night Frank administered to her earlier, lays across the three cushion couch in the one-bedroom’s postage-stamp of a ‘living room,’ a pair of large zip ties binding her wrists in place of the cuffs.

Caz, exhausted from the six hour drive, lies on the floor beside the sofa like the dutiful golden retriever he is—eyes closed, but breathing too irregular to be sleeping.

Frank, fuming and out of his mind with sleep deprivation after over 24 hours without rest—paced in the single, cramped bedroom talking to himself loudly enough that the rest of us could catch glimpses of his ravings here and there until such a point that the stomping and seething slowed to a stop followed by blissful silence.

Q, ever a problem-solver—a doer; put on a little incognito to skip out to the store and grab us a few basics. Once he got home—he set to work lining up the next safehouse, the next stepping stone across the metaphorical lake of fire that is fugitive life.

In parallel, we do our best to stay busy, to serve the Saints—me working a simple yeast dough for pan bread; a pot of boiling potatoes on the stove and a pan of onions gently caramelizing over the coiled electric burner—materials in preparation for a hearty breakfast curry—before we get on the road once more, while Quentin lays out clothing for Louise and an expensive human hair wig in a shade of soft black. I pat out a circle of dough as Q jabbers away in some Slavic language on his phone; the sky beginning to glow pinky-orange with the rising sun through the single pane windows.

After a few minutes, Quentin snaps his phone shut and a relative hush falls over the apartment. The sounds of the stove and Louise’s gentle snoring are the only things keeping us from total silence.

All of us are more than a little shaken. The raid on Safehouse B in Liberty city was far from expected. Even more troubling, it seems as if the bureau might not be as concerned with getting Louise back in one piece as we had previously hoped.

While our main goal has been to get to the bottom of what horrors the Penny’s unleashed upon the world, and to find out what part their daughter Louise—the possible ‘key’ to it all—actually plays in this tragedy; we have also passively relied on the idea that Louise would be a powerful bargaining chip that we could exchange for our own lives should the need arise.

The fact that the only one who seemed to care if Louise ate lead was her old partner? Not comforting.

In his eerie way, as if he’s been reading my mind—Caz breaks the silence. “So, now that things are getting fucky and going sideways—how exactly are we going to follow ‘the plan?’” he grouses, his eyes still closed, hands folded delicately over his diaphragm as he lies on the musty old carpet.

‘The plan.’

It feels like years ago rather than a few days that Frank recounted the steps of the brilliant ‘plan’ to the rest of us. Grab the girl, make her talk, get everything we can from her. Pending the details of her parent’s research, we either keep her and use her as a tool as a means to our end, or we use her up and toss her back to the Feds in exchange for a chance to walk away—to fade into the shadows. That’s a wild oversimplification, of course, but that’s the gist of it.

Instead, we end up with our own little pit viper, as uncooperative as she is deadly. Or at least, that’s what I thought.

“I could have killed her,” Caz had choked out from behind the wheel of the Lincoln as we sped toward the Liberty City line; his face white as a sheet as he made his confession. “I had my knife pressed to her neck, and I couldn’t fucking do it.” He hiccuped down a sob as Liberty City grew smaller in the rear-view mirror, my eyes flicking to the red-brown scab beneath Louise’s chin with a new understanding.

“I thought I was a goner when I threw down my knife—she could have easily had me, even with her bare hands—.” His voice cut off as Caz remembered his proximity to his own death.

Shock had been an understatement. Louise managed to get free of her bonds and didn’t even try to hurt Caz? Didn’t try to run?

The four of us had sat in silence, the sound of the engine and Louise’s shallow breathing expanding endlessly into the tiny sedan’s cabin.

When we arrived at Safehouse D, I took a look at the dart injector site on Quentin’s shoulder and set up my temporary ‘lab’ to run some tests on the small amount of mysterious serum still left in the dart he pulled. Both his blood and the serum are spinning in an ad hoc centripetal carousel in the other room as the reagents process.

Now, Quentin leans back in his chair, a cocktail napkin with jotted notes under his rhythmically tapping index finger; his chartreuse eyes darting around the parlor with unfocused mania, but he still doesn’t appear to be showing any signs of being affected by the dart.

“Sleeping beauty likely has another few hours before she comes around,” I yawn, tossing a clean towel over the bread dough for its final rise before it hits the pan. I turn my attention to the filthy-looking Moka pot perched atop the back vent of the stove—preparing to make some much needed coffee.

“Once she and Frank rejoin the ranks of the waking, we’ll be able to have something to eat—and to review the results of my tests before we make our way to the next safehouse. If she really is ready, or open to cooperating… Then maybe she and Caz can make use of the hard drives,” I do my best to provide Caz an answer—even though I’m not Frank, and it isn’t my plan.

Quentin’s hand drifts up to absently run over the bandaid on his shoulder.

“Is it hurting worse? Is there any swelling?” I ask, already in motion to check on him.

“I wouldn’t say it’s worse. I would say it hurts about the normal amount for dart impact.” He shakes his head, but doesn’t brush me off as I close the distance between us, reaching out to peek inside the open sides of the large cloth bandage.

“Honestly, I’m more concerned with what they dosed me with,” Quentin admits solemnly, giving a little shudder.

“No grogginess, no stimulation?” I confirm with him for the third or fourth time since he was first shot with the dart, quickly pressing the back of my hand to Q’s forehead, his cheek, under the angle of his jaw. No fever.

“No, right now I feel totally fine,” he sighs, shaking his head slowly. “Like I told you, right when I first got hit—it was like a flame trying to ignite—an alcohol fire racing across a hard surface; a bright blazing flash of heat—then,” he makes a low whistling sound—sweeping his hands out in a sudden, smoothing motion. “Whoosh! Extinguished—as if nothing had happened.”

Visibly shaken, Quentin does his best to shrug the feeling off—but a lingering pinch in his lips can tell me he’s still unmoored.

“What is it, Q?” I press—unnerved by our usually steadfast Lieutenant’s palpable fear.

“It’s going to sound ridiculous, but I can swear that I’ve had the exact sensation before—except it didn’t just dissipate.” Quentin squirms in his seat—his eyes turning to the far distance beyond the dawn-break through the dirty windowpane.

I open my hand and wave it through the air—gesturing for Quentin to continue his explanation while I make coffee for those of us already among the waking.

“I know I don’t talk about it that much, but I was a sickly child.” He rakes a hand back through his beautiful copper brown hair, looking out the window so that he can spare himself the intimacy of eye contact as he tells his tale.

At this, Caz sits upright, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging them against himself; glacial baby blues fixed on Quentin.

“My parents were very well to do, so I had a huge panel of specialists and prestigious doctors who tried to get to the bottom of my mysterious ailments.” Quentin continues on, his eyes well with wetness, though his voice doesn’t quaver. “At one point, my family went to America so that I could be part of a study for my relentless medical mysteries.” Quentin’s long, feathered lashes flutter down to the perfect ivory of his high cheekbones as his eyes close for a moment. He draws a steadying breath in through his nose. “I don’t remember much of the trip—I was less than ten years old after all—but I do remember being sicker than I’d ever been in my life for a stretch of weeks.”

Caz and I exchange worried looks before snapping our heads back to Quentin, completely wrapt by his reminiscence.

“To hear my mother tell it, she was sure I was on death’s doorstep.” He scoffs a cold laugh, shaking his head before re-opening those crackling phosphorescent green eyes. “Then, all of the sudden—I turned the corner; and it was as if there’d been some miracle. Not only did I recover from the dastardly flu or pneumonia or whatever it was that had nearly crushed me like some butterfly between plates of glass—but I became healthier, stronger, more robust. The transformation from wan, sick child to ‘strong, healthy young man’ wasn’t exactly overnight… but it was pretty close.”

As if he’s just remembered Caz and I were actually in the room with him, Quentin startles back to himself—his eyes refocusing on me, his spine stiffening—that ramrod posture of his returning along with the rest of his ‘proper’ carriage.

“All of this romantic reminiscence to say—if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I was about to start back into those fevered few weeks of my childhood.” Q allows himself a little nervous giggle at the impossibility of the situation before running a hand over his beautiful, if not tired, features. “Listen to me—rambling on, talking nonsense! You can tell I haven’t slept right in days, that it’s getting closer to…” he trails off, the unspoken words, my heat.

There’s a tense silence as the three of us contemplate the implication of Q’s words—as the moka pot burbles away on the stove.

“I didn’t want to make matters worse, but—” I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot as I heat milk in a small saucepan with cardamom pods and granulated sugar, “—I did a little quick cycle test for you and Miz Penny before I started processing the blood and serum test.” I suck air in through my teeth as I pull cups from the cabinets.

Quentin’s hands grip the edge of the wooden tabletop, his knuckles bloodless white.

“How long do we have?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

I think about the colored testing strips littered at one end of my cluttered ‘lab’ in the other room, Louise’s results showing the dusty rose of the ‘72-96 hours’ color swatch, Quentin’s the bright orange of ‘7-10 days’. Both clear indicators that we need to prioritize finding powerful suppressant meds, or a remote enough safehouse where we can weather the storm of one or both of them going into heat… Which would present its own array of challenges.

“Well, after Frank used the suppressant melter on her… she’s got maybe a few days, you have a week or so—if we’re lucky.”

“A few days!?” Caz balks, rocking up and onto his feet.

“Yeah, that’s a generous estimation, too,” I sigh, pouring strong coffee into three mismatched mugs before adding a portion of steaming, spiced milk to each. “We’re going to have to prioritize getting some meds for both of you or a nest to—how you say—‘ride it out,’” I add in an attempt to bring some levity to the conversation; even though any alpha or gamma will tell you that helping an omega or a sigma through a heat is serious business.

If Louise and Q both go into heat at the same time? Well, who knows how much time we Saints will spend on our knees in worship…

Though he took some convincing, Frank finally agreed to allow us to uncuff Louise hoping when she surfaced from her last round of night-night juice, she might be willing to hear some reason—especially regarding the contents of the hard-drive she had with her at the Diamond Center in conjunction with our own findings through the Saints unsanctioned ‘research’ over the last year.

When Louise regained consciousness, I was surprised by how docile she appeared after her showing at the last safehouse. I had only barely caught her that fateful evening in the alleyway—and evidently had been too slow to catch her making the call to her ex-partner from her field agent days on that working girl’s burner phone.

She hadn’t used lethal force on Seb, but it was also clear from the ligature marks on his neck that she could have easily killed him if she had been so inclined.

Silently she stuffs down the pan bread and potato curry Seb has given her—her wrists bare and ringed raw with cuffs of skin that gently ooze blood.

The absurd urge to wrap her wounds in clean gauze and gently lay a kiss over the snowy white bandages hits me like a wave upon the rocks—crashing into me with such intensity—before receding just as quickly as it came.

“We propose an exchange,” Frank explains calmly, leaning forward to place a steaming mug of cardamom coffee and two cigarettes along with a plastic lighter before her breakfast plate—on the stretch of pressure board laid over two milk crates that acts as a coffee table.

“Oh yeah? What are we exchanging? Addresses for postcards? Are we gonna be pen pals?” Louise gasps hyperbolically, clasping her hands—a fork still clutched in one fist—beneath her chin, batting her eyes mockingly.

“Fuck, you’re annoying when you’re awake,” Frank groans under his breath, but none of us Saints miss the grin stuck to his lips.

The Francis doth protest too much.

“When we… picked you up from the Diamond Center,” Caz begins, choosing his words diplomatically—doing his best not to wither under Louise’s smoldering glare. “You had a hard drive on you.”

Louise goes rigid, all humor gone from her pale, lovely face.

“Obviously, it wasn’t difficult to get into,” Caz continues coolly, flexing a little of his skill in an obvious bid to impress her.

“Yeah, the idea wasn’t to let it get into the wrong hands, but…” She shrugs tersely, thumbing her nose at Caz. “Obviously I fucked that up, too.”

“Well, I hate to tell you this and add insult to injury—but the intel you had wasn’t anything we didn’t already know,” he laughs nervously, scrubbing a tattooed hand over his head of peroxide blond stubble–knuckles full of different color space invader sprites disappearing from view as he cups his hand over the nape of his own neck.

There’s a loud clanging rattle as Louise drops her fork against her empty plate—her terracotta eyes burning with a mix of surprise and contempt.

“So, you really fucking kidnapped me for no goddamn reason at all—is what you’re saying?” she snarls—low, dripping with the fuel of rage—just waiting to be set ablaze.

“Not quite,” I interrupt, all eyes in the room turning to me as I re-cross my legs—a cup of steaming mint tea finding a home balancing on my knee once more. “As we mentioned before, you have a use far beyond just being a conduit for information.”

Frank gives me a warning look, but we’ve already decided. The plan was to get to the bottom of the Zeitnot virus, and while the path appears to be diverging from our original course—our goal remains the same, and so we must press on.

“From your hard drives, we were able to see that you’d been looking into Covartis—the rival drug company of Bronson & Bronson—the mega bio-corp that you believed to be your parents' employer at the time of their death,” I continue my illumination as Louise leans, cross-legged, to the edge of her seat on the sofa, reaching for one of the cigarettes and a lighter, her eyes never leaving me.

She’s quite the distraction in the skin tight velvet sweat suit pants and sheer tank top that Frank and I picked up for her on our errands before the raid; her perfect pink nipples hard against the thin fabric of the white camisole as she lights the cigarette—her lips pursed around the filter in a way that makes me re-cross my legs yet again—my cock threatening to get more than just half hard as I watch a thin ribbon of pale blue smoke dissipate into the air between us.

“Well, your parents weren’t actually employed by Bronson & Bronson at their time of death—for starters,” I lay that out for her and wait to see if she’s ready to hear more, or if this will be our first stopping block.

True to form, Louise sits back—stretching her arms up and over the back of the ratty sofa—the entire 3 cushion couch still left entirely for her use. I’m strangely reminded of Frank as she lets her head loll back over the top of the cushions, cigarette dangling from her bottom lip as she raises one scarlet brow at me as if to say, ‘So? You gonna say the rest?’

“Your parents, much like yourself, were employees of the government,” I clarify, waiting for an objection, but all I get is a girlish titter.

“Oh really? Who were they working for?” she scoffs. “The CIA? Don’t tell me—they had a lab at Area 51; they weren’t actually murdered—they were abducted by aliens!” she crows before dissolving into semi-hysterical laughter.

Caz, a die-hard UFO enthusiast, winds up to defend the idea that intelligent life exists beyond us in this universe; but I cut in before he can aid in derailing this necessary conversation.

“They were working for the department of Reproduction,” I answer flatly.

That takes the smile off her face.

Louise’s entire body rocks forward until she’s barely seated on the edge of the couch. Her whole body turns toward me, elbows on her knees,her cigarette—pinched between her first and middle finger—forgotten as the ash grows longer.

“Bullshit.” Louise seems to barely have enough breath to make the sound—her chest rapidly expanding and contracting with panicked breaths.

I shake my head solemnly.

“Believe me, or don’t. They were working for Jim Roach when word of the nature of their research made it back to the Windmill.”

My eyes flit down to her hands as her cigarette burns closer and closer to the golden line of filter; the nearly two inches of ash falls to the floor in slow, lazy spirals like moths in a column of streetlight.

“From what we can tell, they were murdered for their findings—their work.” I reach forward and pinch the still burning butt from her fingers, placing it between my own lips before taking a drag—my lips pressing to the place hers had been a moment ago; an indirect kiss.

“Then they put Roach out to pasture and installed Martin Penny in his place—the brother of the late Doctor Landon Penny.”

I watch as Louise Penny’s iron countenance—which she has so fearlessly held up since the moment we took her captive—crumbles,her face twisting with the ugly outpour of tears.

“Why?” she wails.

“What the hell could have been worth—?” She chokes on her own gasping sobs, covering her weeping face with her shaking hands.

“You felt the suppressant melters firsthand,” Frank reminds her, muscular arms barred across his chest in a black t-shirt, his raven hair a mess.

“I’ve seen worse than that in the field. It doesn’t merit splattering their brains across our fucking dining room table.” Louise shoots to her feet, eyes bright and full of the flames of fury—Lucifer with her resplendent halo of righteous anger—her skin glowing as if lit from within with the beacons of purest hatred.

“It’s not just the suppressant melters,” Sébastien’s soft, musical voice cuts in.

She whirls on him—the morning star—bright and brimming with violence.

“I’ve had limited access to samples… but based on my tests and what we found from Cazzy’s digital forensics work, your parents are the point of origin for the Zeitnot virus—and not recently, either. As far as we can tell, the virus has been around since the early 90’s—even if there haven’t been any public cases until the past two years.”

Louise’s knees begin to buckle—her whole body gently swaying as she blinks more tears from her eyes, her lips distorting into a wobbly line—as she struggles to make her mouth move.

“That’s not possible,” she bleats hopelessly.

“It’s very possible. We can show you the proof,” Sébastien counters flatly.

“Don’t believe me—you should ask your pal Susan Lowry,” Frank growls threateningly—the last straw before Louise collapses back into the couch, all the fight gone out of her.

“And why the fuck should I believe any of you?” she spits venomously, tears streaming down her face. “Why not fucking come find me on one of my runs in the cemetery—or on a park bench behind a fucking newspaper like the hack wannabe ‘secret agents’ you’re trying so desperately to play at being?” she wails, beating her fists against the couch cushions on either side of her.

“Because our research also indicates that your parents didn’t mean to develop the Zeitnot virus—that it was an accident,” I finally interject, showing our hand—at least in part, for the first time.

Her eyes widen and Louise’s sobs quiet as she attempts to regain her breath.

“From what we can tell, from the limited information that we have, there was an outbreak of the virus back in the early 90s, but somehow—the virus never made it to the wider public. Cases were likely part of closed testing and secret government experimentation and thus highly controlled. However, we’re unable to tell exactly how the spread of the virus was managed from then until the first public cases earlier last year,” I conclude—Caz rushing in to add.

“We were hoping that the hard drive you had with you at the Diamond Center would provide the answers we have been looking for—but it wasn’t the only reason we needed to intercept you.”

“Caz,” Frank warns, uncrossing his arms and pressing up and out of the ratty wingback on the far side of the parlor—but Caz ignores him, barreling on.

“We think that your parents actually developed a cure for the Zietnot virus, that the Windmill wanted to steal that cure for themselves—as a safeguard from infection, yes, but even more so for the opportunity to make money off of the only known cure for a global pandemic.”

“You keep saying ‘research’—but you boys aren’t the library type,” Louise seethes, distrust creeping back into her voice. “You obviously know more than I do—but how? You expect me to believe all of this conspiracy theory bullshit? I am going to need proof.”

“Fine. That’s easy enough.” Frank pushes off the wall, his arms opening wide in a beneficent gesture as Caz and Seb make surprised noises. I too am surprised this is the stance Frank has decided to take, but he’s the boss—my job as his second is to stand here, appear to stoically back him up, and to call him on his bullshit later when we’re in private.

I do just that. When Caz and Seb look to me to confirm or deny Frank’s brash claim, I shrug and turn away—Louise’s red-brown eyes still cast upon Frank in utter disbelief.

“So, what? You fucking kidnap me, keep me chained up like a dog, drug me whenever you need to transport me to some new shithole, but now—because it’s useful to you, you’ve decided that I no longer need to be kept in the dark?”

“They say the devil’s clever, don’t they? Yeah, I think that about covers it,” Frank chuffs a laugh as he walks up to the little pressure board coffee table, towering over Louise on the couch.

“Ok—ante up,” she snorts derisively, folding her arms around herself, uncrossing her legs to plant both feet firmly on the floor as she sizes Frank up, ready for him to lay his metaphorical cards on the table.

“Well, we can show you the notes and paperwork Caz purloined from his available sources; but as far as proof about the DOR and other government involvement? You’ll have to give me a day or so to make that happen,” he explains nonchalantly.

Once again, Caz and Seb scramble, their voices overlapping as they ask what Frank is playing at—where he’s going.

Frank holds up a hand and both of them fall silent before he speaks once more. “Quentin has been lining up a more remote place to go to ground for a while. No use beating around the bush. We need more time and the Feds are doing their best to smoke us out. Fact of the matter is—we need to re-up on suppressants for both Q and Lou if we want to get to the bottom of this Zietnot virus stuff. Realistically, our window for getting a hold of meds is getting smaller and smaller before we’ll have to go to ground while one or both of them is in heat,” Frank warns grimly.

Louise’s eyes dart to me—the two of us united by this inconvenient truth.

“That’s why I’m going to go get you your proof while Q makes arrangements and the rest of you make the preparation for us to go to ground. I’ll come back with the evidence to back up our claims, and if you still want to go running back to your friends in the Feds—you can walk.”

Frank allows a moment for that to sink in. Louise’s eyes narrow as she fixes those lasers on him.

“You’d let me walk? After all this?” She shakes her head in disbelief.

“Trust me, Sweetheart—you’re not gonna walk back to the Feds after you see what they’ve done. It’d be like jumping from the frying pan directly into the flame.” Frank snickers wickedly before continuing. “In the unlikely event that you see the undeniable proof that we’re not the bad guys, and you still don’t want to help us? Fine, we’ll leave you alone—you never see us again, you disappear into the depths of some hidden lab where the Feds try to get at the secrets your parents squirreled away inside you.” He shrugs nonchalantly before leaning in to give her a snarky wink. “But, if you decide you want to find out who really killed your parents, that you actually want to get your revenge—then we’re your guys. We’ll back you up 100% We’ll do whatever we have to, to get the job done, government be damned.”

I have to present a united front, but this is the first time I am hearing some of these details of Frank’s ‘plan,’ and I’m none too pleased about it.

Louise’s lip curls back, those pearly knife-like canines winking at us as her hackles continue to rise.

“Couldn’t you have had your ‘proof’ lined up before you got me involved in this goddamn mess? You really are shit at your jobs, aren’t you?” she leers, but it isn’t actually an answer.

“Look, Sweetheart, you want to co-operate until I can produce the goods? Or are you just going to choose the hard way and make us cuff you and knock you out again?” Frank threatens.

“Oooh, big man, with his little threats, you’re the ones who need me, not the other way around,” she laughs mirthlessly.

This strikes a nerve, because Frank is on his toes again—flexing his aura on her in a bid for regaining his spiraling control.

“Yeah, we only need you until you become a bigger danger than a help to us. I won’t have any problem getting rid of you if you stand between us and our freedom—and getting to the bottom of the business of this Zeitnot virus your parents created,” Frank cracks back, before adding for clarity. “I’m not a green little techno-twink like Cazzy. I’ll put a bitch like you down if I have to.” Frank grins, that edge of mania in his dark blue eyes—and Louise gives him a single curt nod with understanding.

“Fine, since my options are strikingly limited, I suppose I’ll see what ‘proof’ you can offer.” She does her best to dismiss him, reaching for the second cigarette on the pressure board coffee table, refusing to wither under his frenzied gaze. “Plus, it’ll get you out of this flop for a few days? It might actually feel like a vacation. At least the other three have some manners and are easy on the eyes.”

This pulls an unexpected bark of real laughter from Frank—the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes bunching as he guffaws.

It’s going to be a long couple of days. I can already tell.

Frank is gone by lunchtime, replacing his usual uniform of leather jacket and effortless raven bed head in favor of something that might help him better blend into a crowd–a dark ball cap and nondescript gray sweatshirt.

Seb, still waiting on the results of the blood and serum tests from this morning, has gone to make contact with his local, in the hopes of getting a line on some suppressants and scent blockers.

Caz, finally burnt out from over twenty-four hours of constant wakefulness—including driving us from Liberty to Beach city, lies snoring behind the closed door of the bedroom. I’m on babysitting duty until we’re on the road at witching hour tonight—then I can crash, catch a couple of winks on our way to my buddy Yuri’s hunting shack on Goosewing Lake.

Old Yuri owes me big time, so I’ve called in my favor. While the remote cabin lacks most modern amenities like internet or telephone, it’s furnished lavishly enough to fit a former Vor y Zakone captain—an impressive solar charged home battery, a tankless hot water heater, and one of the nicer composting toilets I’ve had the honor of shitting in while lying low in the woods. It’s not the nest I would choose to endure a hastily planned heat, but Louise and I don’t have the luxury of choice in such limited time and circumstance. Frank wasn’t wrong—there’s likely not enough time to stop the clock, so our only real choice is to bear down and come out on the other side of the heat—on the ground running.

I’m fixing tea, since there are a few things in this life that aren’t better once you’re facing them with a cup of hot Assam or first flush Darjeeling in your hand. Sadly, today’s tea service is somewhat lackluster—embarrassingly weak orange pekoe from the bodega down the street with a package of two bright pink coconut sno-balls. Still, I prepare a cup for myself and Louise, removing the artificially pink confections from their plastic wrapper to place them on a small plate in an attempt at civilizing this ‘afternoon tea’.

In the tiny parlor, Louise enjoys some of her newfound freedom of movement—her lithe, graceful limbs stretching and flexing through vinyasas and gliding through katas as I bring our impromptu tea service to the makeshift coffee table; the milk crates and pressure board moved to the side of the sofa to give Louise the most space possible.

As soon as she catches sight of me in her peripheral vision, she stops, her eyes quickly scanning me up and down with an underlying hunger before they fall on the goodies I’ve brought.

She’s still wearing the camisole and velour pants from earlier, but the activity has brought a healthy flush to her cheeks and her face. Her neck and shoulders glitter with a faint sheen of perspiration and her long red waves are tied back from her face in a high ponytail that I’d like to—goodness I really am getting close to my heat, aren’t I?

“Is one of those for me?” She stands, hands on her hips—her chest gently rising and falling as she steadies her breath and her chin juts toward one of the pink sno-balls.

Her perfume is oppressive in the small space—the iris—wet, lush; as if after a rain—the sharp tang of the tart green apple and a spicy jolt of pink pepper. She smells good enough to eat—to consume whole.

“Yes, and a cup of ‘tea’—if you can call it that.” I gesture to the goods, keeping my rising libido in check—if only just.

“Throw in one of those fancy cigarettes and you have a deal.” She nods at the telltale square pack of Dunhills in the breast pocket of my button down, twirling the rest of her ponytail atop her head into a messy bun.

“As the lady wishes.” I bend crisply at the waist—sweeping an arm toward the open sofa.

She crosses the threadbare carpet and plops down on the far end of the sofa, waiting expectantly.

“So, how many heats have you gone through with this…” She rolls her wrist and looks toward the ceiling. “I would say pack, but unless they’re somewhere I can’t see, I haven’t seen any—.” She clicks her teeth together in an emphasized bite. “And as far as Cazzy is concerned—I saw pretty much everything,” she adds coolly, her eyes roving over my body again. Looks like I’m not the only one feeling the pressure of appetite.

“They aren’t my pack, no,” I confirm easily, passing her one of the sno balls on a purloined gas station napkin along with a mug of the orange pekoe—the tea bag string and tag still dangling over the edge. “But I have been through four heats with Frank, three of those with Sebby and Cazzy, too,” I add, taking a bite of the coconut cloud of marshmallow and cake with relish.

Louise’s scarlet brows peak upward.

“Hmm, so it’s become a bit of a habit, I see.” She eyes me skeptically, her gaze traveling down my body with a growing heat as she sips her tea.

“I mean… you’ve sucked Frank’s cock, and you’ve fucked Cazzy. I know you haven’t had Seb or I yet—but I can assure you, neither of us disappoint.” I shrug as Louise narrowly avoids doing a spit take, choking on her mouthful of hot tea.

“Fair enough,” she manages to croak out, struggling to recover from ventilating tea into her lungs.

“What about you, Lou?” I reach out and drape a hand over her wrist—like I might if we had met on a night out in the omega-sigma lounge of some fancy nightclub, just us breeders.

“All of us have seen you in your birthday suit, so I know you don’t have any bonding bites on that perfect little body of yours.”

I allow her to feel the full weight of my gaze on her, my own building hunger.

“I’ve suppressed a bunch of heats, but not all of them,” she sniffs, doing her best to play at calm disinterest—even though I can smell how close to a heat she is. “I had to do a few with helpers at a sigma center in Boston when I was in grad school, and I’ve had to make do with some pretty questionable situations in the field before,” she glosses over any detailed explanation with a roguish wink.

“So, on a scale of one to ‘face-down-ass-up-presenting-that-perfect-pink-pussy-dripping-with-slick’—how close would you say you are to going into heat, sweet Lucifer?” I taunt, watching her breath become more ragged with each dirty utterance that crosses my lips.

“I don’t know. I suppose that depends on a few things.” She locks in her eye contact with me—one of her legs gently extending, her bare foot coming to rest against my bent knee, a sofa cushion still mostly empty between us.

“Such as?” I tease her, but the truth is I am enjoying myself too much to stop. It’s been too long since I’ve had a new plaything, and my own omega body chemistry is skewing dangerously toward the onset of my own heat; my judgment hazier and hazier as our banter carries on.

“Have any of you ever been with a sigma?” Louise slugs down her tea, her nipples showing in hard points beneath her camisole, her eyes lurid with desire. “Especially you—quite the unique omega… Such a big boy,” she breathes heavily.

“Has anyone ever locked you up?” she asks, voice smoky and sinuous, our eyes unable to break contact in the heat of the moment.

My breath hitches as I catch her perfume hanging thick in the air between us. I don’t make any effort to redirect the conversation when the little devil tilts her head back—eying me appraisingly.

“All of us boys have taken Caz to the Eiffel tower—though regrettably, he’s not yet seen Paris,” I purr, a new and powerful wave of desire washing over me, my cock beginning to stiffen in my well tailored trousers. “And I’ve taken both Frank and Sebby’s knots.” I grin, laying my hand over my strengthening erection; Louise’s sweet-smelling slick growing thick in the air. “But no. I’ve never been locked by a sigma or alpha,” I confirm in a low rumble.

“Well, wouldn’t you know? I’ve never locked an omega like you,” she growls back, her sigma aura pouring off her in a constant cascade. “Built like an alpha—but still so damn pretty, so lush.”

We sit in the tense silence of the room—the two of us breathing heavily as Caz snores down the hall, mid-afternoon sun creeping in golden squares of light across the ratty carpet.

Louise, as if in challenge, pops the rest of the sno ball into her mouth, a few pinky flakes of coconut clinging to the full round of her bottom lip.

My body moves on its own—before I know what I’m even doing, I’ve leaned across the open sofa cushion between us, my tongue darting out to sweep the feathery bits of sugared coconut from her mouth.

An electric shock races through me as the tip of my tongue makes contact with her bottom lip.Her free hand dars out, snaking its way into my hair before closing into a fist at the crown of my head. A moan, far sluttier than I would have liked, escapes me as she holds me a breath away from her face.

The two of us look at each other hungrily for a split second before Louise crushes my mouth with hers.

Our hands tear at one another, my fingers nearly ripping the gauzy camisole as I rush it up and over her head. Louise’s hands grip either side of my shirt below the collar before ripping the thing open. Pearly plastic buttons pop off in different directions as she rents the garment open while her hands move over my chest, my stomach and down to my black leather belt.

Just as she whips my leather and brass belt from its loops, I wrest control from her—flipping her onto her back on the opposite side of the couch—forcing her knees open with my own expanding thighs as I pull at the elastic waistband of her velour track pants; her mesh lace panties sopping wet with slick.

I toss the track pants aside and wriggle onto my belly on the couch—my knees bent just before the armrest of the sofa—my lower legs dangling in the air as I lap at the sodden delicate fabric.

Louise lets out a little gasp as her hips lift, trying to follow my touch.

“Mmm,” I let my lips buzz against her through the thin material, drawing another hitching breath from Louise. “Sweet and salty.”

Another few laps of my tongue bring her hands into my hair—her nails gently grazing my scalp, sending little electric waves of goosebumps over my bare shoulders.

The point of my tongue pushes against the sheer material, doing my best to press as far inside of her as possible; the barrier reducing my attempts at true penetration to a mere tease as my own arousal, dripping with precum, rubs against the couch cushion beneath.

“Quentin,” she pants, irritation seeping at the edges of her voice.

“Yes,” Lick. “Louise,” Push. “Darling?”

I suck at her clit through the mesh and she nearly screams.

“Quit teasing me. I’m getting impatient,” Louise warns.

“Oh? And what are you going to do about it?” I snicker, pulling her panties down so I can lavish more attention on her swollen clit.

Without warning, Louise’s entire body ripples—her powerful abdominal and lower body muscles working in tandem to lever her out of my grip as if she were an undulating snake.

Before I can make sense of where her body is moving in relation to mine, she kicks out of the panties tangled around her knees and is suddenly using her arms and legs to capsize me like a boat on the narrow sofa, so that I am now positioned under her.Her right knee anchors between the back and seat cushions of the couch with her left leg swung over me, one foot planted on the floor. My hard cock twitches as her slick drips in syrupy rivulets down to my balls.

“I’m gonna do this.” She grins—sinking down on my length inch by inch.

She’s hot and tight in a way that drives me mad. Not because she’s unlike any other woman I’ve fucked before—but because our bodies truly feel made for one another.

Somewhere in a hazy memory, I recall one of the lecturers at the omega finishing school I attended explaining how a male omega’s ‘Key’ fits more perfectly inside his female alpha or sigma’s ‘lock’ than anywhere else.

Considering how many men and women and all those in between of all designations that I’ve fucked—for business or pleasure, I have never experienced anything remotely like this.And Louise hasn’t even properly locked me yet.

I let out a loud moan as she grinds her hips down on me. Her slick wells at my hilt as she gyrates her hips, lifting her ass so that a few inches of me are forced to leave her taut heat. I whine my protest, trying to lift my hips to meet her.

When she slams herself down on me again—stars dazzle my vision and I let out a high, delighted sound.

Usually, even with Frank, I find myself topping from the bottom. Not this time—I am completely undone, thrown off my game.

I hold frantically to Louise’s hips as she rides me, something almost like fear gripping me each time she rocks upward, my cock nearly pulling free from her hungry cunt.

“Easy now, I’m gonna take care of you.” Louise’s hand creeps from where she braces herself on my chest. Her thumb finds its way between my brows—making me notice how hard I must be grimacing.

She rides me slow and deep, our eyes locked together like a direct line to the soul.

The thinking part of my brain tells my hands to be still, that my animal desires should be satisfied with this—already a bounty of sensation, of pleasure.

Yet my insatiable omega nature demands that I indulge. Though the heat is not yet upon me, I cannot deny my own secret wants.

I let my palms creep up over Louise’s wrists—where she braces herself on me to steady her ride—guiding her hands to my neck.

For a split second her eyes widen, and there’s the nigh imperceptible flinch of her wrists beneath my touch. Then her lips split into a wry smile.

“Were you jealous of Sébastien? Is that why you yanked me off that fence so damn hard?” she teases, that mean edge to her smirk only making me harder inside her as she begins to squeeze.

I’m not going to last long like this; Louise leaning carefully into the pressure of the choke as she bounces up and down on my cock.

I make a hollow sound somewhere in my chest as I piston upward.

“Good boy!” Louise praises me—a breathy whine in her voice as her eyelids flutter.

This forces me to lose control completely–my body tic-ing and convulsing wildly beyond my control.

Louise lets her grip go as she throws her hips down; allowing me sweet oxygen once more as she fully seats herself on my cock—her lock tightening around me as I cum deep inside her.

“How’s that?” she croons, sighing and adjusting her legs so that she’s balanced back on her knees—no longer loaded in a squatting position—our bodies linked together until her lock will release my key.

There aren’t even words I can use to describe the sensation, I’m tongue tied and feel almost like I’m slightly drunk—my cock still sensitive enough to draw moans and breathy sighs from me as she nestles herself against my chest—still straddling me where our bodies meet.

I’m about to say something about all the things we’ve got to do once we’re no longer stuck together, but the soft warmth of Louise against me—her breasts pressed against my chest, her hair tumbling over my collarbones and shoulder, the heavy floral iris wafting up from the toss of scarlet waves.

Something about our breathing together makes everything sort of blur at the edges until—without knowing–we fall asleep.

It took longer than I would have liked to do my dirty work and get back to Safehouse D.

The drive to Goosewing Lake took almost four hours one way. Given, I didn’t take more than half an hour to do my business, record my evidence, cover my tracks, and skedaddle back to the loving arms of the scaffolding wrapped apartment building at the far end of Beach City’s meatpacking district that has served as our hideaway since we were ousted by the raid on the Liberty City flop.

I pull to the end of the metered parking at the end of the block and put the boxy station wagon in park—a pair of decoy plates freshly applied to the stolen shit-box at a gas station outside city limits. Just as I’m about to pat down my pockets and confirm I’ve got everything—the broad-shouldered figure of Michael Duboze comes into focus at the parking meter beside my car.

Mike feeds half a handful of quarters into the meter until it hits its prepay limit and turns around to knock on my driver’s side window—pointing at my passenger door; the locking mechanism pressed tight against the plastic interior.

I roll my eyes and pop open the lock, moving a stack of newspapers from the seat to the floor as he folds himself into the cramped passenger seat.

“What’s so important now? You can’t just keep showing up like this, Mike.” I shake my head at him, adjusting the rear-view mirror so that I can get a good look at the sidewalk behind me leading up to the car without being too obvious.

Mike takes a deep breath and adjusts his tie before tapping the dashboard just above where his knees touch the fake wood paneling between the broken air conditioning vents.

“Are you sure about this, Frank?” he asks gravely.

“Sure about what, Mike?” I growl, the phone in my pocket and the 10 minute video stored in its memory—one of the more dangerous weapons I’ve wielded in my career.

“If you do this now, there’s no going back. You know that, right?” He levels his gaze at me.

“What would you have me do, Mike?” I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “Her intel was useless, she didn’t even know her parents didn’t work for Bronson & Bronson, she was looking into Covartis—not the Windmill or the Feds.” I grip the steering wheel, even though the car is in park. “If we get her on our side—maybe we can use her to get to The White Knight.” Michael’s mouth sets in a grim line.

“And what if she’s the answer to the cure? You’re really going to use her as bait for The White Knight? What makes you think he won’t just burn her, too?” he snorts derisively.

“Because, if she really is the missing link, the ‘cure’—then he can’t afford to burn her either.” I grin, doing my best to look like I believe my own bluster.

“That’s a pretty big ‘if’ there, Frankie.” Michael blows out a long breath.

“Good thing I’m a gambling man.” I give him a wink and check my rear view; just like that—he’s gone and I’m once again left to the business of destroying Louise Penny’s understanding of her carefully plotted and curated life—her world.

Time to get to work.

I open the door and walk directly into a wall of scent; rose, iris, sandalwood, pink pepper, scotch, and a bright sliver of green apple—the baked animal smell of sex running through them like a glimmering golden thread.

Louise lays sleeping on the sofa, covered by a tattered flat sheet; Quentin sleeping on the floor beside her—a cushion from the sofa tucked under his head—his white silk blend shirt devoid of buttons and open across his broad, bare chest.

I can hear the buzzing of Caz and Seb speaking in whispers and smell the sweet-herbal tang of weed smoke mixed with Seb’s 27’s before I see them. Seb’s eyes catch me—his chin dipping in a nod of acknowledgement as he stands huddled with Caz next to the cracked window in the rectangle of linoleum furnished with a fridge and microwave that passes for a kitchen.

At the sound of my entry, one of Quentin’s chartreuse eyes cracks open and fixes on me.

Once upon a time, Q would have sprung to his feet and begged for my forgiveness—or at least been concerned about what I thought… Now he just lets that one lazy eye follow me, waiting to see if I’m going to make a scene now, or if it’s going to be a fight later.

Oh, it’ll be a fight—but that’s later. We need to get down to brass tacks now.

“Rise and shine, sleepyheads!” I snap, dropping my keys onto the pressure board table—Louise startling awake at the sound.

“Jesus,” she grumbles as she gathers her senses, wrapping herself tightly in the flimsy flat sheet.

“Sorry, Madam Morning Star, I couldn’t get the big J to make an appearance. You’ll have to make do with me.” I step over Quentin’s legs and flop onto the open cushion beside her. “Looks like you two used your time… well.” I take a deep inhale through my nose—the intoxicating smell of their scents, commingling almost enough to make me hard.

“You didn’t get us any meds, did you?” Quentin yawns, sitting up from his place on the floor and rubbing his eyes.

“I was running around enough getting our Little Lucifer her proof,” I challenge, leaning back into the sofa extending my arm along the back watching as Louise recoils from any place where my bare skin might touch hers; the sheet pooled around her nearly bare shoulders.

“Well, busy or not—we’re both getting closer to heat. It’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” Q explains, his beautiful features twisted with impatience before adding. “If you were here—you could have done something about it, but—.” He shrugs, lifting himself from the floor to prop himself and his erstwhile pillow on the other side of Louise on the open couch.

It’s not lost on me that Caz and Seb have halted their conversation and are watching our exchange as if they’re two old ladies—tuned into their ‘stories’—completely absorbed in daytime soap drama. Fine, let them look. Like Q said—shit’s only gonna get worse before it gets better.

“I didn’t say anything! You two are the ones getting defensive. I was just surprised that the industrious Q decided to nap off the afternoon. Whereas, Louise, you’ve obviously been through a lot in the past few days.” I knit my brows and pout my lips in a caricature of concern. “I’d expect you need to recoup a little beauty sleep, you’ve been looking rough around the edges.” I open my hands, palms out as if asking for mercy or proclaiming surrender; Louise’s cinnamon eyes following me closely with their burning intensity.

“If you’d walked through that door and hadn’t immediately sniffed out that we’d had a shag, you wouldn’t be acting like such a spoiled brat right now, Francis,” he fires back, clipped and aloof. God, it only makes me want to wipe that smug look off his face, that little moaning sound he makes when his features go slack with pleasure.

“Maybe not, maybe y’all have got me skirtin’ the edge of a rut with all this goddamn perfume,” I rumble, shooting a glance at Seb and Caz—his cheeks rosy with a furious blush that creeps all the way up over the tops of his ears. “Hell, Little Lucifer on her own got our fucking theta to break down and bury himself in that sweet sigma pussy before she’s even off her meds,” I tease, captivated by the way that Louise and Caz exchange a furtive glance—something much more tangled than pure lust passing between them.

Q sees it too, the green monster of jealousy reflected in his already verdant gaze as he scouts that glimmering thread stretching unbroken between the two.

Good. Jealousy will keep him on his toes, it will keep him hungry—the dynamic off balance, no danger of starting to feel like some little fucked up dysfunctional family—like some deranged pack.

“Are you going to run your mouth? Or are you going to show Louise whatever it is you’ve scraped off the belly of the criminal underworld,” Quentin quips nastily.

At this, Caz and Seb creep closer—both eager to see what I’ve brought that might appease the devil herself.

“I don’t know, are you ready?” Turning my attention to Louise, I pull the smart phone—its sim card long abandoned, its only contents; the single video file I’m about to show her—the phone’s sole purpose for existence.

Her set brows and down-turned lips lift slightly as if she’s thinking about giving me some kind of catty response—but all she does is pull the cocoon of flat sheet up around her neck until the folds of white threaten to overtake her ears; her messy bun listing dangerously to the left like some kind of coppery pom pom as she nods in the affirmative.

Seb and Caz drift around the sofa until they’re both standing behind us, gently leaning over either of Louise’s shoulders to get a look at the phone screen as I open the nearly empty file folder and the one video saved to the device.

Louise makes an awful gurgling strangled noise when the modest sized touch screen comes to life, her former mentor—Susan Lowry, in 480p. Her frosty blond hair is thrown into a similarly messy bun atop her head—a thick quilted black velvet robe wrapped around her, a shearling trim slide-slipper dangling from her foot, a glass of red wine swirling lazily in one hand.

“Please, Francis—don’t try to pull that kind of bullshit with me,” she laughs, obviously familiar.

“Listen—all of you decided it was the best course of action. Trust me—I didn’t want to fake my own death, but when you told me that was the way it was going to go—I went with the flow!” My own voice, loud but strangely muffled by the breast pocket of my trusty leather jacket.

“It was a mess, I’ll give you that,” Susan sighs with disgust before taking a swig of her wine. “They were sloppy, but this little rag-tag team of Saints you’ve put together, darling? Now that’s a downright disaster waiting to happen.”

The boys exchange curious glances, but they know about my career transition from Fed to Saint already. While I had wondered if Louise had recognized my face from my time at the bureau. I suppose it’s not surprising that she wouldn’t recognize me. Frank the Saint and Francis the Fed were—well are,two very different men.

Louise, on the other hand, keeps snapping her head up to look at me for split second intervals before staring in disbelief into Susan’s cold, beautiful face—her eyes moving with the tiny movements of intense, racing thought as she runs the mental arithmetic on who I might be.

“You know what’s a disaster waiting to happen? The goddamn White Knight–still running around while the Zeitnot virus is on the rise, and Louise Penny is under such lax security that the damn Feds are sending her to get pumped full of babies while countless sigmas and omegas die—and for what?” My own wine glass passes briefly in front of the phone before Lowry returns to view.

“Don’t you worry about The White Knight—you’ve got a full alphabet of trouble fixing to come your way if you aren’t careful; ATF, CIA, DEA, DOR, FBI—SWAT; you’re just a few letters short of a full scrabble board Francis, I’d watch it if I were you.”

The shitty mic on the phone isn’t good enough to have picked up the crackling of Lowry’s fireplace—so the two of us simply sit in silence on the playback of the video.

“What the fuck is this?” Louise breathes shakily, her hand flattened against her chest, tears spilling over as her bottom lip dips tremulously. “You know Susan—she knows you have me?” her voice wobbles with pained disbelief.

“Why didn’t you just scoop her yourself?” My voice on the recording breaks the silence in both rooms—then and now.

On the touch screen, we all watch as Lowry takes down her hair, kicks the dangling slipper from her foot, and eases more fully into her repose on her overstuffed leather couch.

“She was too close with her parents to ever be turned against them. Before I met Lou, I didn’t understand what Mike had said when he called her a ‘force,’ but the moment I got in a room with her.” Lowry smiles lovingly and sighs. “She reminded me of myself when I was younger. I liked her instantly, of course.” A dry laugh rustles up from her, drawing a choked sob from Louise on the couch beside me.

As if no one would notice, Caz does his best to comfort her. First a pinky laid over her shoulder, then half a hand, until his whole lower arm is draped over her right shoulder, his hand cupping her upper arm protectively.

“I still wish that we could have managed without killing her parents,” Lowry sighs with an air of boredom, like someone complaining that the bistro hadn’t had the soup of the day she wanted for lunch. “I think it made her a little sloppy underneath—but there’s no denying that it focused her. She’s absolutely incredible—streamlined, a weapon. She really is my only worthy successor, but her goddamn altruistic, swimming pool communist parents had to turn her into their guinea pig, so dear Dennis will have to do. Hardly worthy of taking my place, but the perfect choice for puppet or patsy,” Lowry giggles, the maidenly sound at odds with her mature beauty.

Louise’s lips ripple where they press together—a seam of tears and snot beading along the wavering line—her eyes watery with a constant stream of tears, her hands balled into bloodless fists atop her knees as she continues to watch the phone screen. I’m not even sure that she’s breathing.

“So, she really is the key to the cure for the Zeitnot virus?” My voice again, incredulous.

“When was the last time you paid the Red Bishop a visit?” Lowry gives a coy non-answer, pursing her lips at the rim of her crystal wine goblet.

“I’m taking that as a yes. It would explain why the entire US alphabet is on my tail. Plus, I can’t just show up on the Red Bishop’s doorstep–he thinks I’ve been dead for years,” I press, but Susan Lowry will not be pinned down so easily.

“You didn’t hear this from me, since I’m no longer part of the FBI and am thusly out of the loop when it comes to the classified content—but if you or anyone else were to go looking for answers? That’s where I would start.” She shrugs before her image freezes on the screen.

Realizing that it’s the end of the short video, Louise’s face finally crumbles—her eyes pressing closed through a sheet of tears as she covers her face with her hands and sobs.

I should allow her a moment—a few seconds of breathing room before I say ‘told you so’—but there isn’t enough time. Surely they all know just as well as I do—that this kind of magical confession isn’t free. Like anything else, it’s come with a price.

“If that doesn’t prove to you that the FBI and the rest of the government are not on your side.” I reach out and stroke her tender flesh above the scabbed over, slightly swollen bullet graze high on her cheek with my fingertips. “I don’t know how to make it any clearer.”

Instead of smacking my hand away, like I expect—Louise just cries harder, her face turning so that her cheek rests wearily in the palm of my hand as she sobs.

The feeling of her soft, clammy cheek in the palm of my calloused hand sends a pang of sympathy for her singing through my frozen heart. The usually stoic, unflagging Agent Penny turned soft, vulnerable, and needy—it stirs my alpha instincts, my long iced over empathy and affection threatening to begin a thaw.

I pull my hand away, but Quentin and Caz crowd in to steady her—Seb, already in motion to the kitchen to brew Louise a cup of restorative hot drink.

There’s a danger here—the three of them, already moving in the currents of her needs; but I still have the control here; we aren’t pack—but the Saints are still unequivocally mine; not Louise Penny’s. They follow my orders—stand on ceremony for my benefit—not hers; and it’s time to remind them of that.

Quentin, though he’s wreathed one of his arms around the pinch of Louise’s waist, turns his crackling phosphorescent green eyes on me with calculated calm.

“How long do we have?” he asks flatly, making both Caz and Louise squirm.

“How long do we have for what?” Seb cuts in, returning with a cup of tea for Louise, hesitating a moment before handing it to her; the memory of her earlier escape attempt still fresh for both of them.

Louise’s eyes snap up to meet mine—her hands wrap around the steaming cup of tea.

“You think she bugged you—or that you were tailed back here?” She’s already moving toward the edge of her seat, eyes widening.

I know the words will hurt her, but I choose them anyway—allowing them to land.

“Lowry was right. You are a quick learner.”

That face—any softness, any hope that I might come in and save her from her hurt feelings—from herself; dashed.

Good. Don’t let her get close. Don’t let myself get attached—I know what happened last time… and I can’t survive that again.

I watch as Louise sits a little taller, her spine a little straighter as the fires of rage are stoked once again within her.

“I think it’s well beyond story time, Frank,” she snarls. “How the fuck did you go from the Feds to the vigilante track—and who the fuck are the owners of these cute little chess names? ‘The White Knight’ and ‘The Red Bishop?' Who are they—other than soon to be dead men?” She growls, her pearly incisors catching in the light. “You’ve got time to explain while we get ready to blow this pop stand.”

Everything feels far away, slightly out of focus since I watched the shitty cellphone video of Susan Lowry, my mentor, my surrogate mother; beyond cavalier about my abduction and imprisonment—remiss that she hadn’t been able to twist me to whatever corrupted cause she’d aligned herself with during her career with the bureau.

That I’ve been had. Taken for some blithe, ignorant pawn by a woman who I deeply respected and admired, in whom I had placed my trust and hopes—is now painfully obvious.

What I can’t quite manage to understand is why? How?

“I said, it’s time to spill the beans, Francis,” I snap, flying into motion—a hammerhead shark now that blood has hit the water.

“Now wait just a minute.” Frank holds up a hand, as if he can contain me with one of those beefy ring-stacked hands. As. If.

I’m halfway across the room before the stinging tears in my eyes can well up again. I’ve already shed too many tears for people who don’t really give a damn about me. Back to depending only on myself, my wits. If I can just dig myself out of the shit, I might make it out of this total snafu alive.

If not? I’ll make sure every piece of scum who’s done me or my family wrong gets dragged right down into hell with me when I go.

“The time for waiting is over, Frankie,” I snip, dropping the sheet without a care for the gawking of the Saints as I pull clean underthings, a pair of black jeans, a black sweater, and socks from one of the paper bags full of clothes Q and Frank procured for me before we were ousted from the last safehouse.

“Start talking about how the fuck you and Susan know each other so well—what she meant when you two started talking about that ‘faking your own death stuff,’” I prompt impatiently, stepping into a pair of cotton underwear, then pulling up the black jeans; aware of all four sets of eyes set keenly on my bare flesh; the thrumming undercurrent of my heat momentarily dampened by my racing adrenaline—the fight response raising my sigma blood to a rolling boil.

“Or what?” Frank kicks back on the couch, hands knit behind his head as he looks me up and down. “You might have hypnotized Caz and Q with that magic pussy of yours, but Seb and I both still have our wits about us. You’re not in charge here, Sweetheart.” He purses his lips and blows me an air kiss.

I roll my eyes, pulling the black sweater over my head—regaining Seb and Caz’s full attention now that my tits are no longer on display.

“You talk a tough game, Frank, but we all remember the Diamond Center—yeah?” I pull my long red hair from the collar of my sweater—crouching down to pull a hair elastic from the bag of clothes and accessories, rooting around along the bottom until I feel the nylon mesh of a wig cap.

Q reaches absently for his knee, and I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt for stabbing him with that pen… even if he did technically deserve it.

“I remember,” he chuffs a laugh. “You couldn’t handle the four of us. What’s your point?” He tries to shrug me off—but Seb clicks his tongue and mutters something under his breath in French, and Caz blows a loud raspberry through his closed lips in derision.

“We barely handled her, and that was when she was un-armed—in a fucking bathrobe,” Q interjects; his hand laid tenderly over his bandaged wound.

“Yeah, if we have Feds with guns on the way to breach—” Caz shuddered. “We’re going to need all the help we can get in the firefight out of this shit-hole.”

Seb nods vigorously before adding, “You’re the one who made the deal, Frank. She agrees to work with us; she wants revenge on this White Knight who killed her parents—we back her up.

“Good to know all of you will turn tail on me at the slightest bit of attention from a hot piece of ass,” Frank grumbles, pissed to be outnumbered by his own team, Frank lifts off of the couch as I work my hair into two long braids—tucking them into a crown formation before I pull the wig cap over the whole mess.

“As you were saying. You had to play dead?” I prompt him, shaking out the dark wig, preparing to pull it over my capped braids.

Prompted by the swing of momentum toward a potentially imminent breach and escape; everyone else finds themselves in the business of preparing for our exit and subsequent sojourn to the hunting shack to go to ground for Quentin and I’s rapidly approaching heat.

“I already told you who I am, who I was,” Frank bristles, pawing through a set of duffle bags on the far wall as everyone buzzes around the tiny apartment.

“I didn’t work BSU, I was DOR—but I knew Susan professionally,” he explains as he pulls two handguns from the far bag, checking the magazines before jerking his chin at the paper bag next to my foot. “There’s a shoulder holster at the bottom of that,” he grumbles and I freeze mid reach when I realize I know that face; despite the thick coal-black beard and the years of hard living that drew deep lines in his brow and hollowed the dark spaces below his eyes—the photo on Compton’s desk, one of the square-jawed men in a dark blue suit that I hadn’t recognized; right there with Susan, the old AG and section chief of the DOR, Compton—and of course:

“Dennis…” I breathe quietly, not even meaning to speak his name.

There’s a tightness to Frank’s smile when he nods in acknowledgment.

“Yeah, I knew McBride, as far as I know, kid still thinks I’m dead.” He does his best to play it cool, but the way he struggles to swallow, the muscles in his cheek and jaw firing as he presses his lips together, gives away his fondness—his longing.

“So, you had to play dead—why?” I carefully pull the wig on, fastening the elastic straps with their teensy metal clips at the base of my skull before straightening the mass of wavy, dark hair atop my head.

“There was an… accident, a big one,” Frank explains haltingly, the others pointedly looking away from him as he crosses into this portion of the explanation. “I had been getting too close to whatever it was that your parents had been onto that the government and the Windmill were scared of…” Frank trails off for a moment—his eyes falling to his own feet on the floor, Caz busily tossing electronics into his backpack, or decommissioning tech by tossing it into another metal trash bin—a lighter and a small tin of lighter fluid prepared to make short work of the stuff. Seb packing up the components of his makeshift lab—still carefully avoiding the spinning samples from Q and the mysterious dart still processing.

“It was easier for me to disappear than to try to untangle my homecoming from all the painful truths and lies the Feds would have had to architect a cover up for. Didn’t have a wife or kids or even any surviving family that I’d seen in the last twenty years, so—it was easier to bury an empty casket and strike me from the duty roster than to welcome me home.” Frank reaches forward and pulls the shoulder seam of my sweater out from beneath one of the leather straps of my holster, his rough fingers surprisingly nimble and gentle as he helps lay the curve of the worn cognac colored leather flat over my traps—his face closer to mine than it’s ever been.

“I think leaving the kid behind was probably the worst part of being ousted from my old position,” he grunts, turning his face away from me—though his hands still rest on my shoulders. “I’m sure he got over it, though.” He turns back to me—hands gripping the round of my shoulders as his steely blues pierce me. “New partner and all.” He gives me a wink—a sparkle of violence twinkling back at me—a reflection of my own wild, dangerous nature.

Suddenly I’m reminded of a horrible, dark and cold night out on a stakeout with Dennis; his sea glass eyes hollow and far away as he mentioned the “worst” day of his young career. With nearly twenty-four hours of sitting in the same ratty sedan under our belt—we had dipped into the ‘sacred and unhinged’ portion of the field-partner-discussion-program. Crazy exes and fraught childhood traumas passed hours ago—we had begun to exchange the most gory and disturbing highlights and lowlights of our professional careers.

“I lost my mentor, my original career path, two of the best men I’d ever worked with—my,” he trailed off just before the tears had taken over his usually calm and steady voice. I had always wondered what would have come next: brother, partner, lover?

It hits me like a ton of bricks: one of those “best men I’d ever worked with”—perhaps even the mysterious one he would not name, couldn’t bring himself to even describe… was Francis Stone.

I shrug out of Frank’s grip, his scent; styrax, red cedar, and gunpowder scratching at the surface of my burning rage—not quite able to break through to the building desire, the desperation of the heat rising beneath, and snap the guns Frank has given me into the holsters, fastening the under bust strap so that the rig fits snugly against my body, easily disappearing beneath the black nylon cropped bomber jacket I yanked from one of the paper department store bags.

Q, who has changed into fresh clothes and armed himself; a black button down and slacks. His own black leather shoulder holster suspenders frame his chest in a way that distractingly reminds me of those popped plastic pearl buttons from earlier this morning…

I shake off the sudden rush of heat across my cheeks—my thighs pressing together involuntarily as I remember locking Quentin inside me only a few hours ago—my mind flashing images of myself in various states of amorous entanglement with all the members of the Saints.

Bracing myself against the back of the ratty sofa, I gulp down a breath of air and close my eyes, tilting my head back and focusing on the weight of the guns at my ribcage—the way the black denim hugs my body, the smell of the plastic wig fibers battling with the scents of the Saints; my mind not quite able to perform the mental math to trace my trajectory from my capture to this moment of unprecedented trust, of freedom. Frank himself has put the guns in my hand—and at this very moment I could put each one of these bad dogs down without a second thought.

All of us fall into a bustling silence as we finish our preparations: the zippering of bags, buckling of belts, tying of bootlaces; the only sounds filling the small apartment.

I pull a pair of mirrored, bug-eye sunglasses from one of the paper shopping bags and use the reflection to apply a bit of the tinted lip balm Q picked up from the pharmacy to put some color in my wan cheeks and to temper the bloodless pallor of my lips after a week of shitty sleep and lack of proper food and water.

Around me, the Saints are in motion; Caz squirting lighter fluid into the small metal trash bin as Quentin and Frank empty the rest of the paper shopping bags into their duffels—slinging straps over their shoulders as Seb balls up the empty paper bags and tosses them into the metal bin. No one seems to be paying much attention to me, allowing me to prepare myself in my own way—without additional instruction or criticism.

They really trust me to turn on everything I’ve ever known after seeing Susan’s confession—the loaded guns are proof enough of that. Not just the guns, putting their lives quite literally in my hands—but the prospect of our escape to the woods to endure Quentin and I’s rapidly approaching heats, seems far too intimate—far too close after the last few days of me being drugged and dragged in chains from one safehouse ‘prison’ to another.

I run a hand over my lips. The memory of Caz and Quentin’s mouths on mine; the anticipation of Frank and Sébastien… of their kiss, their touch, their knots. I stop just short of allowing myself the thought of a bite, a bond.

“We’ve got company!” Seb sing-songs—his head pressed against the windowpane as he looks down to the sidewalk.

“There’s no way down if they’re already breaching.” Frank grins, pulling a mentholated toothpick from the breast pocket of his leather jacket—biting down on it as he reaches for the piece at his lower back, a hand already on the doorknob. “So, we’re gonna go up—and cross to the brownstone three buildings down; an old lady leaves the roof entrance open to get to her wash line.” He grins manically, flicking the safety off with his thumb. “Car’s out front,” Frank adds—tossing the keys to the stolen station wagon to Caz.

Caz catches the keys in a death grip, his gun still tucked into his lower back holster beneath his billowing layers—hoodie and threadbare flannel—his buzzed head covered with a black beanie, eyes obscured by large aviators with tinted yellow lenses.

“Seb, you stay mid-pack with Cazzy—I’ve got point, Q will buffer after you, and Lucifer will bring up the rear,” Frank continues to instruct—Seb’s hand already trawling through the messenger bag slung over his shoulder; a host of homemade bombs ready for the tossing, no doubt.

“Devil take the hindmost,” Seb grumbles under his breath, and Frank shoots him a dirty glare.

“Speak up Sébastien—I can’t hear you!” Frank growls.

“What if she makes a break for it? Or she puts a bullet in our skulls while we try to make our exit?” Seb challenges. Despite all the sweetness he’s shown me, it seems he hasn’t forgotten or forgiven me for scalding him with hot tea before choking him out. While I’ve surely sent his gamma body chemistry for a loop—he’s the only member of the Saints I haven’t made cum. Perhaps his frustration has finally boiled over—at the worst of times.

A dizzy wave, something like vertigo, passes over me as I sink deeper into the realization—I’ve been a pawn in someone else’s game for far too long.

A pawn, ha.

With all this talk of the Windmill, white knights, and red bishops—I feel even less significant than the lowliest piece—simply one of the black or white squares the pieces trod upon in order to wage their own endless war.

“What makes you think I want to get to the bottom of this—to fuck up these assholes who lied to me, ruined my life, and killed my fucking parents any less than you do?” I boom from behind my mirrored sunglasses, baring my teeth at Seb to remind him that I’m not some sniveling little omega or beta girl he can order around. If I bark—it’ll be as bad as my bite.

Sébastien seems to find this satisfactory because he gives me a curt nod before adding, “Fine—you cover us. If anyone gets hurt—if Caz—” he starts, before cutting himself off; unwilling or embarrassed to say the words? I’m not sure.

“Don't you worry your pretty head.” I purse my lips in an air smooch in Seb’s direction. “We’re getting out of here. Now that my little Saints have provided me with the proper tools—” I cross my arms over my body to retrieve both of my guns.“We’re not just going to make it out alive, we’re going to do it in style.” There’s a distinct pair of clicks as I disengage the safeties.

“Oho!” Frank beams, that giddy rancor lighting his features like a Christmas tree. “Your little Saints? Seems like our Lucifer is up for a bit of the old ultra-violence.” Frank actually licks his lips.

“There’s something freeing about finding out most of your life has been a lie and you’ve got two loaded guns in your hand,” I sigh, the heft of the metal in my palms bringing me a deep calm that I haven’t felt since before I left for the Diamond Center settling over me as Frank nods to each of us—confirming we’re ready to make a break for the roof.

“So, you’re ready then?” Frank shakes out the tension from his shoulders—all of us loaded, ready to spring.

“To get out of this shit-hole, wasting whoever gets in our way? Yeah, I’m ready,” I confirm at the back of the pack.

Wyatt fucking Earp.

I steel myself as Frank swings the door open and we launch into motion.

Immediately we are met with the sounds of boots moving on stairs beneath us. Stern voices telling hysterical tenants to keep their doors closed and to shelter in place; the occasional apartment owner shouting their displeasure or a baby crying punctuating the sound of a group of professionals making their way up the stairwell toward us.

As we begin our trek to the rooftop, leaving the fourth floor and our temporary hiding spot behind us as we race for the sixth floor exit to the roof deck; I peer down the stairwell at the plainclothes officers and agents pooling in the vestibule around our recently abandoned apartment—a small metal battering-ram appearing from the liquid crowd of denim and canvas concealing Kevlar and nylon as more agents flow up the stairs behind the others; eager to clear the upper portion of the building.

Evidently having seen the same unfolding events, Seb deemed it a good time to produce a long metal pipe fitted with a small plastic box, duct tape and a mess of wires; tossing the DIY bomb through the open spiral of the stairwell—the shiny bit of aluminum arcing through the narrow spindles of the Bannister—dropping onto the landing of the 5th floor with a deafening BANG, a cloud of smoke, and a flurry of shrapnel.

We round the spira-mirabilis, dust and debris lifting in a plume to chase us up the concrete and metal steps; Frank’s boot making a loud clang as he kicks the push-plate on the door to the roof.

“Move it!” Frank barks, already busily traversing the empty roof—boots thumping over the black tar paper as he makes a beeline for the building next door—another three floors taller than the roof we’re currently on. His path is a direct course for the tracery of black metal fire escape on the crumbling brick facade.

Q and I slam the door to the roof shut—Quentin pulling two metal spiked wedges from his bag, dropping them on the ground and swiftly kicking them beneath the narrow space below the bottom of the door and the roof—the oversized shims jamming the door shut quickly and effectively.

Frank kicks over a stack of wooden boards and half empty paint cans—laying the rickety stretch of treated wood across the narrow gap between the buildings; one end of the board resting atop the roof’s ledge, the other end resting precariously over the rail of a fire escape landing.

“Go, Go, Go!” he shouts—ushering Caz and Seb over the dubious ‘bridge’—steadying the board with his own iron grip as they step lightly across.

Quentin crosses himself—then bounds across the board on feather feet—hardly touching down, leaping like a gazelle across the divide with little difficulty.

“You too—get a fuckin’ move on!” Frank snaps and I shoot a quick glance back to the door, clearly rattling on its hinges as the breach team—and the battering ram we saw earlier, no doubt—attempt to make their way to the roof.

I holster my guns before I step onto the board, still steady in Frank’s hands—arms spread out to their full wingspan to balance like a tightrope walker, my heart jumping into my mouth when I hear the dry, hollow, telltale crack of the wood—when I feel Lady Gravity begin dragging me toward the ground nearly six stories below.

In the split second as I begin to fall, Seb is the first one to reach for me—his eyes wide with panic; Caz screaming my name as Quentin hurries in to latch his arms around Seb’s waist like an anchor as Seb’s heavily tattooed hand—with its signature chipping black matte polish clamps around my wrist.

My body swings into the metal fire escape railing with a painful slam as the shattered board gives way beneath my feet and splinters on the pavement below; Seb and Quentin—my lifelines, keeping me suspended long enough for Caz to scramble to the railing and help pull me over the ledge.

Once I’m safely reeled in and set on my own two feet, the four of us make way—opening a space for Frank on the black iron fire escape.

“I’d get a running start if I were you, Frank,” Quentin warns grimly—his eyes only skimming the drop below; the remnants of our ad hoc bridge scattered below. Even though it’s only a momentary glance, I can tell Q has imagined Frank’s broken body in place of the treated wood—his complexion a ghostly white.

Frank backs up from the ledge—shaking his arms out as he prepares to make his leap.

“We’re about to have some visitors,” Seb warns, reaching into his pack for another bit of boom.

I draw my guns just as the doorway to the roof swings open, and squeeze off a couple of shots into the two burly plainclothes DEA guys who burst from the frame.

Frank, to his credit, doesn’t bother with a backward glance—just pumps his arms madly as he sprints for the edge of the roof; one boot launching him from the ledge as the other pedals wildly into open air—his body arcing clumsily from the roof to Quentin and Seb’s waiting arms at the edge of the fire escape.

I open my stance, establishing a solid base as I fire at the pack of agents that begins to flood from the door to the roof, their bodies crumpling and dropping as they step through the frame. A pile of bodies begins to form—both blocking the others from an easy exit, and announcing the threat of gunfire to those who may not yet know we’re returning fire.

Frank slams against the bars of the fire escape gracelessly—but clamors easily over the rail with the help of Q and Seb.

Instantly, Frank falls into line beside me—the resident dead-eye of the group; his gun appearing from the holster at his lower back as he squeezes off several perfect shots into the brave and stupid agents still trying to clamor over their fallen friends onto the roof.

P’ting! A sharp whistle and loud metallic ping sound frighteningly close to my head—then I catch the whiff of burnt hair—one of my dangling strands of wig singed by an errant bullet.

“Hit the deck!” I scream—eyes already darting to the other rooftops in search of a sniper.

We’d been in enough of a rush that we hadn’t scoped out possible sharpshooters on the nearby roofs. Though I had thought the breach would have taken into account the residential area of Beach City—deeming it too dangerous to come in with this much heat. After the revelations of this morning, I’m starting to understand that everything I’ve ever known is a lie. The preservation of human life just isn’t as important to these people and organizations as I once thought. I was never one of the ‘good guys’ I was just a goodie-two-shoes-fool who believed in the intrinsic ‘goodness’ of man.

Well, fuck me running—right?

“We gotta get out of line of sight!” Frank barks—the five of us shimmying on our bellies to the drop down ladder to the next level of fire escape.

“Working on it!” Quentin sing-songs impatiently—weaving his way down the metal ladder with graceful speed.

TINK!

Another bullet ricochets off the metal landing and Frank grits his teeth—head swinging from me to the others as he weighs his options.

“Get down to the car—Lou and I are pinned. We’re going to have to go with ‘plan B’; we’ll catch up to you. Head for the Parker tunnel, we can break off down the access way—regroup, head for the safe-nest,” Frank booms, the other Saints only hesitating for a second before they spring into action. “Cover my ass while I make us a path!” he shouts at me, pulling his hand into the sleeve of his leather jacket, making a fist beneath the hem of the cuff and closing the opening in his curled fingers before driving his protected fist through the glass window behind us.

“There’s a motorcycle out front once we get downstairs,” he explains as he knocks away the largest spires of glass from the edges of the pane, clearing the way inside the apartment.

“No chance I’m driving?” I grunt—still firing at the trepidatious agents slowly trickling over the bodies of their fallen brethren; the other Saints, already streaming through the alleyway over the splinters of broken boards in my peripheral vision, on their way to the getaway car.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Frank honks a gallow’s laugh, popping the second window open behind me, taking a knee at the broken window’s edge, aiming to give me cover. “We’re riding double-dutch, someone needs to keep the Feds off our tail.” He nods to my smoking guns before I dive through the open window—rolling roughly over the floor strewn with dog toys inside the apartment.

“Better not be a fucking tiny sports bike,” I bitch, the two of us tearing through the hallway of the apartment on our way to the emergency stairwell; feet pounding each step as we race toward the bottom.

True to his word, there’s a bright red Ducati parked directly outside the apartment building.

Frank holsters his gun and kicks one leg gracefully over the glistening crimson 250 horsepower monster, that manic glee making him crackle with electricity from head to toe as he grins wildly at me.

I’m struck with the dizzy realization that I could run. I could plug Francis Stone right here and take off—become a wraith in the night; living only to exact my revenge on Susan Lowry, this so-called ‘White Knight,’ and anyone else who has ever done me or my family wrong.

No, that isn’t quite true—I wouldn’t be living only for revenge; my sigma curse—without support from powerful pharmaceuticals—will leave me helpless every four to six weeks; unable to function without an alpha to knot me, an omega or other sigma to lock-and-key.

Even that’s another lie; a convenient obfuscation of the fact—that I felt with Caz, with Q, sensations and passion that stirred the darkest, untouched places of myself—are skeins of truths I’m not yet willing to begin to unravel.

There isn’t time for this kind of contemplation. With a deep breath and a sharp exhale, I kick my leg up—swinging into the saddle, straddling Frank’s lap. His hands already grip the handlebars, arms threaded beneath mine as I extend my aimed guns over his right shoulder, my entire upper body molded against his, my legs wrapped around him, my boots crossed at the ankle behind the small of his back, atop the small leather padded passenger seat as he throttles us out of the parking spot—my eyes never leaving the pack of agents swarming from the apartment building they failed to extract us from.

This close, it’s hard to tell which frantic thudding is his heart or mine, the mix of our scents so strong, so incongruous it's nearly obscene.

There’s a whizzing whistle and a muffled ‘thuk!’ beneath my elbow. I can’t spare the glance, but the small wobble of the bike and Frank’s surprised yelp of pain lets me know he’s been hit.

“You ok?” I shout over the din of the engine and the air rushing past us.

“Just grazed my shoulder,” Frank groans before adding. “Don’t worry about me—just make sure you keep those bozos off our tail. We wanna lose ‘em before the tunnel if possible.”

I do as I’m told—firing into the windshield of a nondescript black sedan—the shatterproof glass soaking up my slugs without blinding the driver with spiderweb cracks across the windscreen.

Great, Fabulous.

Another bullet followed by the high, brittle sound of breaking glass as the tiny right-side mirror peeking up from the handlebars explodes into glittering splinters and dust.

“C’mon Lucifer,” Frank teases. “You’re better than this! You really gonna let a little bulletproof glass stop you?”

Refusing to take his bait, I close one eye—taking aim at the agent in the front passenger seat as he pokes his head out of the window, one eye peeking down the sight of his gun.

Thanks, buddy.

Boom! Right between the eyes. He goes limp—his bleeding forehead, still against the edge of the rolled down car window—his gun falling from his fingers to the rolling blacktop below as his grip goes slack.

“Attagirl!” Frank whoops triumphantly—our bodies generating serious heat where they press together, despite the cold air whipping around us as we speed down the Lewis Surface Road toward the Beach City Transit tunnel, and our temporary freedom.

It’s only a momentary reprieve though, the driver of the clandestine sedan extends his left arm out of the driver’s side window as he grips the steering wheel with his right—firing at Frank and I as steadily as he can muster while carrying on an active car chase with two lunatics on a sportbike.

I take a deep breath, doing my best to focus on the tiny target of his pale hand, a weapon wrapped tightly in the gunman’s fingers. I may be good—but this is more than a long shot—it’s basically impossible.

Lucky for me, it looks like help has just arrived.

At first I’m so focused on aiming for the driver’s gun hand I don’t see the ugly, boxy station wagon until it’s nearly ramming the black sedan from behind; Caz with his peroxide blond fuzz and mirrored aviators gripping the steering wheel with both hands as Seb hangs halfway out of the back seat passenger side window—tossing a DIY pineapple grenade into the lap of the sedan’s driver before Caz floors it ahead.

I can’t help the squeal of fright that escapes me as the sedan blasts a column of fire and smoke into the air as it flips into the air—sprawling haphazardly across the road behind us; the sounds of sirens moan in the near distance.

“Best fucking demo man in the business!” Frank hoots his hurrah, revving the bike into a higher gear as we approach the opening of the transit tunnel.

Satisfied that I have a moment to look away, I turn my attention to something warm and wet spreading across my right knee up to my thigh.

A cursory inspection of the black denim only yields the existing information: Warm, wet,soaking the leg of my jeans so that it shines like the hide of a seal.

Then I see it, the telltale bullet hole in the sleeve of Frank’s jacket—the blood flowing in gouts from his shoulder onto my leg below.

“Frank, that’s not a fucking graze!” I shout, my stomach tightening at the sight of so much of Frank’s blood spilling onto me.

“Yeah, well—there’s not a whole lot we can do about it right now,” he grits out, weaving us through the sparse traffic entering the tunnel. The station wagon is doing its best to keep up as we make our way toward the line of wooden sawhorse dividers topped with flashing lights that separate the artery for tunnel construction and maintenance workers from the main transit line.

Frank slows, allowing the other Saints to take the lead; the station wagon blasting through the flimsy wood and plastic barriers without any difficulty—Frank weaving through the debris as we zoom after them.

Seeing that we’ve had no direct pursuit down the service artery, Caz pulls over to the side less than a half mile into the sub-tunnel; his tires screeching as he comes to an abrupt halt—Frank sliding sideways into a stop just behind the stopped Volvo.

I move to holster my guns, to steady him as he dismounts the motorcycle.

“Eyes up!” he yells at me, slumping awkwardly off the bike with a wince—his left arm hanging limply at his side as blood runs from his fingers.

“Get him in the car and someone fucking stop that bleeding!” My sigma bark carries over the loud ambient noise of the tunnel—Seb and Q scramble from the car to collect the bleeding Frank as the echo of rumbling engines begins to crescendo—a sure indication that we were not yet out of the woods.

I dismount the bike, half-crouching behind it—arms propped on the black leather seat to steady my aim as I lay in wait.

As two more nondescript black sedans with ballistics glass windows make their way down the amber-lit tunnel corridor, the greasy orange lights flickering over the dark glass and mirror sheen paint job, Seb scuttles in beside me, taking what shelter his broad, muscular frame can take behind the sleek motorcycle.

“Get down, cover your ears,” he warns me, reaching into his bag of exploding tricks to retrieve a nearly spherical looking device.

Sébastien springs to standing, throwing the mysterious orb like a shot put down the tunnel toward the rapidly approaching cars as a hail of sloppy gunfire issues from both shining black vehicles.

I’ve seen what kind of damage Seb’s little homecraft bombs can do, so I hit pavement, putting my belly on the ground, squeezing my shoulders up to my ears and covering my head with my arms, guns still in hand—a sliver of visibility beneath one of my arms, through the wheels of the motorcycle, shows the brilliant orange plumes of flame that overturn the first of the two black sedans.

“Ta grand mere!” Sébastien screams as the first car spirals into the curvature of the concrete tunnel wall, blossoming into a massive auto-fire, belching black smoke.

The second pursuit vehicle nearly goes ass-over-teakettle as it spins into an emergency stop just behind the wall of flame created by the first destroyed car.

These fuckers just won’t quit, though. I’d been hoping Seb’s work as boom scholar would have been enough, but a team of 5 agents—some in impact helmets and goggles, some in ball caps and shades, burst through the smoke and breaks in the wall of flame, hell bent on stopping us.

“Get to the car Seb!” I press up from the ground, peering carefully over the seat of the bike as one of the agents shoots and narrowly misses the gas tank. A few paces more, and he won’t miss.

“And what about you, eh?” he protests, hand already rooting around in the bag of boom for another weapon.

“I’ll cover you getting to the car—then I take care of these assholes so we can make a clean break. Promise.”

Seb’s mouth sets in a hard line—those chocolate brown eyes fixing me with an accusatory glare that might as well say, and why should I trust you?

I’m not sure what compels me to do what I do next. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, or my imminent heat, or the way Seb’s bottom lip looks so beautiful—full and juicy—but I lean in, gun still in hand, and hook my wrist around the nape of his neck—bringing his face to mine, our mouths meeting in a momentary crush, his tongue sweeping unexpectedly into my mouth as I catch his lower lip in my teeth; not hard enough to break skin, to bite, to bond, but enough to make clear the earnestness of my promise.

I force myself to break the kiss and pull away—the two of us blinking away the intensity of the moment before I snap. “There’ll be more where that came from—but you need to trust me. Now get in the fucking car!”

Without protest—Seb skitters back to the station wagon as I pop up from behind the motorcycle, guns blazing—like some kind of jack-in-the-box from hell.

One by one, three of the four agents soak up my bullets before dropping to the pavement in the golden-amber drenched light of the tunnel. The last fires a one shot into the gas tank of the bike, and then another; forcing me to abandon my hiding place lest I risk clinging to the bike as it explodes.

I peel away from the bike just as I hear the telltale clatter of the agent’s empty magazine hitting the pavement. I dig in, turning my body toward him—my shoulder slamming into his chest just beneath his chin before he can manage to re-load.

In a desperate attempt for control, the wiry, but strong agent drops his useless gun and wraps his arms around me in a tight bear hug—forcing my arms against my sides as he braces me against him.

Not good enough. One of my guns is pressed against his body, the other pointed toward the ground but at a bad angle. I let out an animal cry, and he makes an awful gurgling noise as I jam the muzzle of one of my guns into his stomach, firing off several rounds before I fall to the ground with him; still trapped in his arms.

He breaks my fall as we hit the asphalt—his arms loosening before going completely slack as I push to my elbows on top of him—his blood spilling in hot gouts over me as I look upon his face in horror.

“L-ouise?” Tennant croaks—blood pouring from the corner of his mouth, spreading like crimson ink over the edge of his bottom lip.

“Scott?” I gasp—reaching to help him on instinct.

“They said you were dead, that those mad dogs the Saints killed you.” His brows pinch together in confusion, the corners of his mouth turned down, seeping blood and saliva.

“I’m right here Scott,” I assure him, though I’m not certain my being alive is a comfort to him—the way his eyes widen, his mouth working slowly as he tries to force air into his lungs.

A chain of wet coughs sends Scott Tennant’s blood spattering across my face, shock growing in his pale green eyes as I feebly attempt to put pressure on the bullet holes I just put in his abdomen.

“Are y-you the dirty bomb?” Scott asks tremulously, his gaunt face a mask of blood and terror.

“Dirty bomb?” I shake my head, hazarding a glance up to ensure no other agents are on their way to rain hell down upon us; I see only the wall of flaming wreckage and dropped bodies; hear the distant cries of the Saints yelling for me to join them in the getaway car.

“I’m not a bomb, Scott,” I begin to sob—attempting to wipe the blood away from Tennant’s eyes, but only smearing the mess around more—forgetting my hands are soaked. Both of us know he’s going to die. I’ve never been friends with Scott Tennant. Fuck, I don’t even like the bastard—but I’ll be damned if I let another human die alone and confused like this.

“The Zeitnot virus,” he manages before belching up more gore. “Briefing said t-targets had a dirty bomb—made by Margot and Landon Penny⁠—”

If I weren’t already adrenaline sick, this might have pushed me over the edge. The Fed is now laying the virus at the feet of my dead, ostensibly civilian parents. Within the organization, it’s been communicated that the Saints are in possession of a ‘dirty bomb;’ and according to Scott—I’m already dead. A casualty of the Saints—a martyr for the bureau who no longer needs to be saved or accounted for.

I’ve been erased—struck from the narrative, so that the Windmill and the corruption within the highest levels of federal organization can do whatever they so choose with me once I’ve been found and captured. The only thing standing between me and a lifetime imprisonment as a lab rat for the Feds or the Windmill is the Saints. They are my only hope of getting answers—getting vengeance.

“He didn’t believe it,” Tennant gasps, gripping my wrist with one bloody hand—his eyes searching mine in desperation as he clings to the last vestiges of his life.

“Who didn’t believe it?” I croon, blinking tears from my eyes as I lay my hand over Scott’s scarlet smeared knuckles, a pathetic attempt at tenderness in his last moments.

“Dennis—” Scott pauses, and for a moment—I wonder if McBride’s name will be his last word.

“Dennis didn’t believe what?” I prompt him quietly, as Scott’s eyelids begin to droop closed.

“Didn’t believe you were dead—said he would have been able to feel it, said you wouldn’t⁠—”

But Scott will never finish whatever it was he had to say. He goes still beneath my hands on the pavement—his eyes unfocused, gone.

The rest of the escape from Beach City is a muted blur.

Hazily, I can remember Quentin snatching me from my place over Tennant’s body—tossing me into the car with Frank and Sébastien in the back seat, watching the flames and smoke around his lifeless form as we tore off down the service tunnel.

Seb and I did our best to temporarily patch Frank up and wipe the blood from our faces as we escaped into the densely populated outer city limits, stopping in an overcrowded block of apartment houses to ditch the station wagon for another vehicle.

I don’t really recall getting into the rusty, old red Jimmy, but when I woke up to the smell of gas station coffee and powdered sugar doughnuts, we were already three quarters of the way to the hunting lodge; our place to lie low and weather the oncoming heat.

None of us spoke much beyond what was strictly necessary. Caz didn’t even insist on playing his horrible dial-up modem music on the radio. It seemed like all of us really needed the silence, a bit of calm between the storms.

It was just before midnight when the snow began to fall, eerie—like white flower petals against the black velvet night in the headlights; a tunnel of naked trees crowded along the narrow back roads; their twisted branches clacking together in the wind of the dark winter night.

“Not far now,” Quentin assures us as we drive deeper and deeper into the wood, even though no one asked.

When we finally come to a stop, it’s in the three-spot-lot of a small ice fishing park.

All of us pour out of the car and set busily to loading ourselves up with supplies to carry on foot to our final destination, except for Frank—who has lost a good amount of blood and needs to take his time.

Frank shuffles over to a metal stand with small slots and a weathered metal shim in the shape of a ‘T’ dangling from a crimped bit of cable wire and jams a ten dollar bill into the slot marked “A”, The snow already nearly erasing the label of our spot from view.

Quentin leads the way, all of us wearing headlamps and trudging through the quickly growing drifts—the blizzard picking up in earnest; snowflakes like huge wads of cotton balls falling fast in the whistling wind.

We emerge from the dense wood onto a nearly silent crescent of frozen lake, large crags of rock, gnarled juniper and waxy leaved bushes I don’t recognize, almost completely hide the large structure from view—half built into the snowy ground, rising away from the lakebed.

Once I know what I’m looking at, it’s easy to see the shape of the building, the A-Frame of dark glass windows set into the cabin’s lakefront face, the slumped, tapered side facing us with its cedar shingles patinated by weather and age seeming to emerge from beneath the ground—a stall of wooden boards with heavy iron fittings; including a door ring on the lake-facing side of the cabin. Just beside the structure, similarly dusted in snow—is a rack of what must be a few small boats covered in fatigue-print plastic tarp.

It isn’t much, but it’s a welcome sight after our hasty, bloody departure, and almost a whole day on the road.

The five of us hurry into the small vestibule through the main door; a built-in wooden bench for getting one’s boots on and off just inside.

“Caz, help me figure out what the fuck is going on with this solar battery and generator,” Quentin yelps from deeper inside the cabin.

It's cold enough inside the hunting lodge that we can all see our breath in the incomplete darkness. Once Caz and Q manage to get a few electric lanterns on, I can see the far end of the small cabin. The forest facing side of the structure boasts a decently sized L-shaped sitting area. It’s too large to be a sofa, but not quite expansive or plush enough to pass as a nesting space; the whole thing is furnished with ratty cushions, worn out pillows, and various animal skin throws hanging on the wall. To the right side of the seating area is a wooden ship's ladder that leads to a lofted sleeping area above—mismatching sized windows cast pale blue moonlight reflected off the snow.

I can tell even from down here that the bed is made to fit much more than two; it takes up nearly the entire loft.

On the other side is a fieldstone fireplace built atop a large slate ledge that stands in line with the rest of the shabbily constructed seating—my breath turning to steam in the cold air. I look longingly at the empty fireplace.

Luckily for us, below the hunting lodge ‘couch’ and the ledge of slate sitting beneath the stacked stone hearth, lies an unbroken line of split and stacked, dry wood.

I don't wait for anybody to give me a task I just set into motion, dropping my bags next to the built-in boot bench, kicking off my snowy shoes, and padding quietly to the fireplace.

As more lanterns come alive, it's easier to see the fire poker, the brass tin of fatwood, the small stack of old newspapers, and a metal box of waterproof matches stored neatly by the fireplace.

I pull the hooked fire poker from its iron hook on the stone chimney and lean in to reach up into the sooty chimney and unhook the primitive floo, then I set to work. Arranging several small split logs. A crinkled piece of paper and a few bits of fatwood kindling in the empty fireplace, swept clean of ashes.

As I work at building the fire, I can hear Sébastien behind me, the soft metallic sounds of him shuffling through different canned goods on the supply shelf that serves as a pantry just inside the door to the cabin. I hear Seb mutter something incomprehensible as he toes the black iron ring on a small wooden door built into the dusty floorboards. He lifts it, revealing a crawl space root cellar. I can't be certain of what he's saying. But it sounds affirmative. With any luck. We've got enough supplies to stake out the worst of our heat.

I'm about halfway through starting the fire, coaxing the small flames up to catch the larger logs now that the fat wood and paper kindling are ablaze. I look up at my work at the hearth to see Frank—a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the lake facing A-frame’s motley assortment of sliding doors, casement windows, quarter arches, triangles, octagons, and one lone frame of stained glass at the very apex.

Something about him—the shadows wrapped around Frank, the moonlit snow glowing in the backdrop through so many different panes of glass, feels like seeing him for the first time. In his hands, a bottle of amber liquid catches the cool glow of the moon and turns it into a soft, warm glimmer.

Feeling my eyes on him, no doubt—Frank turns to face me—a barely leashed hunger radiating from him.

I can feel my pulse thumping in my neck, even though we’re nominally ‘safe’ now and I should finally be able to take a breath to relax… but something about the way that Frank looks at me is like a predator stalking its next meal—licking his chops in the anticipation of the kill—devouring. I crouch there, in the bloom of golden light from the fire as it begins to burn in earnest, the larger logs both caught and blooming with golden flame as I ease back onto my heels.

Just as I’m wondering if he’s going to pounce on me, to consume me whole, there is a loud click followed by a low hum and the warm glow of the few electric lights strewn around the cabin. A string of golden amber Christmas lights twinkles along the bottom of the lofted sleeping area; the long line of LEDs on dark green wire Cris-crossing this way and that over the den—a few exposed filament bulbs hanging over the metal basin sink, the boot bench, the high point of the A-frame, and the loft.

“Let there be light!” Quentin proclaims beneficently.

Already the fire and our five bodies have begun to warm the small space, my breath no longer showing in dense clouds, Caz shrugging out of his large parka before he sets to plugging in a surge protector and all of his various batteries and devices now that he and Q have settled the power situation.

Frank sets the bottle of whiskey on the slate overhang and carefully shrugs out of his leather jacket—laying it over the top of the constructed couch’s back cushions. Even though his t-shirt is black and doesn’t show the bloodstains—the tattered bullet hole shows a patch of bandage beneath, the hurried patch job yellowed and pin pricked with red where it’s soaked through with Frank’s blood and gore.

He deflates slightly as he plops down onto the arm of the “L” closest to the fire, wincing as his shoulder makes contact with the cushion as he leans back; allowing his left arm to hang limply at his side as he lifts the whiskey bottle off the slate with his right.

“Got anything stronger than this?” he asks Caz, unscrewing the cap clumsily with a single hand before flicking it toward the triangular wall of mismatched windows looking out over the silent, frozen lake.

Without meaning to, I’ve closed the distance between us—my fingers already moving toward the ruined sleeve of Frank’s T-shirt so I can tend to his wound.

“Don’t worry about me, Sweetheart.” He grins slyly, taking a swig from the open bottle before placing it between his thighs—using his newly freed hand to roll the sleeve of his shirt, to unwind the length of gauze that holds the meager few non-stick absorbent pads Seb and I rounded up out of the car’s first aid kit.

“Shut up,” I snarl, snatching the open bottle from his hand—slapping it away as I take my own pull before leaning in to get a look at the bullet wound.

“Well, it’s certainly the best of a bad situation.” I suck air through my teeth and set the bottle back on the slate overhang—just out of Frank’s reach. “Exit wound shows that the bullet isn’t still in the arm. Even if it glanced bone or nerve, the bleeding stopped and the bruising is pretty minor—it doesn't look like you’ve got an internal bleeding problem.” I click my tongue as Frank pushes forward in his seat—nearly knocking heads with me.

Quentin appears over my shoulder with a small, tin first aid kit and a reproachful look aimed at Frank—who has leaned forward to grab the bottle, poised to pour some of the spirit over his wound like some stupid character from a movie.

“Don’t waste that,” I snap—stealing the bottle from him deftly once more and passing it over my shoulder to Quentin, who whisks it away to the counter and the slight civilization of 5 metal camping mugs. “We have isopropyl and iodine don’t slosh the drinkable stuff around,” I growl, producing the small, flat amber bottle of iodine and matte clear bottle of rubbing alcohol from the kit along with a stack of cotton pads and a roll of clean gauze. “Plus—we’re going to start with soap and water anyway.” I look back over my shoulder to see Quentin nod—filling a metal kettle with water before hanging it on an iron hook over the fire built for just such a purpose.

Frank’s lip curls back as Quentin returns with a metal pot, a clean rag and a small bottle of castile soap from the metal basin sink. I thank Q with a silent nod, then set my materials on the slate and shimmy out of my parka—my black wig long abandoned—hair still pinned in a crown of copper braids against my head.

Caz and Seb slump exhausted, onto the cushioned seating on the opposite side of the “L” from Frank. Quentin brings them both a metal, granite-speckled camping mug with a few fingers of whiskey in it and takes my coat from me so that I can get to re-bandaging Frank.

“C’mon Cazzy—no pills? Nothing? You gotta have at least some weed, you little stoner shit,” Frank groans as I pick up the rag and pull the kettle, just shy of whistling, off the hook—pouring the steaming water into the bowl. Along with a few drops of castile soap.

Caz shoots Frank a nasty look, but I see his eyes dart quickly to his backpack. This delights Frank—who seems to be enjoying pressing Cazzy’s buttons as much as he enjoys the prospect of pain relief.

“Or you could come over here and treat Miss Penny and I to some of that special sauce,” Frank goades, his tongue flicking out over his incisors then his bottom lip as if considering taking a bite of Caz.

Caz turns a surprisingly flattering shade of pink—the blush extending all the way to his flaxen buzzed hairline.

“Not until I’m finished patching you up, he can’t,” I admonish, pushing Frank back into his seat with one flat palm on the middle of his chest.

“Ooh! Little Lucifer thinks she’s gonna get rough with me, huh?” Frank grins, that spark of mania spreading like a growing flame from his curled lips to his glittering Prussian blues.

“You talk tough,” I begin, tartly—dipping the rag into the soapy water and wringing it out thoroughly before gently dabbing his gently oozing wound with it.

Frank, for all of his masculine bluster, lets out a high-pitched yelp of pain and scoots quickly away from me—stopping abruptly as he reaches the end of the cushion before he’s practically in the fireplace.

“Stay still—you big baby!” I scold him as the others watch silently from their places on the couch; Seb and Q hovering at the edge of their seats, whiskey in hand as Caz half-heartedly rolls a messy spliff over the open backpack on his lap.

“Why don’t you make me, Sweetheart,” Frank growls back in challenge, his body inclining toward me once more.

I can smell him, his scent turning from its typical warm, woody finish—to a deep, musky sweetness—a tang with almost a metallic sharpness finishing out his alpha fragrance; a sure sign that he’s been driven to the precipice of rut with Q and I both so close to our heats.

My sigma biology sings out, and before I can give too much thought to what I’m doing—I’ve planted one knee on the outside of Frank’s right thigh, then his left; allowing my full weight to settle onto his lap as I straddle him—pinning him to the makeshift couch beneath us, the bowl of soapy water and the first aid supplies still on the slate overhang to my left.

Frank moves to resist—but his injured shoulder brings him up short, a growl rumbling low in his chest as I bring the cloth back to his shoulder.

“Tch, tch, tch! Quentin, Caz, and Seb may let you get away with… well murder,” I challenge as Frank bares his teeth with another snarl of pain. “But I am not so easily swayed.” I lean in—allowing my body to press against his; his right hand creeping up over my left thigh from where my knee makes contact with the cushion beneath us.

“After the tearful parting with your old work buddy this morning and conking out on the ride up here, I didn’t think you’d be so in the mood, Sweetheart,” he seethes, gripping my thigh—stopping a moment to savor the involuntary press of my legs and the dip of my pelvis as it grinds against him. I wish I could bluff this off, but my heat is too close—it’s all I can do not to start ripping his clothes off right now and ride, ride, ride till his knot is inside me.

A flash of Tennant’s bloody face—his blank stare fixed far beyond me, through me, is like a momentary dousing of ice water.

“Body chemistry is a bitch,” I manage to bite out, laying the rag over the edge of the metal bowl before snatching up the bottle of iodine and a cotton pad.

“Ain’t she?” Frank volleys back, both his hands suddenly cupping my ass, his hands squeezing my glutes through the black denim—pulling me against him as my eyelids flutter, my lips roll over my teeth to avoid letting out an obscene moan.

I grab Frank’s face with my right hand, pinching the sides of his face so that his cheeks hollow—his lips pressed in a fishy purse as I press the iodine soaked cotton pad to the large cut that runs from his right brow to his hairline.

“FUCK!” he barks in pain, his hips bucking beneath me so that he almost launches me off of his lap.

“Maybe later, if you’re real good,” I taunt, pressing the antiseptic against his wound again—this time without an outburst.

“Oh, I’m real good, Sweetheart—you’ll see,” he growls, his face lifting beneath my careful tending, his upturned nose brushing against my pulse—the surprisingly soft brush of his beard ghosting against the hollow of my throat, his hot breath pooling between my clavicles as he breathes my scent in.

“Tough talk from one of the only guys in the room who hasn’t made me cum.” The challenge is past my lips before I can take it back.

“Give a guy a chance, eh?” I hear Seb grumble from just outside my peripheral vision.

My eyes flick to the dark window, finding the others in the night lit glass’ reflection.

Quentin and Caz sit flanking Seb—both of them rubbing up against Seb as he strokes himself—already hard and sporting a half-knot in his threadbare jeans.

I feel Frank’s hardness beneath me, the heat of his breath dissipating as I pull back—leaning over to dab at his shoulder with the iodine.

“Fuck,” he moans, rolling his hips upward into me—the two of us desperate for whatever friction we can make between us and our dark denim. “Usually I hold off till the third or fourth time I fuck someone to add in the S&M shit,” he hisses through a shit-eating grin—his hands still gripping my ass as he helps guide my pelvis to grind against his.

“What can I say? I’m the little red Corvette type—fast, but fun,” I tease, using all my willpower to focus on winding the cylinder of clean white gauze around Frank’s shoulder.

He reaches up and pulls several of the long bobby pins from my hair—the pair of braids I plaited my tresses into earlier falling in long lines down my back.

“I wonder, will you be this chatty once you’re in heat?” Frank sneers as I tuck the end of the gauze into the tightly wound bandage, ignoring him as I reach for a pair of butterfly closures for the wound on his forehead.

“Or—” Frank reaches up and takes both of my braids in a single hand—turning his hand over so that my braids loop around his hand and wrist once like a boxer’s wrap, pulling my head back.

Against my best wishes, I let out a high, breathy moan—my hands frozen in place above the freshly applied adhesive butterfly closure.

“Will you be reduced to a mewling, simpering little slut begging for my knot?” He growls, low and intense.

I think the noise I’ve just made is enough of an answer—because suddenly Frank’s mouth is on my neck. No teeth—no bite, but he sucks hard at the tender flesh, drawing the blood to the surface in an exquisite combination of pleasure and just the slightest glimmer of pain.

“You know what I want, Frank?” I challenge, voice husky with want.

“What’s that, Sweetheart?” he rumbles as his lips leave my throat.

“I want to forget everything for a while—no thoughts about the bloodbath today, no worries about how we’re going to handle this mess of a heat or what comes after,” I sigh as his hands begin to creep at the hem of my sweater, his rough fingers tracing their way up my spine—to the double set of hooks and eyes that fasten my bra. “I just want to feel good, and sleep like the dead,” I confess, all the fight—the will to resist—gone from me.

“Well, praise the Saints.” He smiles, his white incisors glittering in the dancing firelight. “That’s a prayer I’m sure we can answer.”

The first time I spent one of Quentin’s heats with the Saints had been an earth-shattering experience for me.

I’d never been with an omega before, certainly never in heat. It only added to the discovery and delight that none of the other Saints had ever been with a theta before either.

While I don’t have a knot like Frank, an alpha or Seb, a gamma; my perfume is unique to my designation. Outside of a heat or rut cycle, my perfume has the power to act as a minor psychotropic—most often presenting by making those affected feel sleepy or slightly drunk. However, once I’m fully in the throes of a breeding—the effect intensifies exponentially; heightening senses, amplifying pleasure, even producing psychedelic effects in the height of the act.

Now, in the small hunting lodge nestled in the woods off of one of the great lakes, I find myself desperate in a way I’ve never experienced.

Before I had even touched her, I’d admired her perfection as she slept; porcelain skin, long scarlet hair, and delicate frown—even in sleep, like a warrior princess from tales of old.

After that fateful day in the bath—tasting her, being inside her—I’ve scarcely been able to think about anything else.

I’ve never been jealous of any of the Saints. Everyone knows that Seb and I favor each other, but I’ve never felt anything but compersion and delight when I’ve seen him giving Q his knot—or when he whines and begs for Frank’s knot during his rut. By the same token, I’ve never coveted Quentin—his omega perfume; sweet and heavy, or Frank; his power, his strength, his raw machismo.

Not the way I have felt that deep, crazed obsession for Louise Penny.

Listening to her and Quentin fuck in the safehouse was the most sublime torture. Their scents—sweet rose and creamy iris—like a garden fresh from the rain creeping beneath my door while the sounds of their moans and husky, dirty talk reached my ears.

Part of me hated hearing her make those sounds for Q—hearing him unravel as she racked him with pleasure; desperate to return to those few golden moments in the bath, deep inside her—our bodies and souls clashing and interweaving in an otherworldly harmony. The other parts of me came twice just listening to Louise lock Q inside her—actually being in the middle of their dual heat might just drive me mad.

“Jesu Crist, Cazzy,” Seb grunts, tearing his eyes away from Frank and Louise to eye me, his nostrils flared, eyelids fluttering.

“I’m going to be high as a kite if you can’t turn that down,” Quentin purrs, one of his long-fingered hands walking its way to me over Seb’s soft tummy until his willow-switch fingers curl into a fist in my t-shirt over my solar plexus—pulling me towards him over Seb.

I can’t spare another second of diverted attention, even though Q reels me in and Seb’s strong hand closes over my hard cock—standing at attention, tented in my omnipresent gray sweats.

My eyes jerk back to Louise—my breath coming in stringy gasps as I watch Frank’s lips close around one of her perfect pink nipples as she writhes atop his lap.

Her long red hair tumbles over one shoulder, her head lolling back as one of Frank’s hands finds her other breast, rough fingers toying with the pink point of her other nipple. Louise’s eyes find mine over the porcelain round of her bare shoulder, vivid red brown and crackling with desire.

It’s all I can do not to spring from the improvised couch and snatch her out of Frank’s arms—to put my mouth on those perfect breasts—to lap the slick honey from between her perfect marble white thighs only to bury myself inside her again and again as my perfume makes each touch break into a kaleidoscope of candy colors and heightened sensations.

My body lurches toward her, but Quentin’s grip on my shirt and Seb’s leg, laid over mine just above the knee—keep me from springing into action, a plaintive, desperate whine escaping me.

Quentin shifts, his face momentarily eclipsing my view—his snake green eyes flashing first with understanding, then pity, then mischief.

“I know the phrase ‘green-eyed-monster’ is meant to be figurative—but I happen to make the joke a little on the nose,” Quentin leans in across Seb’s lap to meet me halfway, his own gaze slipping away guiltily before he returns his focus to me—eyelids drooping, he draws close enough for his breath to whisper over my lips. “But if I'm honest with myself—I want to watch her take Frank and Seb’s knots.”

Seb lets out a sound somewhere between pleasure and a staccato laugh as he takes in Q’s words—clearly prone to similar imaginings as he leans in and kisses my neck—my theta perfume making his motions slow and syrupy compared to his usual keen sharpness.

“That’ll take care of any pesky brain activity—eh?” Seb growls as his powerful grasp on my hard cock gives an encouraging squeeze just below my head.

I moan into Quentin’s mouth as we kiss, Seb stroking me through the thin layer of heathered gray cotton.

Quentin breaks the kiss, his voice low and sultry.

“Imagine being inside her together when she locks me,” Quentin breathes against my parted lips, my hips bucking upward on impulse—my cock twitching in Seb’s hand.

Another high pitched, needy sound escapes me, one eye catching a glimpse of Louise—those cinnamon eyes burning, fixed on the three of us even as Frank’s lips press against her flat stomach above the top button of her black jeans—the jingle of her brass belt buckle ringing out over the sound of labored breathing and the crackling fire now roaring in the stone fireplace.

Quentin and Sébastien turn their eyes to her too, our trio—six hands stroking and gripping one another as we drink in the sight of her and Frank together—greedy imaginations well out pacing our intense touches, slow like honey and heavy with need.

There’s a lucid hunger that flashes in her eyes, like a pair of copper coins flashing in the dark. She looks like a snake, that cruel glint in her eyes telling me that she’d unhinge her jaw and swallow us whole if she could.

Like liquid, she decants herself from Frank’s lap—pouring off of him and out of her jeans in one fluid motion.

“Hey!” Frank growls—his arms suddenly empty.

On all fours, in only a pair of simple black cotton bikini cut panties, Louise begins to stalk toward us—that dark, luminous desire to consume, to waste, to ruinate, sparkling in her eyes.

Lucifer—the devil returned to us.

She stops short, her slow crawl over the cushions halted by Frank’s hands falling on the upper butterfly curve of her pelvis—his fingers hooking through the waistband of black cotton.

“Where do you think you’re going, Sweetheart?” he grunts in protest, pulling the panties down over the round of her juicy ass as he gets on all fours, burying his face in her dripping pussy from behind.

Louise’s eyes roll back into her skull a moment as she stutters forward—her elbows buckling, loud lapping and slurping sounds issuing from Frank as he devours her.

Quentin and Seb steady her, and I’m embarrassed when I realize I’ve actually been holding my breath as she draws nearer and nearer.

Her eyes, nearly black with those huge, dilated pupils flicker down to Seb’s massive hard-on. Then she’s struggling back onto her own hands—clumsy fingers struggling with his heavy belt buckle through Frank’s distracting ministrations.

Unable to help ourselves, Quentin and I rush to assist—Sébastien letting out a long low whistle; lifting his hands up and out of the way as the three of us rush to free his throbbing erection from its denim prison.

Obviously pleased, Louise lets out a little moan as she allows us to take over for her, bracing herself on Sébastien’s thighs, tilting her hips back, Frank eagerly leaning into her—his hands gripping her ass as his lips purse around her clit with a low buzz.

Quentin unbuttons and unzips Seb’s jeans as I help to free his hard cock from the leg of his pants—his massive, cut cock, fully hard, a large knot—a dusky palatinate purple at its base.

“I haven’t tasted Sébastien yet,” she purrs, and while I hardly have a leg to stand on—as I’ve already fucked her once; I couldn’t be more jealous of Seb in this moment.

Quentin and I both make almost-pained hissing sounds as we watch Louise lower herself onto her elbows—her mouth closing around Seb’s cock head, glittering with pre-cum.

Seb himself lets out a sound low in his throat, his right hand leaving Quentin’s cock straining against the leg of Q’s finely tailored trousers to gather the silken falls of Louise’s beautiful red hair so that he might get a better look at her as she works him toward her throat—one of her lily-white hands wound tightly around the base of his cock.

Q lets out a disappointed sigh as Seb abandons his stroking—but takes the opportunity to make use of the newly freed space over his lap to reach up and cup one of Louise’s breasts, small, pert and perfect—gently running the pad of his thumb in tight circles over her hard nipple.

Seb’s hips flex and his head drops back as Louise moans around his hardness, her eyes fixed on Quentin and I.

Quentin shoots me a look, both of us looking to do our best to keep our promise to provide Louise with sufficient distraction.

I shimmy out of my sweatpants, my hard cock standing upright, my piercings winking in the dancing firelight as Quentin eyes me greedily.

Q does his own trousers and I reach for him, a sigh of relief escaping him as my hand closes around his hot hardness.

Louise continues to lavish her attention on Seb as Q and I shuffle our positions on the couch until I am seated with my legs spread wide; Q on his knees on the floor between my parted thighs with his hard cock pressed against mine.

Quentin lets a large bead of saliva, golden in the firelight, dribble down onto our joined cocks, a thread stretching from his mouth down to the rungs of my Jacob's Ladder.

He strokes us together—the delightful friction of our frottage appears to fuel the fires of Louise’s arousal—her gaze becoming even more intense as she hitches her hips against Frank’s face eagerly.

I reach for Q’s hand and guide it away from our twin hardnesses, guiding him so that he’s now the one seated on the couch; me stroking his throbbing erection as I use my fingers to test his pulsing asshole, dripping with slick.

I look into Q’s eyes, slipping my middle finger inside him as his cock jumps in my palm.

There's a loud, wet sound, and Sébastien's cock pops free of Louise's mouth. As she makes a breathless gasp—Frank having added several fingers to her dripping pussy as he continues to lap at her from behind.

“Please,” Louise whines as Frank works her with those brutish, thick fingers—all the while one hand pumping furiously up and down on Seb’s cock—still glistening with her saliva; the other, gripping his knot.

Frank comes up for air from Louise’s sweet pussy—cock in hand, a smug look on his face.

“I told you that you would beg for my—” but before he can finish the thought—Louise is up and off the couch and out of his reach.

“I’m not taking anyone’s knot tonight,” she growls.

Seb looks instantly crestfallen, but keeps any other indicators of his disappointment to himself. Frank is working on looking outraged when Louise cuts him off,

“I’m going to lock Q with Caz still inside,” she says with a wild look in her eye—and neither Q nor I can contain the sounds of anticipatory pleasure that escape us.

“You and Seb can flip or do rock-paper-scissors for the other holes—but I’m not taking either of those.” She glares at Seb and Frank’s imposing knots. “Not tonight.”

Seb’s eyes find mine, and I give him an eager nod.

“Fine,” Frank grunts and repositions himself on the couch so that he lies across several cushions lengthwise, stroking his girth as he motions for Quentin. “Bring that tight ass over here, Beckett—I wanna feel how tight you get when Little Lucifer locks you,” he growls, his canines winking through his smirk as he jerks it.

Quentin practically jumps onto Frank's cock. Frank uses his burly arms to support Q as he tilts himself back, still impaled on Frank—but opening a space for Louise to climb atop him.

While I look on, suddenly—I feel Seb’s cock in the valley of my glutes; his dick sliding against my ass as he lazily squeezes my throbbing erection.

“Let’s get comfortable, mon coeur—it may take them a moment,” Seb murmurs into my ear, guiding me back to the couch cushions as Louise clamors toward Frank and Q.

As Louise mounts Q—Seb reaches between her dripping petals and harvests a good bit of her slick honey; slathering it over his thick cock before reaching down and tentatively slipping his hand between my muscular cheeks and pressing a finger into the ring of taught muscles—making me moan.

There’s a delicious symmetry as I watch Louise take hold of Quentin’s long, muscular legs lifting them upward so that his thighs press against his rippling chest and abs—mounting him in the amazon position. His cock sinks inside her as Sébastien pulls his finger from me and presses his hot, slippery cockhead against my asshole; penetrating me with aching slowness.

There’s a few moments of adjusting—Louise and Frank finding their stride; Frank slowly pumping his cock up to the knot into Quentin as Louise takes Q to the hilt inside her pussy. Seb moves me closer to them with tiny motions forward on our hands and knees as he fucks me doggy—his hand jerking me in a spirited reach around.

I see Louise’s slick begin to flow down Quentin’s balls—to where Frank disappears inside him; Q and Louise’s slick, coat Frank’s pulsing knot—and I know that it’s time.

I raise myself up off of my elbows—prompting Seb to move along with me.

Caressing her lower back, letting my hand drop to her ass—down to where her slickness drenches Quentin’s cock.

“You ready?” My voice is all raspy breath—and Louise can barely spare a gasp to give an affirming, “Yes!”

I grip her hips—guiding her upward until Q is pulled free of her slick pussy; positioning myself against him just like our earlier frottage—my fingers clenched in a ring at the bases of our cocks as Louise glides us across her slick pussy lips—lubing us up before she sinks down onto our dual cocks.

Seb presses his forehead against the nape of my neck as Louise takes us deeper.

“Fuck, you’ve never gotten this tight before,” he hisses as he lurches against me, his cock stroking my prostate in a glorious explosion of sensation.

I can’t even give an intelligent response—only grunt and moan as we all begin to move together.

Quentin lets out a desperate whine as my Jacob's ladder rubs against the underside of his cock—both of us assaulting Louise’s cervix—my prince Albert taking point.

Heavy breathing and intense, wet sounds come from our tangle of bodies; all of us moving together like some infernal machine.

It doesn’t take long before we begin to fire off; a chain reaction of climaxes; Quentin practically screaming his orgasm as his cum flows hot and fast inside of Louise. As his asshole clenches on Frank as Frank’s knot disappears inside Q, barking out his pleasure, his orgasm only intensifies as Louise cries out—her pussy locking both Q and I inside her.

I jolt against her, the crushing pressure of me and Q inside of Louise’s slick pussy sends me convulsing—my balls pulsing as I empty myself inside her—all of my muscles tightening around Seb as he lets out a halting growl, his knot throbbing as I feel his cum spill inside me.

For once, I’m not the last to wake in the morning. Frank and Louise still lay sleeping in the large tousled nest in the loft as I creep down the ship’s ladder to find Seb and Quentin deep in hushed conversation by the fireplace, steaming cups of coffee clutched in their hands.

When they see me step off the last rung of the ladder and stretch into a big yawn—they fall silent, worried looks pinching their fine features.

“What’s the matter? You two look way too grim for having gotten laid last night,” I whisper, noticing the coffee pot on the slate overhang. I shuffle over to the metal basin to retrieve my whiskey mug from last night, giving it a quick rinse by working the small pump handle up and down until freezing cold water pours over the cobalt blue enameled cup speckled with white.

“Well…” Seb sighs, reaching for the pot to pour me a cup of coffee. “The results aren’t definitive, because I had shit equipment and everything was still processing when we had to make a run from the last safehouse,” Sébastien pauses, his eyes finding Quentin’s as the two share a worried look.

“But,” I supply, urging Seb onward as I lean over my backpack and pull a miniature bar of chocolate from the front pouch and strip it of its plastic wrapper before dropping it into my steaming cup of coffee.

“Well, if the test results are to be believed, the dart that was fired at Quentin turned up positive for the Zietnot virus,” Seb answers flatly.

It takes a moment to process what he’s said, but once I do—I jump up from my seat, backing away from Seb and Quentin without thinking.

My shame rises as I realize that my first instinct was one of self preservation, rather than protection—then the combination of panic and confusion when I realize that all of us have not only shared close quarters since the raid on the last safehouse—but we’ve exchanged more than our fair share of bodily fluids as well… Yet none of us seem to be showing symptoms?

I want to ask what the fuck is going on, how they’re acting so calm and collected when Quentin and Louise may already be infected—but Seb doesn’t give me the chance.

“While the dart may have been loaded with the virus, it appears that Quentin is immune to the Zeitnot virus because he has developed antibodies after an initial infection.”

I blink, completely flabbergasted.

“But how? Doesn’t the Zeitnot virus have a nearly zero percent survival rate?” I stammer, my panic getting the best of me.

Seb scrubs at the dark stubble along the hard angle of his jaw.

“This also perplexes me. I need better equipment to get clearer answers—but as far as I can tell from the primitive testing that I’ve been able to do while on the lam, Quentin had previously been infected with the virus—and by some treatment or by the grace of god, survived the symptoms. Since he has immunity from the initial infection, the dart was basically useless on him.”

“Sorry I instantly started to retreat in panic…” Sheepishly, I creep back onto the couch, my eyes fixed on the floor as I offer my apology.

“No, it makes sense.” Quentin shrugs. “It’s not like you would have suffered any symptoms as a theta—you did it out of concern for Louise and I.”

Louise.

My eyes snap to the wooden boards of the loft directly above us.

“Wait—that may partly explain why Q isn’t showing any symptoms, but what about Louise?” I blurt out, fear rising again.

“Now that is a good question,” Seb sighs ruefully, kicking back into the couch with an exasperated sigh.

“We don’t have very long before this heat hits,” Quentin says mildly, but I can see the tension in his jaw as he does his best to appear nonchalant. “But we should prioritize getting Seb some access to some better equipment so that we can get some answers.”

There’s a loud creaking sound from above, which makes the three of us around the fire nearly jump out of our skins. Both Frank and Louise’s heads appear at the edge of the loft—peering down at us.

“I was going to bitch at you three for being so fuckin’ chatty…” Frank yawns.

“But I think it’s safe to say this deserves a conversation,” Louise adds tartly, her eyes still droopy with sleep.

“Well, there’s plenty of beastly coffee—not a proper tea bag to be had in this house, but plenty of that paint thinner,” Quentin sniffs like a prized Persian cat, crossing one long leg over the other as Frank and Louise hobble down the ladder to join us.

Frank opens his mouth, a grin already spreading across his lips—a hand moving to grab his crotch in a lewd gesture.

“Francis Stone—if you make a joke about your scrotum on my face, I will make you regret it,” Q warns Frank—pinching the bridge of his nose delicately, as if he may faint like some Victorian lady.

Everyone bursts into laughter—the momentary mood of the room lightens before silence falls once again.

“So…” Louise breaks the tense quiet, shuffling to the open space on the couch between Seb and I. “You think that I might be immune to the Zeitnot virus? Like Q, because I was previously infected?”

Quentin leans to the fireplace and refills the cup in his hand before passing it down to Louise. Without thinking, I lean over and snatch another small chocolate bar from my pack and offer it to her. We don't have any milk, and Q and I haven’t found any sugar yet—though we didn’t look very hard.

Louise smiles weakly at me and squeezes my hand—our twined fingers still wrapped around the tiny bar of chocolate.

“We don’t know yet,” Seb admits, Frank’s expression darkening as he crosses his arms over his chest.

We spend the next hour or so discussing ‘the new plan.’ While we may have decided to bunk down here at the hunting lodge for Quentin and Louise’s imminent heat—we are also within an hour’s driving distance of the small but reputable Lakeside University, which has a decently outfitted lab in its biology and pharmacy sciences wing.

It’s close enough to the winter holidays that the fall semester has ended, the bulk of the University’s students gone home for winter break. Though some faculty and doctoral candidates pepper the modest campus in these few weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year’s—this suits our needs just fine. We can enter and exit the campus with minimal attention from security or students and faculty who actually have a real reason to be there.

While both Q and Louise insist they are not yet fully in heat, and thus capable and invested in being part of this undertaking—Frank dismisses them outright.

“No way in hell,” he grunts out impatiently, pulling a can of spam from the pantry shelf as Sébastien passes Q and Louise potatoes and an onion from the root cellar to sounds of protest from both of them. “I don’t care how much you bitch and moan—either of you, it makes zero sense to let either of you two out in the open when you’re both already perfuming so much, I can hardly think straight,” he barks impatiently.

Both Louise and Q blush furiously. Just thinking about last night makes all of us glaze over slightly—lost in the hazy memory of pleasure; and none of us can argue with Frank after such a clear-cut demonstration—so that part of the conversation is over.

“Seb and Caz hit good old LSU, handle the tests—grab whatever they can in the way of supplies,” Frank continues solemnly—lifting the metal ring in the corner of the can of spam as he presses on. “While the boys are on campus, I am going to see about getting a meeting with the Red Bishop.”

This makes Louise snap to attention. Though we didn’t have much time to mince words before the raid, it’s clear she hasn’t forgotten the mention of the ‘White Knight’ and ‘Red Bishop’ from the recording of Susan Lowry.

Seb motions for me to take a seat between him and Q, producing a knife from his pocket—giving me an encouraging nod to start peeling the potatoes alongside him. I pull out my own knife warily as Louise sets her potatoes and onion down on the table tersely.

“Now hold on just a minute—you’re not going anywhere near this ‘Red Bishop’ character without telling me what the fuck is going on.” She snarls.

“I know we did a little kissy-kissy, fucky-fucky last night, Sweetheart, but don’t forget that I’m the leader of this ragtag gang of Saints—I’m fucking alpha,” he growls, pulling the little metal ring clear off the corner of the can of Spam in his frustration. “You don’t give me orders, Little Lucifer,” he warns, his hand moving to the back pocket of his jeans—slung low on his hips, looking for his knife.

“If you know who these fucking chess name motherfuckers are—especially the one who killed my parents, and you’ve decided not to tell me.” Louise’s hackles raise, her own sigma aura expanding against Frank’s in a battle for supremacy.

Frank produces a switchblade, flicks it open, and plunges it into the top of the can of lunch meat—wrenching the blade away at an angle—ripping away the pop top of the can as the blade withdraws.

“Or you’ll do what?” Frank barks with his full alpha voice, making all of us jump before he slams his blade down into the wooden table—the knife standing upright as he slams the can down beside it. “You’re a good lay—some of the best pussy I’ve ever had—sure; but I’m not about to roll over and cede this entire operation to some little girl who’s barely five years outta Quantico—platinum level pussy or not,” he growls. “You’ll have plenty of time to follow through on your ultimately unsatisfactory little revenge fantasy later, but right now we have bigger fish to fry; the Zeitnot virus, your parent’s involvement, your potential connection—why you and Q aren’t currently on death’s door—and that’s just for starters.”

Louise lets out an anguished scream and pulls the knife from the table. For a split second I panic that she’s going to just stab Frank, but she just grips the handle of the switchblade as she screams directly into his face. Once she’s finished, she turns away from him and plops down onto the wooden bench beside me, resigning herself to peeling a potato—her eyes shiny with tears of rage.

After the magical intensity of the first night at the hunting lodge, the morning was a cruel return to reality.

Frank and Loulu’s violent clash reminded all of us that this isn’t some snowy fuck-cation by the lakeside; it’s a covert operation to uncover corruption and intentional sabotage at the highest levels of government—not to mention a super secret organization bent on clandestine world domination.

While unsettled by my discovery of Quentin’s Zeitnot antibodies and corresponding immunity, I cannot deny that I was also fascinated by my findings.

Before Caz and I left the cabin, I was able to gather samples from all the Saints and Loulu. I brought the blood samples, along with the minuscule amount of fluid remaining in the spent dart the breach team fired at Quentin.

Together, Cazzy and I had no trouble making our way into the Lakeside University labs. Between Caz’s knack for physical security foiling and our collective charisma, we’re able to bluff our way past the campus sign in desks on pure charm and pop open old school spring latches with a little credit card ‘slipping.’ Only the last few doors required any kind of advanced ID for entry—and we were lucky enough to slip into the corner of the facility needed for my tests by being in the right place at the right time.

Really, our final obstacle—a door with a keycard tap access, wouldn’t have made Caz break a sweat. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Cazzy spoof an RFID to get us in somewhere; be it a building or through a turnstile for the train. Didn’t need to, though. Another master’s student, dark smudgy circles beneath her eyes, held the door open for us as she made her exit—presumably after one hell of an all-nighter. She didn’t even bother looking up at us as we scurried past her—just gave a sleepy nod and a half-hearted wish of “Happy Holidays” which we returned in kind.

Caz paced nervously past the bank of windows as I worked, hands fisted in the pockets of his nylon bomber jacket—a rare pair of stovepipe jeans, a baby blue cashmere sweater and camel plaid scarf borrowed from Tin-tin in order to help cover his many tattoos and lend legitimacy to his co-ed claims.

I myself wore my fingerless winter gloves, a Nordic pattern with floppy mitten covers and a turtleneck sweater purloined from Tin-tin’s collection in a similar fashion—parting with my heavy gloves only once we’re locked safely in the solitude of the lab.

With Caz as lookout, I got to work right away.

With the proper reagents, vessels, incubators and centrifugal spinning machines—I am able to get everything up and processing inside of a half hour. Once there’s nothing left to do but wait, Caz and I take turns making small expeditions outside of the lab, making sure that one of us is always left to let the other back into the locked lab.

We managed some basics from the first aid kit installed on the wall; painkillers, fresh bandages and antiseptics for tending Frank’s wound—some clean hypos, test tubes, and other sample containers; as well as replacements for my own chemistry kit.

Not nearly enough of anything useful for me to build a bit of boom, but that can wait. Right now—our focus is narrow—trained on arming ourselves with armaments of information rather than weapons of destruction.

Caz is on one of his patrols around the building when the timer goes off on my last round of tests. I move with purpose, carefully inserting a clean pipette into the first vial of fluid—dropping a single globule of the mixture of blood and chemicals onto a microscope slide before snapping it into place on the view plate.

I press my face to the eyepiece and hold my breath.

There’s a soft knock in a well-known pattern at the door. Even though I know from the pattern that the knock could only belong to Caz, I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound.

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he whispers under his breath as I hurry Caz back into the lab and jam the door shut behind him.

“I don’t know exactly what I’ve seen yet,” I warn soberly before rushing back to my work—preparing a second slide from the second sample.

This certainly seems more definitive, but I rush down the line of vials—preparing a slide for each before rotating rapidly through the entire set, comparing each in great detail.

I remember the first time I saw an image of fibrin in a textbook at the juvenile detention home; a glossy photo of bright yellow tendrils of spider-web-like-fibers holding a cluster of healthy red blood cells together on an electron microscope.

When I’ve looked at previous samples of actively infected omegas, alphas, or sigmas the malformations of the Zeitnot virus immediately brought to mind the fibrin structures, but localized to each blood cell; a sickly greenish brown web of fibers clinging to little perfect red inner tubes—while asymptomatic ‘carriers’ of the virus—betas, thetas, gammas, and deltas; appeared to have a few instances of cells with pale pink fibers.

Looking at samples of Caz’s and my own blood? I see just what I’d expect—pale pink fibroids; but when I take a look at Tin-tin and Loulu? There’s a shockingly geometric looking net of pale blue fibroids around each cell.

Eager to see Frank’s results, I’m baffled when I see his slide looks completely different—perfectly geometric lines of deep purple laid over healthy red blood cells.

There’s something else though—something I can’t see on the electron microscope. I’m about to refer to the computer, to see if it’s nearly done compiling all the data from the testing machine to give me the reports on hemoglobin, white blood cell count—when the nearby printer clicks and beeps to life.

The first printout, a detailed analysis of Louise’s blood panel, floats down into the tray and I snatch it up—my eyes finding the line that reads: ‘Unknown Marker 42’ at the bottom of the results.

My heart rate skyrockets as I wait for the next sheet to drop into the tray, but I already know what I’ll find.

Unknown Marker 42, Undoubtedly the “Fated Mates” marker Landon and Margot Penny discovered in their research.

Now I’ve got more questions than answers and our time is almost up.

“Seb!” Caz hisses at me urgently, and I realize I must have been lost in thought.

“Sorry, sorry,” I shake my head, rushing to collect my things and clean up my workstation—paranoia stoking my sense of urgency from banked embers to raging blaze. “We gotta get out of here, Cazzy. We’re going to need more than this backwater lab to find out anything more.”

Caz looks to the jammed door, then the clock on the wall.

“We’ve got another two hours before the janitors start their rounds. Are you sure we shouldn’t—” he begins, but I cut my hand through the air between us ending any further discussion.

“Non, non, non. We need to get out of here now. Something about this stinks. We need to get at the records of the Penny’s research… or whatever the hell the Feds or the Windmill are keeping locked up tight.” I shake my head, sweeping my used supplies into a large plastic bag that Caz and I will carry out with us before hurrying to a nearby sink for a bottle of spray bleach cleaner and a roll of rough recycled paper towels.

Caz gets the message and sets to helping me. Between the two of us, four hands make light work—we’re packed out and waving our flirtatious goodbyes to the science campus receptionist inside of fifteen minutes.

We shout and argue, trading theories and speculation until we pull into the three-spot lot at the entrance of the camping park and scurry into the woods just as the sun begins to set.

The closer we get to the cabin, the quieter we become until we fall silent as the trees give way to shoreline.

Though we couldn’t be sure by the absence of a car in the lot—Caz and I had guessed we’d beaten Frank back to the lodge—and been correct.

When we open the door to the cabin, the intermingling scent of iris, rose, sandalwood, pink pepper, peaty scotch, and tart green apple assail us.

The small space has been transformed since we left the hunting lodge this morning. Most of the extra cushions and animal skin blankets have disappeared from their places on or around the fireside couch and now adorn the swept wood floor so that no stretch of the old pine boards are visible. They used two linen flat sheets from the loft's sleeping space to make a small, ditsy floral canopy that hangs like a pillow fort from the loft's overhead beams. The seam where both sheets meet parted like the drawn curtains of an old proscenium theater.

Quentin must have made a nest. We’re really in it now.

In the center of the nest-stage, Loulu and Tin-tin sit across from each other atop a deerskin blanket in a bare smattering of mesh and lace underthings—their skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat as they mirror one another’s tender touches on their bare skin; fingers circling hard nipples, tongues tracing one another’s lips, eyes eerily open as they whimper and sigh in a glassy eyed stupor.

Merde.

They’re already starting their heat, the intensity of their perfume without any other stabilization from other pack members must be so potent that the two of them have gotten stuck in some kind of feedback loop—the pair enchanted by one another so completely that they seem to have forgotten that they need to get relief—lest the heat begin to take its toll on their bodies, which already show signs of distress from being in such a heightened state of arousal for so long with no heat helpers.

Louise’s nostrils flare as she scents Caz and I—her entire face turning slowly until her glazed eyes fix upon us—still motionless in the doorway.

Quentin is quick to follow, his phosphorescent green eyes nearly black with his blown-out pupils.

I had been hoping that we would have been the last ones to make it back to the cabin—that we could pull Frank and Tin-tin aside to tell them about the findings of this mysterious ‘unknown marker 42.’ Alas, we’ve arrived at the worst possible time—our acting alpha nowhere to be found.

“Sébastien,” Tin-tin almost gasps—his massive uncut cock straining against the pair of barely-there mesh briefs he’s wearing as he wobbles unsteadily to his feet. “We need you,” he reaches for me—Louise reduced to a writhing mass on the floor—her hands moving up over her flat stomach to cup her own breasts.

“We need knots,” she mewls from her place on the floor—her knees parting to display the gusset of her sodden panties.

My thinking brain tells me to get Caz to stall a bit while I get in contact with Frank, but my gamma instincts have already taken the wheel; my hands furiously tearing off my jacket, ripping my shirt over my head—unbuckling my belt, my cock hardening at the sight and the scent of them together. My sigma, my omega—they need my knot.

“Caz, you gonna gimme a hand here?” I manage to bite out as I notice Cazzy has frozen, his pale blue eyes wide as he takes in the erotic scene before him.

As if returning to himself—he begins frantically shrugging out of his winter parka, kicking off his sneakers and tube socks—his smoky sweet, theta perfume intensifying with each passing second.

Down to our skivvies, Caz and I crawl into the small, tented nest. I notice one of Caz’s grey hoodies, one of my tattered undershirts, and Frank’s leather jacket—the shoulder, all but totally destroyed from our escape from beach city.

Almost instantly, their desperation eases—Caz’s poppy, dragon’s blood, smoked vanilla scent like a balm for their frenzied nerves.

Louise is on me as soon as I stop crawling, sitting back on my heels in my boxer briefs—knot already half full at the base of my raging erection.

My knot may not be as big as Frank’s, but I do well for a gamma.

“Don’t fret, Loulu,” I croon, pulling her body against mine—the two of us kneeling on the soft deerskin—her breasts pressed against me, her lips parted, ready for a kiss. “Lay down, Chère,” I command sweetly, one of my hands cradling the back of her head—the other braced at the small of her back as she unfolds her knees from beneath herself.

“Sébastien,” Louise pants my name as I lay her down in the pillows and animal skins—her eyes hooded, her need calling to the very beat of my heart, the rush of my blood.

Vaguely, I can hear Quentin’s breathy encouragement to Caz,

“Yes Caz, darling—that feels good,” he urges Caz on, his buzzed blond head bobbing up and down slowly between Quentin’s thighs as he lays back beside Louise and I—Caz’s cheeks hollowed as he sucks Quentin’s cock down greedily.

The momentary distraction evaporates as one of Louise’s hands dips beneath the elastic band of my boxer briefs and closes around my knot.

I let out a low animal sound and reach for the slick-soaked lace of her panties. Louise lets out a mewling whimper—her grip on me closing in tighter as my hips hitch downward toward her on the ground beneath me.

“Seb, please,” she keens, as I dip my fingers inside her, first one then a second—her slick dripping from my gently seeking fingers down into my palm as she rolls her pelvis against me—desperate for more than I’m giving her.

“Patience, ma petite pièce brillante,” I taunt her, my lips against the shell of her ear as I collect more of her sweet honey with my fingers as they curl upward to that hidden place inside her that makes her gasp my name again—an edge not unlike surprise in the sound.

“Sébastien!”

Louise lets loose her hold on me and uses both her hands to brace herself against the floor, arching her back. I hold her like this, stroking her deep inside with my middle and ring fingers while she moans loudly.

“I’m going to help you, Loulu, just relax. Me and the boys are going to take care of you,” I rumble as her body bends like a bow—her legs gently shaking as I stroke slower and deeper.

Her teeth grit as if she’s barely holding on to the edge of reason and I withdraw my fingers to sounds of protest.

“Take those off, eh?” I nod to her sodden panties as I spread her sweet slick over my throbbing hardness.

She obliges—shimmying out of the panties and kicking them away as I push her knees apart with my own—my arms hooking beneath hers as I descend upon her.

I catch her red-brown eyes as they flicker past me to Quentin, one of his hands—pale with their long spidery fingers reaching across the narrow space between them to interweave with hers.

“Cazimer!” Quentin keens as Caz’s gold prince Albert disappears inside Tin-tin’s slick asshole.

Louise’s fingers clutch Quentin’s as my cock head presses against her slick tightness.

“Eyes on me, Chère,” I command, reaching down and turning her chin as I push inside her.

There’s a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes wide as I let my hips sink—my length disappearing inside her hot, slick pussy inch by inch.

Louise’s free hand rises from the floor, her fingers combing through my hair from the nape of my neck up to the crown of my head as she brings my face to hers.

“Fuck me, Sébastien,” she murmurs, her lips brushing over mine—the two of us refusing to break eye contact as I sink down slowly, until my knot pulses against her dripping pussy lips. “Fuck me hard,” she whines when I remain still and stone hard deep inside.

“I need you to fuck me until that knot of yours can stretch my little pink pussy.” She entreats me, trying to writhe beneath me—forcing me to move, but she’s too small—too slight. I’ve got at least forty pounds of pure muscle and a rock-hard, full knot with a head full of her perfume; she’s not doing anything unless I let her.

I disengage my arms from beneath hers, rocking back onto my elbows—my hips locked in place, unwilling to cede even an inch as my hands find the hinges of her knees.

I fold her against herself and give her a few brisk, deep strokes—my knot stopping with a jolt against her slick pussy lips with each seeking thrust.

“Harder,” she instructs—and I put more of my considerable weight behind me as I throw my hips with increasing speed.

She lets out a long low moan as I fuck her hard and fast—Caz and Quentin reaching their own pace of desperation beside us.

“I need your knot Sébastien!” Louise’s mewling plea draws my attention back from Caz and Tin Tin—and I adjust myself until I have her knees against my chest—her body curled back onto herself tightly as I begin to pound her as hard as I can, the full depth and power of the mating press needing only a few mighty thrusts before my knot is sucked suddenly and completely inside her.

Louise screams out and my entire body stiffens and spasms—my knot suddenly clutched by her white-hot tightness.

I barely recognize the sound that leaves my mouth as my pleasure spills over into Louise; my knot sealing my seed inside her, keeping us joined as I struggle to ease off of my heels.

Panting and exhausted—we struggle awkwardly; my massive frame suspended above Louise on the animal skins so that I don’t crush her as we remain locked together.

Tin-tin and Caz—already catching their breath beside us after their own climax—help Louise and I on to our sides, one of her legs still hooked up and over my hip as we lay there, my knot still captive in her pussy.

Momentarily drained, the four of us lay in the nest—Caz nuzzled against my back and bare ass, his soft cock warm against the curve of my glutes; Q—his cock already hard again—pressed between Louise’s ass cheeks as he levers his hips lazily against her—sliding his slick hardness languidly up and down between her cheeks.

Frank hasn’t even made it back to the cabin yet when I doze off for my first cat nap of the afternoon.

I knot Louise again, and Quentin once before Frank finally makes it back and I have to tap out and pass out for a real break.

When I finally come around, it’s late and my mouth feels like burning sandpaper, my abdominal muscles and glutes aching with the exertion of the afternoon and evening; my stomach howling with emptiness.

As the rest of my senses begin returning to me, I can make out the faint sounds of breathing—soft, wet slapping sounds coming from just outside the drawn bed sheet curtains of the nest.

I crawl, naked—limbs still heavy with sleep, to the edge of the nest and poke my head through the overlapping fabric.

My dry throat struggles to swallow down nothing as my eyes are filled with the sight of Frank—sweat beaded on his brow as he struggles to remain sitting upright on the wooden bench, his back against the edge of the farm table by the tin wash tub and water pump; his knot still locked inside Q’s ass as Q remains fully seated on Frank’s cock—Louise gripping the edge of the farm table, her feet flat on the wooden bench as she squat rides Q’s massive cock, sweat rolling down her spine to the dimples of her lower back as her ass slaps against Tin-tin’s thighs, his swollen balls.

Even though the sight makes my lower abdominal muscles ache with sudden flexion, my cock is slow to harden after all the action earlier. I’m only a gamma after all—my stamina is pretty legendary, but I’m no alpha.

Who knows how long Frank has been at it since Caz and I passed out from sheer exhaustion, but the dogged look on his face shows that even he may be reaching his limit.

I stumble to my feet and step into an abandoned pair of boxers. In the dim glow of the twinkle lights, I can’t tell if they’re mine or not. I just don’t wanna freeze my balls off in this cabin. The fire hasn’t exactly been a priority—and now there's barely the glow of a few embers left in the soft bed of ash.

Slowly, I orbit the far end of the farm table—watching Frank go increasingly slack beneath Tin-tin and Loulu as they grind against each other. Their gyrating reaches a fever pitch as Quentin lets out a muffled cry between Louise’s breasts as she locks his key-cock inside her, her whole body shuddering as she bears down on him, the whites of her eyes catching the moonlight as she loses herself to the pleasure of it.

The three of them balance in this delicate pulsing, panting, whimpering mess as I pump out a glass of cold water for myself, my cock twitching lazily—not quite able to rally again so soon through my exhaustion and dehydration.

Suddenly their small tower lists forward—and I drop my metal cup into the basin—rushing to steady Q and Loulu before they topple off of Frank, finally exhausted, their eyes already nearly shut.

Frank looks relieved as Tin-tin eases forward—Frank’s knot’s finally gone down enough to release him from the clutches of Tin-tin’s tightness. Louise and Quentin still fit together like a pair of drowsy puzzle pieces; his cock locked deep inside her sigma pussy—Frank’s cum dripping from between Q’s sculpted glutes as I help guide the two of them—Louise clinging to him like a leaf in the storm as he carries her into the bedsheet bower, collapsing into the nest just behind Caz, his soft snores mingling with the sound of Quentin and Louise’s slowing pants.

Cock soft, hanging between his spread thighs, Frank slumps against the table and gives me a wicked grin, reaching behind himself on the table to grab a dishcloth.

“You gonna keep gawking at my dick, Sebby, or you gonna grab me a glass of water?” he grunts out barely above a whisper, swabbing at himself clumsily with the ironically rooster printed tea towel.

“Pfft, for once, neither of us is in shape to make good on anything.” I blow a raspberry through my lips and pass him my metal cup with the remainder of the water I poured for myself, turning away from his laughter, stooping to pull a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from my jacket—still where I left it on the floor earlier this afternoon—flopping down on the bench beside Frank.

“Speak for yourself, frog legs,” he scoffs, smacking his lips after slugging down the remainder of the water, groaning slightly under his breath as he rocks up onto his feet and shuffles to the water pump, treating me to a spectacular view of his sculpted ass, his muscular thighs and exquisitely carved back.

I snort a laugh at myself and shake it off, turning away from the glorious sight as I place a cigarette between my lips and light it.

“After a little more rehydration, a piss, a bogie—and I’ll be ready to make any one of you little sluts scream for me again.“ Frank winks at me over his shoulder as he fills his cup—and I contemplate taking him up on the offer, but haven’t bottomed in what feels like an age—so I decide against it, even if I am due to have my prostate milked like a—mon dieu, am I already getting hard again?

As if reading my mind, Frank chuffs a laugh and slams down an entire metal mug of well water before hurriedly pumping himself another, and returning to his seat beside me on the bench.

“Really though, you were right—I’m fucking beat,” he admits—the ragged exhaustion creeping in at the edges of his stone rasp voice.

“A sigma and an omega in double heat are not for the faint of heart, that is certain.” I cluck my tongue, passing Frank a cigarette and a lighter as he drains the mug a final time before offering it to me as a temporary ash receptacle.

“Amen, brother. If I had thought Q was a handful during heat—Louise Penny made sure it was all hands on deck.” He shakes his head, flicking the spark wheel back on his lighter with a dry laugh.

There’s a moment of silence as we sit beside one another, smoking in the near darkness, watching Caz, Quentin, and Louise sleeping in the nest Tin-tin made, and suddenly I am reminded of ‘Unidentified Marker 42’ and the discoveries of this morning—a lifetime ago, it seems.

Their soft breathing, the smell of our intermingled scents along with the baked, animal smell of sex running throughout; the way the dim golden glow of the twinkle lights illuminates the leagues of bare skin of Louise and Q’s still joined bodies—the low glimmer of Caz’s close-cropped blond buzz cut on the pillow beside them—their chests slowly rising and falling with the gentle breath of sleep.

Fated mates.

I let the words sink in. Even though I said them to Caz in the laboratory—it seemed so academic. So far removed from the reality of us—the Saints and our Lucifer. Such star-crossed lovers seemed the purview of storybooks, celebrities, or royal bloodlines—not the likes of us.

Faced with the reality of it—the way our bodies seemed to just know, I’m struck hard and fast by the consuming sensory memory of Louise’s cunt locking Quentin inside her against my knot—how it really does start to stoke my guttering libido, my cock bobbing up to half mast.

It seems too big a truth to share right now, and for reasons I can’t quite untangle—the idea of telling Frank without telling Quentin, too, feels… wrong.

He sits beside me—expression completely impenetrable; those dark steel blues of his almost black in the low light as he eyes the three of them hungrily, like a wolf considering which animal to pick off from the pack for his dinner.

If I’m right, and I’m nearly certain that I am—then our predicament will become obvious to all in time. Even now, it seems embarrassingly obvious to me; everything has been flashing signs and screaming sirens from our very first exchange of blows in the Diamond Center.

How the rest of the pack will receive the news remains to be seen.

Iwake to a pang of aching tightness between my legs. Even though I can tell that there’s hunger for food, a palpable thirst after so much physical exertion into the wee hours of the morning—none of it seems to compare to the insatiable appetite for physical touch—to lock, to be knotted.

I manage to sit up in the nest Quentin constructed yesterday, even though my abdominal and lower back muscles have been pushed to their limit with over use in the last 24 hours. I can tell from the muffled sounds coming from the far end of the hunting lodge that Seb and Caz must already be helping Quentin get the second day of his heat started in the dubious looking wooden tub outside.

Then I smell the coffee, the cigarette smoke wafting through the parted bed sheet curtain of the nest, and poke my head out to see Frank, his body moving slowly and deliberately as he makes his way through Sen Seru, one of my personal favorite katas; his impeccable form, gilded with the golden light of the sunrise through the windows in a pair of Caz’s gray sweatpants—muscular chest and back traced with a litany of pale pink and lavender scars.

Even if I wasn’t in heat, I would find him desirable—right now? I’m ready to devour him, body and soul.

I slither from the bedclothes. At some point in the night, I must have shimmied into one of Sébastien’s t-shirts; the worn cotton barely covering my ass—so I’m not entirely nude when I emerge from the nest, just mostly.

Frank, it seems, is so deep in the meditative flow of the kata that he is executing he doesn’t even notice me as I float into the edges of his peripheral vision.

I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I never got a chance to “exchange blows” with Frank before we began the uneasy truce that connects us now. Maybe it’s the delirium of the heat that sets me in motion; desperate to turn this alpha’s attention back to me and my need for his knot.

The Kata, or sequence of steps and actions that flow together to create almost a dance of defensive and combative moves—has a corresponding bunkai, or ‘disassembly’ of corresponding moves used to illustrate the practical application of the techniques exemplified by the kata. Anyone who knows one will surely know the other—like a duet, two sides of the same coin.

Like a snake, I coil in on myself, tracking Frank’s progress, aware that he is about to step into a horse stance to demonstrate a double overhanded block. I grab a wooden rolling pin from the counter in lieu of one of the short wooden hand-staffs I would use at my local dojo, and launch into action—bringing the wooden staff down from overhead, just as I would if we had started the sequence together from the very beginning.

On pure instinct, he moves like water—his hands turning me and my fake weapon away with a single circular block, one hand using my entire body weight and momentum to move me easily to one side, like a boulder breaking the current in a stream.

I can tell from the way his brows lift, his lips parting slightly—that he hadn’t even seen I was awake until I was about to strike from above with the rolling pin. Though we’ve never spoken about our mutual love of martial arts, or anything else for that matter—this series of actions creates a deeper exchange than we ever could have had in words about the subject.

I’m done playing to the script of the bunkai, though. Deep inside me there is a hunger, and what I crave—only Frank can give me.

I follow the arc of my body until it appears I’m about to dive into the floor, before rebounding on Frank with a blistering back fan kick he barely has enough time to catch; his crossed wrists pinning my ankle a few inches away from his face.

“Frisky,” he growls, his eyes lazily falling from my captive kick to the exposed apex of my thighs; slick already running down the inside of my thighs as I grin ravenously back at him.

He pushes my foot away, and I have to be quick about getting my balance back, because Frank is on me, a punch coming hard and fast at my gut.

I mirror his earlier circular block, my hand turning lazily in the air like a wet, limpid washcloth—my hand closing around his wrist like an iron manacle as I pull his arm down—guiding him past me as I pinwheel in the opposite direction as if we were swing dance partners.

I’ve only just spun back around, expecting to see Frank stumbling through—completing the motion of a stumble, but he only dips unsteadily toward the floor for a second before righting himself—spinning back around with his own powerful crescent kick; this time bound directly for my face.

He’s far too strong for me to catch his foot before it crashes into my jaw, like he caught mine earlier; so I drop to the ground and sweep his supporting leg out from beneath him—or at least I think I’ve managed to until I watch him plant one hand on the floor and cartwheel out of the way—nearly kicking over into Quentin’s hastily assembled nest.

I somersault backward, rolling up onto my feet from a low tuck—Frank already rushing at me—fists raised, a snarl of a smile showcasing all those pearly sharp teeth.

In front of the heavy oak door to the hunting cabin, I straighten to standing—but I’ve miscalculated Frank’s raw speed. I hesitate for only a second—the sparkle of sweat on his sculpted form, his scent—heady styrax, sweet cedar, sharp gun powder, softening my stance.

Frank seems to process my lapse in defenses just before he slams into me—his fists morphing into open palms that close around my wrists and pin them to the solid wood door behind me just above my head—his body pinning me to the unyielding oak.

Our mouths tear at one another—careful never to introduce that edge of teeth that would betray a bonding bite; my body doing its best to rise off the door and grind against his—but Frank gives me no quarter—my breasts pressing against the hard planes of his glistening chest through the thin cotton t-shirt, his knee rising between my thighs.

“Well, well, well,” he growls, practically seating me on his thigh as he holds me pinned and whining against the door. “You’re pretty good for someone only thinking with their joy buzzer,” Frank rumbles—sensation singing through me as the gray cotton creates delicious friction.

“Would you rather me whine and beg for you to ‘make love to me’?” I tease, my teeth clicking together as I kittenishly bite the air between our lips—willing him to put his mouth on mine again, but he uses a good portion of his waning resolve to resist.

“Sweetheart, the kinds of things you and I will do…” he sighs dreamily, one hand reaching for something as the other keeps my wrists pinioned over my head, the thigh of his sweats nearly soaked through with my slick. “It’ll be one hell of a ride, but I’m not sure any of it can be called love.” Those eyes, focused—dangerous; his lips turned up in that glass-shard thin smirk as I hear the telltale jingle of a brass belt buckle; Frank’s fingers closing around the black leather left hastily atop his abandoned jeans on the back of a nearby chair.

I could fight him if I wanted to—but I don’t want to.

It’s been so long since I’ve had a real alpha during a heat—not since… a time I’m not going to revisit right now.

Thankfully, before I can sink beneath the quicksands of time, Frank brings me back to the immediacy of the moment; turning over the strip of well worn black leather and brass in his single hand until it resembles a sloppy figure eight with a long tail.

“Smart ass sigma thinks she’s going to get one up on me,” he scoffs a laugh—slipping the improvised set of handcuffs onto my wrists , opening the door only a sliver before slamming the tail of the belt into the space between the top of the slab of oak and the door jamb; my bound wrists forcing me up onto the balls of my feet.

“If I wasn’t so fucking helpless for your knot, I would have had you.” A cruel laugh escapes me, and it isn’t ego or a goad; it’s the truth. Frank may be big and he may be strong—but he’s slow too. Both Sébastien and Q may lack his brute strength, but make up for it with their speed and agility.

Frank must know I’m right too, because he doesn’t argue with me directly—just lets out a low snicker as he lifts the hem of the t-shirt slowly, first exposing my pussy as I grind helplessly on his rock hard quads—then the hard pink peaks of my nipples ; the soft worn cotton resting atop my upturned breasts as he dips his head to suck gently at the sensitive rosy point of one nipple, his teeth tenderly closing to gently pull at blushing buds of stiff flesh.

Words escape me as Frank’s lips move lower, his scruffy raven beard grazing the soft skin between my breasts and belly, his hands gripping the bracket curve of my pelvis as he works downward onto his knees.

My eyelids flutter and I feel myself nearly topple off of my tip-toes as Frank eases onto his knees in front of me—my lack of balance ultimately made obsolete by my leather bonds, which keep me suspended somewhere between dangling and flat-footed on the swept board floors of the hunting cabin.

One of Frank’s hands slips down the curve of my right hip to the outside of my upper thigh while the knuckles of his other hand graze the inside of my left thigh, moving from my slick pussy toward the backside of my left knee.

“Let’s see if I don’t have you doing some of that begging and whining,” He challenges, lifting my left knee.

I stifle a surprised yelp as he hooks my knee over his shoulder—my lower leg instinctively tensing against his upper back—drawing my pelvis toward his face in the same fluid motion, my right toes barely making contact with the floor as he creates a partial floating suspension between my captive wrists and Frank, my true anchor to the floor.

“You’re not going anywhere, Sweetheart,” he growls, his long, flat tongue lapping at my dripping pussy, my throbbing clit.

“Fuck,” I hiss, a tiny upward squeak getting the best of me as he runs the tip of his tongue from the center of my trembling petals up to the most sensitive pearl of nerves—willing my eyes not to screw shut as he makes a tracery of ever-tightening concentric circles, flicking that magic 2 O’clock spot with the point of that clever tongue.

My hamstrings tremble as I struggle to stay upright on the ball of my right foot—my body swinging unsteadily like an improperly hung hammock between my leather cuffs and Frank’s unyielding mouth in a tipsy dance of rising pleasure.

“What’s the matter—can’t stay still, Sweetheart?” Frank takes only a moment to taunt me before closing his lips around my hard clit and sucking; a rolling heat spreading up through my trembling abdominal muscles.

I nearly topple my delicate balance—an orgasm rolling through me, my knee buckling back and popping forward uncontrollably, making a low, a-rhythmic thumping noise against the door as I spasm in Frank’s grip.

When I surface from the intensity of sensation and look down at Frank, his beard still shining with my slick—his steely blues are alight with a dangerous mischief—his left hand slipping up my right leg, toward the hinge of my right knee.

“Remember that time you told me I would never make you cum?” he laughs cruelly—lifting my right leg off the ground—my control over my body nearly slipping entirely through my fingers as Frank guides my knee over his sculpted trapezius muscles. he entirety of my weight is now braced on his shoulders, my wrists still belted high over my head, keeping me helplessly dangling from the door, his hands cupping my ass—bringing my slick cunt back to his eager mouth.

I wish I could remain stoic—that I could deny him this delicious humiliation—but my body is a traitor. Instead, I cry out when he pushes his tongue inside me—carefully balancing so that he can work a finger or two inside me when his long tongue withdraws to lavish more attention on my clit, just barely back from the brink of over stimulation.

“Should have put money on that after all,” he sneers, his lips ghosting against the sensitive bead of flesh as he strokes me slow and deep inside.

Frank is no amateur—he knows what he’s doing. I wail and moan as he moves his fingers with increasing speed in time with the rapid circling and flicking of his tongue and I start to feel that deep quaking feeling—an almost frantic elision around his index and middle fingers that almost always precedes a squirt.

Midway down his back, my legs cross at the ankles for stability, unconsciously digging into his lats as I force his face further into my slick heat. High keening noises escaping me through ragged breaths as Frank pulls me back down into the pit of frenzy—my pussy exploding like a glistening fountain as he continues to lap fervently at my overstimulated clitoris .

“Please, Frank!” I gasp—my muscles begging to be stretched to their limit by his knot. Though he did fuck me the night before—he reserved his knot for Quentin, leaving me to lock Q for my own satisfaction along with Seb’s gamma knot.

Somewhere in the back of my mind—through the haze of pheromones and dopamine I can’t help but think this has been intentional. Upon further inspection of my feelings on the matter? I don’t really care why—in this moment—all I care about is taking his knot, taking it now.

“Please what?” he grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks up at me.

“I need your knot,” I whimper desperately.

“I told you, you’d beg, Sweetheart—so you’d better beg,” he challenges, his eyes locked on mine as he returns to the work of sucking and tonguing my clit; adding his ring finger to the index and middle fingers curled inside of me.

“Please Frank,” my voice is high, thready—barely recognizable to myself as his relentless attention threatens to make me shake apart in another mighty climax.

“You only get what you want if you ask,” he taunts me—his fingers strumming that inside place that sends me gushing across Frank’s chest as he draws his fingers from inside me and sucks my glittering honey from them.

“I need you, I need your knot—I need you deep and hard,” I wail uncontrollably, adding with agonized clarity, “I’m begging for you to fill me up, Daddy.”

Though the cheeky moniker had been a dig—a reference to that very night in the interrogation room, it seems to be the final straw that breaks in the face of Frank’s otherwise unyielding resolve.

He practically tosses my legs off of his shoulders and all but jumps to his feet—leaving me to swing loose until my toes gain purchase on the ground once more.

Frank kicks out of the sweatpants and wipes his mouth and beard on the balled up mass of gray cotton before pitching it away—his imposing length, swollen scarlet knot huge and pulsing at its base standing straight up as he closes in on me again—his hands already moving to help my legs up and around his hips to help reduce the tension of my suspension.

There’s only half a breath of him using his fingers to side his rock hard cockhead up my slick pussy lips—gathering my dewy honey before he plunges inside me up to the knot.

“Yes, there—” I hiccup as he just grazes my cervix, his hands crawling around my lower back to grip the pale curve of my ass, his forehead pressed against mine as he pistons his hips up and into me with increasing verve.

“That’s a good girl,” Frank growls, reaching between our bodies to stroke my tremulous clit with his thumb as he slams into me—his knot straining at my slick petals, striving for entrance as he steadily bottoms out each deep stroke inside me. “But I am going to need one more of those forced O’s before I let you cum on this knot,” He instructs dutifully, his deep purling hip thrusts in time with the speedy circular rubbing of my clit sending me careening into another spraying ejaculation—my eyes rolling back into my head as Frank pulls out and drops to his knees—lapping eagerly at my honeyed fountain as I scream my pleasure; my body swinging wildly as I hang from my leather cuffs—Frank’s hands doing their best to keep a grip on the backs of my thighs as my legs seize uncontrollably.

I’m worried I’m on the precipice of blacking out from the exhaustion and the frantic need for a knot when suddenly Frank is back on his feet, his cock pushing inside me with that smooth, tight-gripped-glide—like our bodies just know how best to fit together.

“Eyes on me,” he huffs, his breath ragged—his face still sparkling with little droplets of my own glistening cum.

I do my best to focus on him through the fog of lust, my own words lost to me for now—only needy mewling and moaning within my current mastery.

“Now I’m going to really need you to cum for me, Agent Penny,” he growls out, hands moving from the backs of my knees toward the rounds of my calves as he sheaths himself inside me up to the knot ever so slowly—my suspended weight shifting as he steadies us against the door.

My head bobs in a chain of uneven nods to show I understand, and then his hands grip my ankles and cautiously I lift my own ankles up toward my wrists—testing the limits of my flexibility. He seems pleased when he’s pinned me open in this straddle position—my cries increasing with volume and verve as his knot nudges more insistently at the gate of my tightness.

The room seems almost to spin as my lower back thumps against the wooden door as Frank maintains his unforgiving pace—I can feel my eyes rolling back, forcing closed—but Frank’s bark brings me back to the moment,

“Eyes up, Sweetheart—I want to see the second you completely lose control.”

I force myself to look at him—lifting my chin, his face only a breath away from mine.

“Attagirl,” he growls—the wooden door shaking loudly on its hinges as he fucks me mercilessly.

The strain of the girth of his knot against me eases for a fraction of a second—and my body just knows he’s about to finally drive his way inside.

“Francis!” I gasp in anticipation—angling my mouth upward to catch his in a passionate kiss—our tongues twining together as he propels himself with a final thrust, his knot drawn inside me with a sudden powerful wet sucking noise as we moan into each other’s mouths, my legs convulsing in his hands as Frank pours his hot seed inside me for the first time.

This dual heat has been unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

The first day seemed to dilate—a stretch of less than 24 hours felt like weeks, maybe even months; the passage of time slowed and colored golden by my omega body chemistry.

When Louise and I had fucked in the beach city safe house, it had been under the context of using one another for much needed relief even before we found ourselves in the throes of heat desperation. Even still, the need had been great—the satisfaction of our shared release, satisfying in a way I hadn’t previously thought was possible.

I had been afraid to admit it then, that there was something decidedly different about the nature of my own pleasure where Louise Penny is concerned; a depth and intensity I’ve never known, but I was forced to confront that very notion when the others left us at the hunting lodge that fateful morning.

The urge to nest came upon me, sudden and strong—the winter sunlight seeming too bright through the giant magnifying glass of the A-frame cabin’s wall of mismatching windows at odds with my need to be encased by scent and softness.

Louise, a textbook sigma, seemed somewhat baffled by my precipitous need—found herself spurred on to help by my heavily pumping omega perfume, a sweet promise of a key for her lock as her own urgency grew.

Little did we know that we’d end up so worked up that we couldn’t even stumble out of the starting blocks.

After we’d hung the bedsheets and bedded down in the new linen canopy—articles of the other saint’s clothing helping to furnish the amber-lit bower, we’d started to strip one another down—leagues of skin against skin as our perfumes mixed and mingled. At some point in the delirium—our mouths parted and fingers untangled—two mirrors of need reflecting endlessly back on one another in the space between unreality and daydream.

I don’t know how long the two of us would have stayed like that—our fevers building, our bodies beginning to waste themselves, to burn up and away if the others hadn’t returned when they did—but thankfully I don’t have to think on it too hard.

The deep, near perfect harmony of our bodies together only underscored how my heats with the saints before had been missing a crucial element—not that I ever would have thought as much before now.

Even this morning, playing with Caz and Seb in the outdoor bath as we do our best to maintain our bodies through the mind fog and dreamy intensity of the heat; I found myself longing to be reunited with Louise just as badly as Frank… more if I’m being honest with myself.

The sharp edge of jealousy threatened to draw blood when the three of us hustled back into the house from the hot tub, only to find Frank and Louise still knotted together—their aggressive kissing full of tongues and teeth; Louise’s body suspended between a set of improvised leather cuffs and Frank—his cock pinning her against the door as they savor their tightly fastened union.

Caz and Seb, needing more time to rebound than Frank, Louise, or myself, insisted that we should try to eat something once Louise and Frank could physically separate. Grudgingly, I agreed—even though I’d rather have had Louise lock me tight inside that sigma pussy of hers again instead.

Working up a decent pout, I crawled into the nest while Frank and Louise waited for his knot to subside; Seb setting about preparing something to eat from the supplies on hand in the cabin.

Lazily I stroke my hard cock as I lay in the cushions and blankets—the smell of the other saints and Louise heavy and close in my sunlit confines of cotton bedsheets.

There’s some grunting and sighing from Frank and Louise along with the clattering of a brass belt buckle and the jangling of the iron ring door handle

“I need to tap out a round—take a piss, stretch it out, hit the hot tub, have a smoke, let my fucking cock have a minute’s rest,” Frank grunts as I watch him step back into a discarded pair of Caz’s sweats through the narrow opening in the nest’s bed sheet curtains.

For a moment, I contemplate following him back out to the wooden hot tub where I took Seb’s knot half an hour ago—but find myself shockingly exhausted without having eaten anything since yesterday’s breakfast.

I hear the sounds of Sébastien peeling and chopping, the murmur of his and Caz’s voices overlapping while someone pumps water at the basin. As my eyes drift shut—my hand coming to a slow stop, still tightly clutched around my gently throbbing erection, I see Louise dip a rag beneath the running water—wringing the small bit of cloth out before running it over her face, her neck—down between her breasts.

Between the sound of the running water and the soft rasp of their voices—I’m out like a light before I know it.

When I wake, there’s the sharp tang of onion in the air, the rich smell of red wine cuts through even the dense scent cloud enveloping the nest. I roll onto my hands and knees, my cock already hard again—insistently flipped up against the rippling of my lower abdominal muscles, my balls hanging heavy and full below. It doesn’t seem like it should be possible after the near non-stop cumming I’ve done over the past few days—but the fact of my desperate need remains.

I crawl toward the curtains that separate the nest from the rest of the small hunting cabin, and suddenly my view is filled with an incredible vision: Louise on all fours—her knees splayed open wide, Caz laying beneath her—his tongue working her clit eagerly as she sucks down his cock up to the last rung of his Jacob’s ladder, Sébastien standing just beyond the table’s edge, fucking Louise’s pussy from behind.

Caz’s cock pops free of Louise’s mouth as she lets out a quiet whine, the backs of her thighs trembling as she works through another orgasm.

“I want you both—inside me,” she gasps raggedly, Seb’s thrusts slowing until he pulls out of her entirely.

“Shouldn’t we stop to eat, eh?” Seb pants, helping to steady Louise as Caz shifts, wriggling out from beneath her body to sit next to her on the tabletop.

“I can eat food later.” Louise protests petulantly—rising on her knees at the edge of the table to reach for Sébastien—her fingers combing back through his snarling, dark curls, stroking the stubble at his jaw before she kisses him sweetly, both of their full, plush lips pressing together with unspent passion.

“I want you and Caz to take me to another place,” She almost whispers before adding dreamily, “There’s something about this heat… about all of you,” Louise turns her face away from Sébastien as Caz curves himself around her body. He wreathes his arms around her clavicles, enveloping her from behind—his erection fitted against the curve of Louise’s ass—his hard cock peeking up from the high curve of her ass, his gold prince Albert winking against her freckled cheeks.

I bite my lip to keep myself from betraying my voyeurism with some kind of whine or moan, stroking myself slow and hard as Caz and Louise make room for Sébastien on the large wooden farm table, a faded floral tablecloth spread beneath them as they exchange kisses and gentle caresses—the sound of mouths parting and hitching of breath the only sound for several long moments.

“I want to make you cum with Sébastien, but even if I beg you to—don’t bite me,” Caz suddenly blurts out before adding “I can’t explain why it’s different than before you… came to the Saints,” he stumbles over the words, barely able to transmute his desire into speech, but Louise seems to understand; pressing the pad of her index finger to his lips.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about biting you both a few times.” She gives a devilish grin, and my stomach nearly turns inside out with icy jealousy and the subsequent white-hot panic that she might not feel the same about me.

I almost sob when I hear her voice pipe in again, soft but mischievous: “And Quentin? Jesus, fuck—I almost bit him back in the beach city safe house, and I wasn’t even in heat,” she confesses, placing a kiss over the place she’d pressed her finger seconds ago, her mouth grazing Caz’s lips before she lays an open palm against Sébastien’s chest.

She says something else to them in a low, rumbling voice—but I’m still so caught up on her last words that I don’t really hear.

Our Little Lucifer, our morning star—she wants me for one of her own; to be joined by the bond of a bite. She said it as clear as day.

Part of me wants to burst from the bedsheet nest and beg her to bite me in right now, to connect Louise, Cazimer, Seb and I together in the unbroken ring of pack.

What about Frank? A small voice asks somewhere in the back of my mind, and I stop short.

Before I’d met Louise, the patterns of rhythms of the Saints had felt unmistakably like home. Of all my fellow Saints, I would have said that Frank and I shared a closeness that extended even beyond that which I already share with Caz and Sébastien…but even I have to admit that there were, are parts of Frank that are closed off to me—that may remain locked away from me forever.

The thought chills me for the briefest of moments before my body, still in the thralls of heat, turns my attention back to the matter of my hard cock in my hand and the unfolding beauty of the scene before me.

Louise tenuously balances above the surface of the wooden slab farm table arms wrapped around Seb’s neck, Sébastien on his knees—his kneel spread wide to provide stability as his arms thread beneath Louise’s knees, his cock buried inside her slick cunt up to the knot; Caz’s hands cupping either cheek of Louise’s Ass as his cock head pushes against the dripping junction of Louise and Seb’s cock.

Caz dips his face down toward Louise’s as she lets her head loll back toward him—their tongues twining softly before their lips fit together in a deep kiss. Caz’s prince Albert disappears inside Louise alongside Seb’s cock.

My hardness jumps in my hand as I remember the ribbed strokes of Caz’s pierced cock sliding against me with delicious pressure inside Louise’s tight heat.

The three of them moan and whisper against one another as the trio undulate in a writhing of glistening bodies; Louise pinky-alabaster and smattered with freckles between Caz’s salt white and Seb’s rich deep bronze—the leagues of black and rainbow ink scrawled across Caz and Seb’s flesh seeming to dance with their slow, intense gyration.

Something inside me snaps—not the tether breaking jolt of orgasm, but the nascent epiphany that this overwhelming resonation, this near impossible unity and congruity—can only mean one thing…

Fated Mates. An unbreakable, unshakable mating bond that thrums like a single, near imperceptible note in the cosmic background noise of our very existence.

I would second guess myself, tell myself that there’s no way to be sure in this moment—but the inevitable feeling of our connection makes everything feel obvious—embarrassing to have missed in hindsight.

Do they already know too? Did it crystalize for them? Or, are they so close they cannot see the wave of the tsunami about to break over them?

I watch as Louise, Caz, and Sébastien breathe in one another—their grinding and gyrating nearing a fever pitch; Louise’s face turned to the side so that Both Sébastien and Caz can press their foreheads to hers.

Surely they must. Caz, pleading Louise’s case on our escape from Liberty city—insisting on her freedom. He may very well have been the first, whether he’s fully conscious of it or not.

“Louise, Sebby, I—” Caz gasps out before his body gutters against Louise’s back. His hips hook upward, deep inside as Seb’s knot forces both he and Caz as deep as they can go. Caz’s glutes spasm as he grits his teeth against his orgasm.

Seb barks out a sharp sound as his knot anchors them within. Louise shatters into a near liquid state, her eyes all white’s as she rag-dolls in their arms.

I cum as silently as I can manage, a hand clasped over my mouth as I pump ropes of pearly cum from my aching cock into the crumpled bed sheets beneath me.

Without revealing that I had seen their little pre-lunch show, I rejoin the others in the kitchen just in time to have Seb and Caz force Louise and I to have a bit to eat.

I want to blurt out my discovery about the fated mates, to insist that our pack celebrate right here on the table, to exchange bonding bites and lose ourselves in the rest of the heat; breeding and never leaving this magical place in the woods where we found each other for real—where we became family.

Maybe it’s because I’ve had too many sad endings in this life, or because I’ve so often been the deceiver that I believe my luck’s run up and I will surely find myself to be the deceived—but I hold my tongue.

I can’t say exactly why, but it has something to do with that unfamiliar gleam I sometimes catch in Frank’s eye—when I feel as if I don’t know the man staring back at me. I know Frank belongs to us, to the Saints, to our Lucifer—but that other man? I’m not so sure.

Instead of any grand proclamations, I sit in silence, as Louise actually falls asleep at the lunch table, head laid on her folded hands beside her soup bowl—Seb draping a small fleece blanket over her bare shoulders rather than trying to move her.

“Better let her get her rest where she can get it,” he chuckles softly before nodding over his shoulder at Frank’s feet—hanging over the edge of the loft above.

I try not to let it affront my omega dignity that Frank crawled right up that ship’s ladder and passed out as soon as he saw Louise’s eyes drift closed—without checking to see if I needed his knot beforehand. Of course, Seb’s still up and about and can help keep me comfortable until Frank or Louise rallies, but still.

As if he’s caught wind of my thoughts, Caz leans over and squeezes my thigh just above my uninjured knee playfully.

“How are you holding up Q? Anything I can do to help you out?” he purrs, his soothing scent easing my nerves as he begins to gently perfume, those icy blue eyes drifting down to my ever-strengthening erection.

“I could ask you boys the same,” I lob back, an arch in one of my copper-brown brows.

“Eh? What do you mean by that, Tin-tin?” Seb drops into the empty bench seat beside me.

In that moment—the two of them, heads nearly pressed together as they regard me with such tender concern; black and gold—that’s when I decide I can tell them.

Coyly, I press my index finger upright against my sealed lips and nod to the door to the side of the cabin, the outdoor shower, and the hot tub.

“I don’t know if I can get back in that water, mon ami.” Seb scrubs a hand through his hair ruefully, “I’m still waterlogged from earlier.”

I get up and retrieve a pair of my pants, long abandoned over a rung of the ship’s ladder to the loft bed, stepping into them—carefully tucking my hardness up into my waistband before I pick up my sweater from its place on the floor and shrug into it.

“That’s fine,” I whisper—doing my best to ignore the rising heat in my face as I struggle against the undertow of my desperate need. “I just want to talk.”

Caz and Sébastien shoot one another a worried glance before following my lead—adding more layers, shoes and socks; the two of them slipping into heavy parkas before we step out into the gleaming sunlight and snow. Seb offers me a cigarette and a light as I step from the cabin in only my thin sweater; tendrils of steam rising off of my body in the cast of golden sunshine.

Before I can say anything, Caz and Seb exchange another tentative look—Cazzy’s voice, small and tinged with fear as he murmurs, “You think he knows?” to Seb so softly I almost miss it.

Seb’s eyes cut guiltily from Caz to me, his brows set in a determined line.

“Look at his face, of course he knows.” Seb juts his sculpted jaw, dusted with stubble in my direction—a weary smile tugging one corner of his mouth upward.

“How long have you known that we were fated mates?” I ask, unable to keep the edge of anger from my voice.

“I had no clue until I saw the blood tests after the dart serum tests.” Sébastien holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Once we saw those, once the heat started—well…” He trails off sheepishly, and I understand completely the feeling of embarrassment at having missed all the signs before.

“I had the thought that day with Louise in the bath.” Caz clears his throat nervously. “But so much was happening—and everything was so goddamn intense…” He turns away from us, his face blushing a furious crimson. “Plus, I’ve always kind of thought… I don’t know.” Caz shoves his hands down into his pockets and kicks a small stone toward the edge of the lake. “I guess I always sort of thought that the whole ‘fated mates’ thing was kind of bullshit,” he laughs, high and thin.

I find myself nodding in agreement without realizing.

“If I’m honest, I felt much the same way.” I let loose my own weak chuckle. “It’s so rare, so fantastical that most never even know someone whose mating bonds were ‘fated’—much less experience the magical happenstance themselves…” I let the bubble of silence grow between the three of us until Seb bursts it.

“It was a hard sell for me too, and I know the most about the Penny’s research out of all of us. Even conceptualizing the idea that they had found definitive proof of what I had always assumed was mostly a fairy tale.” He shakes his head. “But I also feel like a fucking imbecile for not having known it sooner now that we’ve all… well, you know.” He rolls his wrist in the air a few times, his cigarette tracing lazy loops of smoke in the frigid air.

For a good while after, the three of us just stand there, looking out over the frozen lake, no one willing to ask the next inevitable question.

I’ve gotten all the way down to the filter on my cigarette, pinching out the last bit of burning tobacco onto the snow beneath my boots—flicking the empty filter into a tall, rusty coffee can placed next to the side door to the cabin for just such a purpose before Caz puts words to our dilemma.

“Do you think Frank knows?” he asks quietly, tucking his nose and chin into the high zipped collar of his parka.

“I don't pretend I could say either way, yes or no.” Sébastien shakes his head slowly with a dry, skeptical laugh.

I know Frank thought he’d had a fated mate once… but I know how that turned out, and I don’t know if it’s my story to tell the boys—so I remain silent.

“Can’t be sure, but I don’t think so.” I give a noncommittal shrug.

“What about Louise?” Seb presses.

“I don’t think she knows—at least not consciously,” Caz is quick to answer, and I find that I agree with him.

Another pause, loaded with possibility, spreads its wings between us.

“So, what’s the over-under on how long it takes them to find out? Or is one of us due to play potentially-sacrificial-messenger?” Sébastien claps his hands and rubs his palms together, his trickster god features alight with potential mischief.

Before either Caz or I can offer our input, the door swings open behind me—nearly clipping my heels; Frank in his black jeans, bare-chested—his cut and stained leather jacket thrown on, open over his rippling pecs and abs; a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“How long it takes who to find what out?” he grunts, rubbing the sleep out of one of his eyes with the back of his hand.

Shit, shit, shit.

I am simultaneously relieved that I didn’t spill the beans about Frank’s history with ‘fated mating bonds’, and furious that I haven’t managed to communicate vital information to Seb and Caz before this moment has arrived.

Seb, ever the cavalier bad boy, crosses his arms over his broad chest and lifts his chin in Frank’s direction.

“Hey Frank, you noticed anything… different about this heat?” he begins, the leading question making both Caz and I cringe slightly.

“Whaddaya mean, different?” Frank narrows his eyes at Sébastien, extending an open palm toward Seb for a lighter.

“I don’t know how to make it more clear, Monsieur LaPierre,” Seb jokes easily, placing a plastic lighter in Frank’s open hand. “Has anything struck you as out of the ordinary? Particularly intense, compared to previous heats we’ve shared, shall we say?” Seb does his best to lead Frank gently.

Frank shakes his head and lights his cigarette, taking a deep drag as he scratches beneath his chin, obviously losing his patience with this little guessing game.

“Sébastien, with all due respect—what the fuck are you talking about?” Frank yawns and gives a little stretch—the bottom of his open leather jacket flapping in the icy breeze, drawing my attention to the thin trail of dark hair dusted from his navel down to the fly of his jeans.

I shake off my omega brain reaction, my body nearly driven to throw itself against his with the delirium of my heat. This is serious, though, and I can’t undercut the conversation by derailing it to get railed.

“None of us should be surprised, considering what her parents were researching—” I begin, my voice quavering slightly—betraying the cool calm I was shooting for. “But it would seem that our Little Lucifer really is our morning and evening star.” I opt for flowery language in hopes that it might soften the blow, but I can tell by the way that the gentle light sputters out in Frank’s eyes that we won’t be so lucky.

“Quentin, if you don’t quit talking in poetic fucking riddles and explain what the hell you mean by that,” Frank threatens, invading my personal space in the blink of an eye; suddenly chest-to chest. Since I’ve got a few inches on him, he can’t quite stare me down—but he’s glaring at me with as much alpha intimidation as he can muster.

Maybe if I weren’t in heat, I could stand up to him—tell him to stop trying to throw his weight around like a toddler having a tantrum—to use his big boy words instead of his pheromones and his bark; the threat of violence at the ready in case either of those options isn’t enough. Regretfully, I am an omega in heat—and my body is weakest to all of Frank’s alpha whiles in this moment—so I bend, lest I break.

“She’s our fated mate, Francis,” I say softly, closing my eyes—willing my voice into steadiness as the resinous sweetness of Frank’s scent breaks over me like a wave.

“What?” Frank can barely form the word through breathless disbelief.

“All of us, connected like some kind of fucked up constellation written in the stars,” I sigh. The weight of the admission is somehow lighter now that my mind has begun to accept what my body already knows to be the truth.

“Bullshit! It’s not possible!” Frank roars, his face nearly purple with rage, spinning away from me—his hands flying up to cradle his head—fingers clutched in his toss of wild raven hair as if he might tear great handfuls of it out in his fury.

“On the contrary, Papa,” Sébastien sighs, either too exhausted or too empirically convinced to be affected by Frank’s hysterics. “Maman is right—I saw it, along with some other… illuminating things when Caz and I ran everyone’s samples and the dart serum at LSU,” Seb adds calmly, reaching inside his parka to produce a silver flask from the interior pocket, offering it to Frank.

“Like what?” Frank growls, snatching the flat metal container, unscrewing the cap in a single motion—the pungent smell of Mahia warmed by Seb’s body filling my nose.

“The Zeitnot virus has no known cure,” Seb begins calmly as Frank takes a swig from the flask. “There’s no known vaccine for the virus, either.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Frank grits out, wincing at the potent burn of the Mahia. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Louise and Quentin both show signs of antibody-based immunity to the virus, while both Cazimer and myself—being theta and gamma respectively appear as unaffected as one would assume we would.” Seb lets that information land, Frank standing still as a statue—the open flask still frozen mid air in his hand.

It feels far too long before Seb adds, “I expected you to appear as an asymptomatic carrier, like all alphas who have been infected with the Zeitnot virus.”

“Spit it out Bouaziz, what the hell are you trying to say?” Frank bristles—that eerie, dark cold rising behind his eyes.

The sudden, uncharacteristic use of his last name seems to draw Seb up short. Up until now, he’d been treating Frank’s tantrum as ignorable—but this sharp tonal shift visibly puts Sébastien off balance—all of his confidence gone in an instant.

“I’m not ‘trying’ to say shit, Frank—I can’t explain exactly how, but you’re not an asymptomatic carrier, as a matter of fact—you appear to have a similar immunity to that of Louise and Q.”

Frank’s lip curls back in a toothy snarl, and for a second, I’m worried he’s going to slug Seb in the face.

“In what world does that make sense?” Frank closes the flask and slaps it flat against Seb’s chest, his rage still unbound. “Let’s say the Penny’s did actually find out how to cure the Zeitnot virus that they created in the first place. Assuming that’s true—the virus still only affects omegas and sigmas—alphas can be ‘infected’ but don’t present any symptoms, thus acting as silent carriers and spreaders of the virus and all the other designations are immune completely.” He paces a short track back and forth, waving his hands, raving like a madman. “So, let’s say that Q and Lou were part of the super-secret 90s outbreak that was managed by the US government—and they were treated and survived; the virus and the cure locked away by the Feds for some nefarious rainy day.”

Caz, Seb, and I can do nothing but stand back and let him continue his outburst.

“Then how the fuck do you suppose I’ve got the magic antibody immunity?” Frank rounds on Seb with a wild intensity.

“I told you, Frank, I don’t know yet—but the results appear to be pretty definitive. We won’t know more until we talk to the Red Bishop and try to get Louise to help us get into the few caches we haven’t been able to approach without her cooperation!” Seb actually takes a protective step back, and I can see from the pain in his face just how much this concession to his pride costs him.

As if the show of submission was as much of what Frank was after as the explanation of the anomalous test results, he finally eases off—giving Seb room to breathe, his posture softens, the darkness behind his eyes becoming flat, transforming form the fathomless shadows of hate of a few seconds ago; the gaze of the stranger.

“Does she know?” Frank’s question is as cool as he can manage, as if it’s an afterthought—but all three of us; Caz, Sébastien, and I—we see the calculation, the con. He’s staring down the ledge of panic as the words leave his mouth.

“We don’t know.” I finally find my voice, furious with myself for being otherwise paralyzed by Frank’s alpha aura until now—leaving Sébastien in the jaws of the beast. “She hasn’t said anything, and if you weren’t aware yet—there’s a good chance she may not be either.” I do my best to talk him down without injuring his fragile ego in the process.

“Not a fucking word about this.” A lucid flicker of light returns to Frank’s eyes as he raises a single finger and points at each one of us accusingly. “None of you breathe so much as a syllable about this to her, not until we have a better handle on what the fuck is happening with Seb’s virus findings—do you understand me?” He warns, low and menacing.

“But don’t you think that if she knows, it might help us convince her to help us break into those particularly sensitive caches?” Caz ventures cautiously.

“No, I do not—Susan fucking Lowry already convinced her to do whatever we need to do to get Louise her revenge,” Frank snipes back. “We don’t say shit until we know more. If she starts trying to tell you she thinks we’re all meant to be, you shut it down—got it?”

It’s clear from the uneasy silence that follows that none of us agree with the direction Frank wants to take us in, which only seems to infuriate him more—but he’s either too exhausted, or too unwilling to push us to the edge to force a response.

“Got it?” he repeats angrily.

“I won’t bring it up, not until we’ve met up with this ‘Red Bishop’ character you and Lowry spoke of,” Seb agrees grudgingly before clarifying, “But I won’t lie to her if she asks me directly.” He crosses his massive arms across his chest and stands his ground. “Best and final offer, Stone.”

When I wake, Frank and the others are just shuffling in from the outside, their faces all rosy with the cold, a general feeling of malaise wafting about them along with the musty smell of different cigarette brands and cold sweat.

“The tub out there is still hot?” I purr, sitting up from my place, head-down on the farm table.

None of them move to answer as I arch my back and stretch my arms over my head—my naked body prickling with goosebumps in the chill cabin air, the fire having quieted to a few flickering coals in its neglected state.

“Well, if any of you start feeling up to it—” I stand from the wooden bench, letting the fleece blanket slip from my shoulders, showcasing my nude form to all four of The Saints; their eyes all dart toward me. “I could use some company out there.”

Before any of the other boys can respond—Frank peels away from the group and follows after me, one of his hands reaching out to give my ass a playful swat on our way out the door.

It’s hardly my first winter hot tub, so I don’t bat an eyelash as Frank and I stroll the few feet through the snow to the large wooden tub in the nude—slipping into the delicious hot water up to my neck, eager to have Frank’s hands on me, his knot inside me; even if I can tell that there is dissent in the ranks of The Saints. In my heightened state of arousal from the heat—I can’t quite be convinced to make the obvious conflict my problem at the moment; my intellect and senses somewhat dulled by my sigma drive to breed or be bred.

So I don’t ask where the others are. Even though I’m greedy for all four of them at once again. The animal instincts in me—the impulses of a predator tell me that my hunt is almost guaranteed to be successful if I just focus on Frank for this moment. Everything else will follow in the rhythm of life, death, sex, magic, and the nature of all living things.

I glide across the small circular pool of water, pushing off from one side of the submerged bench ringed around the wooden tub to where Frank sits on the other side.

He allows me to slither next to him on the bench, one of his hands already below the surface of the steaming water, stroking his cock languidly—his eyes searching my face, as if he might see something suddenly illuminate.

I’m leaning in, eyes closed—my mouth moving towards his as my hand creeps up and over the ridge of his hip bone under the water when Frank surprises me with a simple but disarming question.

“Do you believe in fated mates, Louise?” His voice is low, and when I open my eyes to look at his face, Frank’s stormy blues are fixed far away on the golden sun setting over the glittering icy line of the horizon.

The question takes me aback.

“I don’t know if I do,” I sigh, more than a little thrown by such a fanciful romantic notion passing Frank’s lips after this morning. Hell—as I sit here right now, my hand just short of reaching for his throbbing cock.

“You ‘don’t know’? What makes you think it can be real?” His eyes cut to me, and I find myself unsettled by the sheen of tears that seem to have formed.

Doing my best not to be insensitive, when I’m struggling to use my thinking brain as my clit pounds and my muscles clutch so tightly they begin to make my stomach ache; I attempt to give us both some relief by straddling Frank on the bench—my pussy still slippery with slick, even underwater—gliding against Frank’s hardness, his pulsing knot as I grind against him; my hands creeping into his hair—combing the wild black tresses away from his brow.

“It’s hard to say something is impossible or possible simply because,” I attempt to give a non-answer, guiding him back to the knowing rhythm our bodies crave in the chemical wash of the heat—but Frank doesn’t take the bait—despite all of his alpha sensibilities.

Instead, Frank’s hands snake up my spine to the nape of my neck—one of his strong palms cupping the base of my skull, easing my head back as he lays a chain of whisper-light kisses down the column of my throat.

Each little press of his lips makes me shudder, his cock twitching against my slick petals as I tilt my pelvis forward—Frank’s cock head dragging along the seam of my pussy lips, ready for me to seat myself on his turgid erection with the slightest downward movement.

“What keeps you from saying it isn’t possible?” His voice rasps just beside my ear.

My sigma aura blossoms anew, the frenzy of the heat pushing me to let the lascivious poison drip from my lips. “You don’t want me to talk about taking some other alpha’s knot, especially not when I would rather have you inside me right now.”

To my surprise, Frank’s lips curl against the shell of my ear as his teeth gently nip at my earlobe, careful not to break the skin.

“Don’t tell me what I want, Sweetheart,” he growls, lifting his hips, his hard cock pushing inside me as his hands grip the butterfly curve of my hips, pushing me downward until his knot presses against my throbbing clit, my body not ready to admit his knot yet.

“Only once,” I manage to gasp out as Frank’s hot hardness nudges at my cervix . The two of us begin to move against each other—writhing in the steaming water, the ripples lapping rhythmically at the edge as I adjust my riding pace—slow and deep.

“Had a heat in the field,” I huff against the effort of our coupling, my breaths thinned by the frigid air and physical exertion. “Needed a knot,” I whine pointedly, dropping all my weight against Frank—the swollen knurl at the base of his shaft stretches me—seeking admission to my tightness.

“A Fed fucked you so good you thought you were fated to fuck him for the rest of your life?” Frank challenges, a hand roving over the curve of my ass, rocking me against him so that my clit rubs deliciously against his knot as he assists my ride.

The memory theater deep inside my brain spins up, the long dusty film projected onto my mind’s eye showing me that fateful night; Dennis McBride and I, on a dodge-y stakeout, trying to get eyes on a dangerous unsub for the hundredth time; the two of us crammed into a rusted sea green sedan with tinted windows on the edge of Danner Hollow State Park, deep in the white mountains.

Nearly 48 hours we had been in that car, hours away from even a rest station; Both Dennis and I had protested the assignment. In part because we were no longer the lowest on the BSU food chain and felt that the most recent Quantico grads should have been assigned to pay their dues; but mostly because I was close to my heat—unable to take suppressants after being put on mandatory heat blocker cycling on the heels of an assignment that had required me to take heavy suppressants and false scent producers for nearly two months.

Susan Lowry herself had assured me we would be relieved from our post before the situation became dire. Plans and standards of best practice tend to fall by the wayside when the biology of our designation actually takes hold, though.

After almost thirty hours of intense conversation and huffing each other’s scents—my body simply could not stave off triggering a heat. With a complete loss of inhibitions, I tumbled headlong into full on heat sickness. Far away from a hospital or placement where I might find medication to help manage the heat chemically or professional heat helpers who were trained to guide me through the heat and back into homeostasis, and Dennis toeing the line of rut around my suddenly raging heat; we spent the next 72 hours in and out of the car, all over the glorious nature of the state park locked in the most intense coupling I’d ever experienced before.

The very last time Dennis knotted me before the heat broke had been the most exquisite of all those that had come before; him on his back on a blanket in the tall, soft grass. As I rode him slow and deep, my pale skin and red hair glowing in the silvery blue light of night—the warm summer breeze making the field around us appear as the surface of the ocean long before dawn—the reflection of the moonlight off the blue-tinged grass as it rippled in the wind like whitecaps over the distant windswept waves.

With a sudden swell, Dennis had flipped me onto my back on the soft blanket—so that I was looking up at him, the stars and the moon; his knot filling me like the full silver cratered coin in the sky above us.

Was the night really that beautiful? Was our coupling so ecstatic, so divinely sensuous because of brain and body chemistry reaching a fever pitch? Or was the sensation of otherworldly harmony, a touching of souls, if even for a fraction of a second, real?

We lay there, joined together—our breathing normalizing as the grasses whispered around us until we both drifted off.

The next morning, not but a handful of hours later, we woke—covered in mosquito bites, dehydrated, and ravenous; the heat broken—the magical connection we’d shared the night before, a distant memory.

Of course, Lowry had known what happened. Both McBride and I had reported to her before going dark during the heat. While hardly thrilled at the situation, it wasn’t as if she herself hadn’t been reduced to similar scenarios back in her days as a field agent. After she gave her blessing and sealed the records, Dennis and I agreed to never speak of it again.

Not long after that, we both moved onto steady office work and out of the field. It wasn’t hard to avoid Dennis and any potential deepening of our relationship beyond our professional involvement with one another.

It’s just as I’m about to surface from this deep pool of memory that I feel something—like a warm, open hand running itself through the rippling waters.

Frank?

It couldn’t be… a mating bond?

“Dennis?” The name slips his lips as a question—tinged with want, but also hurt.

“Yes.” My breath hitches as Frank pulls me against him in tandem with the upward roll of his hips. The combination of clitoral stimulation and deep penetration—his knot banging at my gates, nearly stealing my ability to make words entirely.

Before I can say anything else, there’s another gentle stroking of my mind—as if Frank has reached out and run a finger down the pane of my consciousness, letting me know he’s seen and felt what’s there—entreating me to open myself to him as words pour from his lips against the curve of my jaw.

“Me too, Dennis—and my old partner.”

The two of us make soft, low moans as we move against one another.

As I close my eyes, I catch a wisp of Dennis’ scent—herbal thyme and hyssop with a clean bite of sea salt, and another that’s entirely new to me; sharp balsam, plum brandy, and black pepper.

I am immediately struck by how much this last scent mirrors my own, but powerfully masculine. Before I can regain my grip on reality—a vision dances across my mind’s eye.

Frank and the handsome man in the blue suit from the photo on Compton’s desk; fucking the shit out of each other on the couch in the BSU basement, on some white-sand-perfect-turquoise-water-beach, in the back of a stakeout car; the man murmuring something against Frank’s ear—staying his bonding bite.

The sudden flash is so intense, for a fraction of a second, I could swear that I can actually feel the pleasure Frank was experiencing in each of these moments—until another memory explodes into view; Frank, Dennis, and the mystery man from the bureau—a tangle of limbs, cocks, lips, tongues; then a plunging coldness—a cutting pain; one last glimpse of Frank and Dennis together.

The two of us, our bodies winding together—moving in time with our mounting desire—return to the moment, if only for the blink of an eye.

Along our shared connection—scraps of sensation, sights, sound, and color wash over me; Caz and I in the bath, the first time Q took Frank’s knot—the first time I locked Quentin, heats past—long before The Saints considered stealing me away. The first night in the cabin—all of us together.

Frank and I both exclaim our pleasure as the sun sinks behind the horizon, Frank’s knot disappearing inside me like the golden orb of light disappears beneath the surface of the frozen lake—deep fuchsia where the skyline meets the curve of the earth; bruising blue purples fading to velvet darkness above—twinkling stars glittering to light as Frank and I shudder against one another—his hot seed filling me to my core.

Frank’s eyes lock with mine—our breaths ragged, our teeth bared.

The moment kicks off sideways, stretching and elongating in an unspoken question. A bite? A bond?

Any risk of us being taken by the intensity of the moment—of the enigmatic visions and sensations we’ve just experienced pulling us beneath the undertow of the heat is cut short by the emergence of Caz from the hunting lodge.

“Ah, ah, ah! None of that, you two,” Caz scolds in a playful tone.

“Y’all have been in that hot water too long,” he pipes in nonchalantly, shuffling out into the snow in his boots, sweats, and parka—a spliff hanging lazily from his bottom lip; closing the door behind him.

“Yeah well, we’re going to be here a little while longer,” Frank grouses, his demeanor sliding back toward the familiar gruff exterior everyone comes to expect of Francis Stone.

“I can see that,” Caz clucks his tongue appreciatively—leaning on the edge of the large wooden tub to get a better look at Frank and I—our bodies still fit together beneath the water’s rippling surface.

“Get a good look while you can, Cazzy, and gimme that—will ya?” Frank reaches a dripping hand out for the spliff.

“No way dude, you’ll soak the thing with those drippy mitts—plus, we gotta get you two out of that boiling pot and back in the cabin; the temperature is falling fast and both of you are overdue for food and water,” Caz scoffs, leaning back conspicuously against the cedar shingles of the cabin wall.

Frank lets out a low growl of dissent but lets it drop quickly, his head lolling back over the side of the wooden tub as we wait for his knot to deflate enough for us to separate, my weight shifting slightly to ease the pressure on my knees.

In a matter of seconds, Seb ducks through the cabin doorway and out into the cold dregs of twilight; his eyes instantly drawn to Frank and I woven together.

“Ah, stuck in the hot tub I see,” he snickers, passing Caz an open flask without looking, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Hopefully not for long.” I shiver—my shoulders, the tops of my breasts, my damp hair—all above the steaming water line, my skin turning icy in the winter air without the benefit of so much exertion.

A few minutes pass—the water slowly cooling as the fire below begins to fade; the embers barely glowing beneath a feathery layer of ash.

Eventually, Frank’s knot goes down enough for us to separate; Sébastien lifts me out of the water and wraps me in a flat sheet—carrying me in his arms through the doorway of the cabin so that I don’t have to walk barefoot through the snow to get inside.

As soon as we make our way to the nest—I can smell him; Quentin—his sweet scent hanging in the air—his long, lithe body visible through the parted bed sheet canopy curtains; his hands moving in slow-intense motions. One fist pumping around his hard cock, two fingers pumping in and out of his slick asshole.

“I need everyone,” he whines plaintively—and all of us spring into action.

Sébastien and Caz shuck off their boots and the rest of their clothes while I drop my damp sheet to the ground. Frank, who still sits outside in the cooling tub finishing a cigarette, will have to join us when he can.

I’m the first to crawl into the nest, reaching Quentin as he desperately levers his hips upward—pumping his throbbing erection with one hand, feet tucked under bent knees—legs spread shoulder width apart as he fingers himself.

I close my mouth around his cock head, and he lets out a loud whine.

“Do you need a knot, cher Tin-tin?” Sébastien rumbles as he walks on his knees toward us.

Tin-tin nods—frazzled and distracted by his frenzied need.

“No lock?” I can’t keep the disappointment from my voice or the frown from my lips—even though I know it’s hardly fair. If he doesn’t want it—he doesn’t want it. Heat or not, boundaries are boundaries and no still means no.

Quentin’s luminous chartreuse eyes widen with a wild gleam that almost looks like fear.

“Lucifer, I need your lock—” he blurts out on a breathy moan before adding, “I want you—and Frank to…” he trails off just as Frank’s head pops into the nest, all of us moving slow and syrupy under the influence of Caz’s psychotropic scenting.

“What a greedy thing you are, Quentin Beckett,” Frank growls as he makes his way toward us in the blankets and bedsheets.

Q can’t even form words, but he makes a helpless sound of ascent that stirs something in all of us.

“How do you want us?” Caz purrs warmly—lazily stroking his hard, pierced cock as he looks over the four of us.

Quentin’s eyes travel around the nest, his stroking and fingering slowing as he runs his mental arithmetic.

“Sebby, lay down,” he instructs first—pulling his index and middle fingers from his slicked hole.

Seb does as he’s told, then Quentin crawls his way to Seb—kicking one knee over Seb’s hips so that Quentin kneels over Seb’s monster—standing at attention, his knot full and dark purple-red.

All of us watch in wrapt silence as Q reaches between his legs, helping Seb’s length sink deep inside his slick asshole until Q reaches Seb’s knot.

Tenderly, Seb reaches up to support Quentin’s lower back, helping to guide him up off of his knees and onto his back—Seb’s length clutched tightly inside Q.

Quentin reaches his arms out to me—inviting me.

I crawl on all fours—clamoring on top of Sébastien and Q—using my fingers to spread some of my dripping slick down Quentin’s length before I mount him—sliding down his massive length an inch at a time until he’s entirely sheathed inside me.

I’m so sensitive, so aroused by Quentin’s needy proclamation of desire for all of us at once—almost as if we’re a pack; as if it were written in the stars—like the fabled ‘fated mates’ Frank spoke of earlier—that I almost start to lock him right then and there.

Instead, I lose myself in the color blooms behind my closed eyelids, Caz’s scent making each sensation feel like the ripples made by a stone dropped in a still pool—echoes of feeling amplified into larger and larger swells as each ripple breaks against the shore.

I press myself against Quentin—welcomed by the circle of his arms—his hands in my hair; the whisper of his lips against mine as he says.

“Kiss me, Louie.”

The sensations have me so enraptured that I haven’t sensed Frank making his way behind us until his warm, rough hands close around my hips—the pressure of his cock against where my slick pussy and Quentin’s cock meet.

My eyes flutter open to find Caz—suspended by his own upper body strength above Q and Seb’s faces—his cock slipping free of Seb’s mouth just in time to pass between Q and I.

Both of us lap greedily at Caz’s cock—the thick gold ring through his cock head flopping this way and that as Q and I flick our tongues in alternating rhythms, much to Caz’s delight.

Behind me, Frank’s breath catches as he manages to press his cock inside me—his girth struggling to slip deeper against Q’s sheathed length.

I moan against Caz’s cock as Frank pushes deeper—Quentin’s abdominal muscles rippling against my stomach as he feels Frank stroke the underside of his cock inside of me.

“I don’t know if I can get my knot in here with the two of you,” he grunts out, drawing back a few inches before his hips lurch forward again.

“It’s not easy—but, mon dieu, it’s worth it,” Seb grits out, sweat beading along his brow as he struggles to pace himself deep in Quentin’s tight omega ass.

Caz pants as his legs twitch—his eyes greedy for the sight of us as we all move in and against one another. I close my mouth around his cockhead and his eyes roll back until only the whites show for a few glorious seconds before his breath hitches into speech.

“Knot in lock,” he huffs, the muscles in his right cheek tic-ing as he struggles against cumming. “That’s the triple black diamond forbidden cum, isn’t it?” He’s working against his whole body now, trying to give a smirk when he can’t fully control the muscles in his face.

Evidently Caz’s comment is enough to properly inspire Frank—who pushes inside me up to the knot—Quentin and I moaning loudly as the tightness and friction threatens to drive us mad.

“When even one of ‘em tightens around me like that, it’s heaven,” Frank rumbles, his grip on my hips squeezing as he rocks back, then forward again—Quentin and I wailing in pleasure.

“Just you wait for Louise’s lock,” Q gasps as Seb makes all of us undulate with an upward pump of his hips—Seb’s knot pressing fervidly against Q’s slick asshole.

We continue like this, our bodies writhing—moaning and sighing until Q makes a high, thready sound—and then there’s a wet sucking noise and Seb’s knot is inside him.

As if an electric current travels through all of us in a circuit—I can feel everyone quicken with orgasm like falling dominoes across our shared connection.

Seb goes first—his hot seed spilling deep inside Quentin’s ass as his facial features twist in beautiful agony.

This sends Caz careening after, blowing his pearly load over Quentin and I’s faces—as he crumples back onto his knees—watching through his post orgasmic haze as Quentin’s body begins to shudder and spasm between Seb and I.

Q cries out in wordless ecstasy as Frank’s knot slams inside of me—my cunt locking both of them inside me with such violent intensity that Frank howls his orgasm above the rest of our breathy cries—his and Quentin’s love filling me, hot and thick.

Exhausted, I fall asleep—Frank and Quentin still joined inside me; Seb lying beneath—strung together like a chain of flowers; Caz already snoring softly—his fingers knit together with the sleeping Sébastien’s.

Four nights and nearly five days pass; Louise and Quentin, completely broken of their heat by our sixth sunrise at the hunting lodge.

Though it was an ideal place to hide out while neither Louise nor Quentin were in any shape to be on the lam, we’ve almost made our way through the meager stores of food in the cabin, and there are matters that need tending to; getting Q and Louise on a regimen of suppressants and blockers, making our way to some of the ‘caches’ we previously could not approach due to logistical reasons, and getting in touch with the Red Bishop, to name a few.

I came dangerously close to both spilling my guts to Louise and biting her in the height of her heat.

The complete and total lack of control, the intrinsic shift in mental state that accompanies the body chemistry of an alpha once they’ve knotted a sigma—an omega; especially if the other Saints are right—and we are all fated mates; it’s insurmountable. There are places where I cannot allow my mind to wander—because even at my most lucid, at my most controlled, I’m barely keeping a lid on things.

Dennis, Michael… Now Louise and all The Saints? It makes my head hurt and my heart ache, and I have to push away all the questions. This information, this irrefutable truth which I feel in my very bones, yet still must deny—relentlessly drags to the surface, again and again.

I slug down another bitter, burned tasting cup of black coffee and do my best to stuff all my swirling thoughts and feelings down, refocusing on the concrete and dangerous tasks at hand.

The five of us sit around the large wooden farm table that has served as a surface to screw on for the duration of the double heats, an old atlas open between Caz and Seb; Q and Louise nursing cups of coffee as they chat in hushed voices.

“Seb, you and Q have a date with the Timberwoods Placement Center,” I announce, reaching forward to tap a section on the atlas a decent ways away from our location circled in red on the faded pages of the map, drawing the attention of the room. “Once you’ve secured meds for Louise and Q, we hit the road—hit that first cache, see how far that gets us—then I’ve got a favor to call in that will take us by sea back down to meet up with the Red Bishop.”

“I’m not going anywhere until y’all tell me who the fuck this Red Bishop is.” Louise sets her metal coffee cup on the table and crosses her arms.

Seb and Caz exchange embarrassed looks, Caz scuffing his feet nervously beneath the table.

“I can’t speak for the others,” Caz begins unsteadily. “But, I have no idea who the hell the ‘Red Bishop’ is—I heard the code name for the first time when you did, Lou,” he admits sheepishly. “I just played along because I figured that we’d be fucking shit up for Frank if we let on that we had no idea what the hell that FBI lady was talking about.” Caz’s eyes flit to me in a panic as he appears to remember I’m still sitting right here—but his confession has already slipped his lips. There’s no taking it back now.

Before I can admonish him, Seb is quick to join in.

“I have no fucking clue who this évêque rouge is either. I too was attempting to save face,” Seb admits flatly.

All three turn their eyes expectantly to Quentin instead of me, eager for his response.

“I don’t know why you’re all gawking at me,” Quentin shrugs. “I too deferred to Frank’s judgment, while I do know that this ‘Red Bishop’ is Frank’s old protégé and Louise’s former partner, Dennis McBride.”

I knew this moment was coming, though admittedly, the reason why I’d withheld attaching Dennis’ name to the code moniker was because I was hoping to avoid additional complication. Safe to say that after the revelation that Louise, The Saints, and I are fated mates—she had previously thought Dennis might be; that I had thought it possible he might be too—but after Michael…

“What!? Dennis is the Red Bishop!?” Louise balks. “You didn’t think to mention any of this the other night?” she snipes accusingly.

“He doesn’t know he’s the Red Bishop,” I bite out, my own heart hammering wildly in my chest. “That’s just what Lowry and the other higher-ups called him.”

“So do you know who the fucking White Knight is!?” she spits, shooting up from her seat.

“No,” I shake my head, a splitting pain spreading through my brow as my heart rate climbs and climbs.

She turns her venomous gaze to the other Saints, who all plead their innocence in overlapping voices.

Louise lets out an anguished cry and momentarily covers her eyes with the palms of her hands before she lunges forward—hands flying in a flurry through the air.

“What the fuck does Dennis have to do with any of this?” Louise presses, slamming both of her open hands down on the table, her patience run out.

“He was your partner, and even by Tennant’s word—he seems to be the only one in the bureau who didn’t turn on you after the Feds proclaimed you a collaborator of your parents and The Saints—dead or alive,” I do my best to explain before the situation spins out of control.

“So!?” Louise shouts.

“And he’s the only one we have who’s still on the inside.” I drive the point of my index finger down onto the surface of the wood table and draw a circle around the imaginary spot. “Even if Lowry had wanted to help you, to feed you information to reach her own ultimate goals of pleasing the department of reproduction—she can’t. She’s just a civilian now. A civilian with connections, sure—but nothing like Agent Dennis McBride—Compton’s new pick for successor now that you’re supposedly deceased,” I snap.

“And you didn’t think this was important to mention while you were waxing poetic about fated mates?” Louise shrills—her cinnamon eyes aflame with her rage.

I feel every pair of eyes in the room fall on me, the room slowly listing sideways as my blood pressure skyrockets.

“You two talked about fated mates?” Seb asks, his attempt at being inconspicuous, glaringly obvious—to me and the boys at the very least.

“Yeah, he asked me if I believed and I told him ‘I don’t know’—because I fucking don’t know if it’s a fairy tale or bullshit or just the kind of rare slice of heaven not meant for a goddamn mess of a failure like myself—” Louise rattles on, her hands curling into fists on the table, her eyes threatening to spill over with tears.

The others shift uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging worried glances.

“Neither of us seemed to have a definitive answer—but both of us mentioned heats with Dennis and…” she trails off, realizing that she has nearly made the admission about the other Saints.

I do my best to sit in challenge, but already my stomach has begun to swim with dizzy nausea—my vision begins to darken at the edges.

As if reading my expression and doubling down on her confession to throw down the gauntlet, Louise pushes on.

“And—in the bath with Caz at the safehouse; with all of you during this heat.” Her jaw juts out as she grits her teeth, the words hanging in the air—unable to be taken back.

The other Saints look at me—the condemnation plain on their faces—but I give the most imperceptible shakes of my head.

No. We do not tell her. Not yet. Yes, she guesses—but no, we can’t tell her.

I see Seb’s lips move in a small, silent, ‘putain’ and know that at least he is still obedient. Caz, too, directs those icy blues down to the floor to escape the scrutiny of my gaze. Last, Quentin remains—a sliver of defiance reflected in those peridot green eyes, but ultimately, he relents. Deferring once again to me—our not-quite-pack’s alpha.

Only Louise remains—the denunciatory fire of her gaze pinning me to my seat, and all I want to do is to wake from this nightmare; or to jump from my seat and cover her face in kisses; to tell her all the horrible secrets I keep—of the monster that sleeps deep inside me, threatening to awaken and seize control at any moment…

No. I can’t do this, not again.

My head begins to spin and my ears fill with the sound of hissing voices that come from far beyond this room—from the back of my mind, from my worst fears, from the grave.

I clamp my palms over my ears and screw my eyes shut tight as my heart pounds in my ears and my teeth grind against one another.

Just as I think I’m about to fly apart, I return to myself; Louise and The Saints staring at me with pinched, worried expressions.

“Frank?” Quentin calls my name with urgency—everyone crouched and loaded in their seat—ready to pounce on me, to give some kind of support.

My head aches, and I can’t quite remember how I got here.

“Just a cluster headache.” I blink away my double vision and shake out my shoulders.

Everyone continues to stare me down, their concern plain on their faces.

“Quit sitting around looking at me like I’m some delicate flower, I’m fine—Seb and Q, you’ve got shit to do,” I bark, jolting everyone back into motion.

It’s a bandaid over a bigger issue, but it’s all I can manage for now to keep everyone moving toward a common goal—not giving them too long to stop and think about where this journey ultimately ends.

With the heat broken, and the nest disassembled, Louise sits by the stone ledge of the fire, gazing into the banked coals while Caz and I peel the last of the potatoes and cut them into small cubes for our last meal at the cabin.

“What’s the first ‘cache’?” Louise asks, her voice—with its edge of anger, her eyes still fixed on the fireplace.

Caz squirms uncomfortably in his seat.

“I know you mentioned it, back when we talked about the hard drive—I had just assumed in the moment that you had meant data, but since we got to the cabin, it sounds more and more like these ‘caches’ are physical things in the material world,” she says slowly and evenly.

Caz wets his lips as if to speak, then his eyes dart to me—thinking better of answering her right away. He casts his eyes back down to his knife, and the spiraled peel of the potato—keeping his mouth shut.

“That may or may not have been an intentional obfuscation,” I sigh, sidestepping a direct answer.

“God fucking damn it, Frank,” she sighs in exasperation, covering her face with her hands for a moment before slicking her long red hair back from that carved marble face of hers—cinnamon eyes burning into mine. “You said yourself—you need me to help you access some of these ‘caches’—I can choose to become uncooperative.” She issues her challenge, and though my first instinct is to kick back from the table and snarl some threat to force her compliance—I know from the look on Caz’s face that my control over the Saints isn’t strong enough to endure such cruelty after the deep connection during the heat.

“Does the name ‘STOR-WITH-US’ mean anything to you?” I sneer instead.

Louise blinks, taken aback.

“Like the chain storage unit place?” Her brows pinch and draw downward.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” I confirm.

“My parents had a unit at the one by their place that I had to clean out after they…” She trails off a moment before regaining her voice. “Most of the stuff in it was actually from my high school bedroom. They cleaned everything out when I got my first apartment after undergrad.”

“Yeah, well—they’ve got another unit at the same facility that somehow slipped through the cracks, probably because you didn’t know about it—your parents didn’t want you to,” I say unkindly, turning away from the hurt look in Louise’s eyes.

Never had the stomach for this kind of stuff, the softness of people—the way they start to need you. Better she understand now, before the end—I’m not a person she should need.

“We head Northeast, see what’s in the unit. I had hoped that we’d have been able to use you to access it the legal way, as their surviving child… but since the Feds have had you declared legally dead, that’s no longer on the menu. Old Q’s going to have to break out his lock picks again. It’s been a minute since we’ve had to use his physical security skills.” I can feel Louise’s eyes on me, Caz’s reproachful glare—still I press on. “The other cache, well—that’s where you come in.” I hazard a glance at Louise, a devious smile on my lips.

“Since you love the sound of your own voice so much,” she snipes, a terse smile turning the corners of her mouth upward. “Why don’t you enlighten us, oh fearless leader.”

That’s right. I’m the leader, the alpha. Don’t you forget it Louise Penny. I’ll wipe that smile right off your face—ethereal beauty or no.

“Word on the wire is that your parents sold almost everything before they got bumped off.” I make the shape of a gun with my thumb and forefinger and pantomime firing two shots at her.

Louise’s throat works and her jaw clenches as she bites her tongue—doing her best not to give me the satisfaction of taking my obvious bait. So much control, so much self righteous decorum—maybe that’s why I adore unraveling her so.

“Almost, but not actually everything.” I bounce the turn of phrase off her, her willpower palpable as she breathes in deeply through her nose before speaking.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Frankie, but the only thing they didn’t sell before their death was the house in Lexington. The one I happened to own before I supposedly ‘died.’ No fucking chance we can get back in there now—the place will be crawling with Feds and local law enforcement. If you idiots had just approached me with evidence of Lowry’s betrayal in the first place instead of kidnapping me, we wouldn’t be up shit creek now.” Now Louise is baiting me—with this Frankie stuff and the nasty comments about how things have gone down. I suppose she’s entitled to bitch and moan about her own abduction and captivity—but really, is she gonna defend the behavior of Compton and Lowry and the Fed who sent her away to ‘get bit and bred,’ lest Louise’s career advancement opportunities suddenly evaporate?

There’s almost a glimmer of pity for Louise that surfaces before I remember my ultimate goal; the truth behind the Zeitnot virus—and retribution for those who took that which was most precious to me. And so, I use my words to cut once more.

“There was a vacation home, very small, very private,” I say softly, sweetly.

“There was a vacation home, but it wasn’t part of their assets after death—I’d know, I was the executor of their estate.” Louise’s eyes darken and she bares her teeth, but there’s a gentle tic-ing in her cheek that lets me know she’s wrestling with her own doubt.

“Just because the property wasn’t included in the estate paperwork that your parents furnished for you doesn’t mean they don’t still own it.” I snort dismissively, drinking in the fumes of her rage as her scent vaporizes with the heat of anger—savoring the crisp, tartness of the green apple like a fine wine.

“I would know if—” she starts, but stutters, leaving me room to cut in.

“If they still owned it?” I raise a brow.

“It’s an empirical exercise, even if the house is—say, technically owned by a shell company that doesn’t readily lead back to your parents, and that said vacation home is actually just sitting there, exactly as your parents left it—waiting for just such a moment where you, and only you, would know where it was? How to access it? What secrets it might hold…”

I watch the fingers on her left hand curl into a fist, undoubtedly fantasizing about serving me a knuckle sandwich at this very moment.

“Just one problem…” Louise pauses before adding as evenly as she can, “I’m not the only person who knows about the cottage.”

“Yeah, your uncle helped your dad build it like forty years ago, but we’re not worried about him. Plus, he probably thought exactly the same thing you did—wasn’t included in their estate at the time of death, must have sold it—too crazy with grief to follow up on something that seemed to so clearly already be gone.”

Louise opens her mouth to say something, but either thinks better of it—or can’t find the words to articulate the myriad of feelings coloring her shifting features; worrying brows, chewed then pursed lips, and grinding teeth all lending to the general feeling of unease.

Eventually she shakes herself off, comforted by Caz—a silent watcher in all of this, as he lays a hand over her knee—scooting himself down the bench seat until his hip and thigh press against hers in a gesture of affectionate support.

“Fine, we go to the cottage after we break into the storage unit—if it’s all as you say, I’ll be able to get us there and get us in,” she says with a cold finality.

When Tin-tin and I get back with the suppressants and scent blockers, the cabin is looking neat and tidy— our belongings packed and ready to go; a lunch of potato soup and mysterious spicy jerky, laid out on the large wooden farm table.

We take a few moments to inject Louise and Tin-tin with their loading doses of scent blockers and make sure both wash down their suppressant tablets with a last icy cold cup of water pumped from the little lodge sink—we do our dishes and put them away on the wire rack, and pack out of our temporary home and heat haven for the last several days, a long drive to the coast awaiting us after our snowy trek to the car.

It’s about five hours into the drive when Louise suddenly sits bolt upright in the back seat—pressed between Tin-tin and I, her head lifting from my shoulder with a start as she asks breathlessly.

“Wait, all of you can swim? Right?”

Caz looks nervously into the rear view mirror, his icy blue eyes sparkling with nascent fear.

“Uh, I mean, I can doggy paddle and I can float on my back if I try real hard—but I have a low-key, high-key thalassophobia so…” he trails off.

“I’m an excellent swimmer. Why?” Quentin answers suspiciously.

Though neither Frank nor I have had a chance to answer the question, I am a very strong swimmer and I know Frank not only to be superb over long distances even in extreme conditions but also a skilled diver. Much like Quentin, I too wish to know why this has become a sudden concern.

“Well, the good news is that it doesn’t quite qualify as ‘open; ocean—it’s more of a sound between the mainland and the island just at the end of Windy Neck, not far from the beach. Probably a little less than a mile by zodiac or small motorboat,” Louise explains as Caz turns pale green.

“If we weren’t trying to be all stealthy about it—we could have driven down Windy Neck itself at low tide and walked out to the island on the sandbar, but—if we want to get to the cottage unseen, at night during calm waters with a paddled zodiac would be the best method of approach. Obviously the landscape changes a bit if we have Saints who sink like stones.”

“Caz will be fine. We’ll stop at a bait and tackle or outdoor store and pick up a little floaty vest as insurance.”

“Yeah, better pick up a boat, too. There will be stuff at the dock between the mainland and Windy Neck, but the locals will absolutely notice—and local harbor patrol has nothing better to do than to follow up on whatever the local Karen or Robert has to report,” Louise adds, everyone making noises of ascent.

The ‘STOR-WITH-US’ is our first stop, even before the sports store or bait and tackle. Frank runs distraction at the main desk while Quentin slips easily into the maze of corrugated metal roll-up doors, using his set of delicate lock picks to break into the unit in record time.

Though Caz sits, waiting behind the wheel of our getaway car, I back Tin-tin and Loulu up—following them into the unit to be another set of hands to move items quickly; to help carry out our bounty if needed.

Surprisingly, there’s almost nothing in the unit, a few dusty banker’s boxes and an unusually ornate silk potted tree caked in dust and cobwebs.

Louise pops the top off two of the banker's boxes and goes very still as she lifts an ancient, thick silver plastic laptop from its confines.

Quentin and I pull the tops off the other boxes, but they only yield a couple of corporate trophy glass sculptures and an old Lillian Vernon catalog stained by rainwater and age.

We find the rodent-chewed charging cable and stuff it into a canvas tote bag Loulu found in one of the other banker’s boxes along with the laptop—scurrying from the scene as quickly as possible.

A few towns over, we make a stop at an outdoor strip mall that will serve our needs.

We divide and conquer; myself and Louise sent on a mission to the dollar store for affordable non-perishable food along with some basic toiletries and supplies for a brief stay at the Penny’s lost cottage. Frank stays with the car, chain-smoking cigarettes in the front passenger seat while Caz runs into the ServoCity to pick up a working charger for the laptop along with a few new burner phones and prepaid sim cards while Quentin hits the outdoors store.

Louise and I return with a bounty of seventy-nine cent boxes of mac and cheese, unpopular flavors of recent seasonal pop tarts, three five gallon plastic containers of spring water with little plastic spigots on the side, and a few canisters of powdered sports drink mix as Caz hustles back to the car with his charger and phones.

Tin-tin, back to his right mind after the heat and once again in full command of his superhuman charisma, sweet talks the girl at the Western Cliff Athletics into a free hydro flask covered in store branding and a twenty percent discount for his purchase; a rigid inflatable boat that can seat the five of us, a portable air pump, five plastic paddles, five black vest-style personal flotation devices, three bottles of white gas, an ultra light camping stove made for backpacking, two LED head lamps and a stack of “just add water” meal packets.

We stop for dinner just west of the Sagamore bridge and get dinner at a small Greek diner that makes a more than passable moussaka before making our way down toward Windy Neck.

It’s been nearly pitch-dark since three thirty in the afternoon, so we don’t have to worry about the cover of darkness, the new moon and a windless night conspiring to give us optimal crossing conditions.

“Your parents must have been pretty loaded to afford some private island shit,” Caz blurts out nervously as we inflate the boat at the grassy edge of a sand dune—Frank and Q’s headlamps diffused by gas station napkins and a bit of cello tape casting around dimly in the darkness and salt air.

Louise doesn’t say anything to this at first, but as she helps to steady the bow of the boat—slowly inflating under Frank and Quentin’s shared efforts with the pump, the words eventually seem to find her.

“I didn’t really think about my parents as being rich when I was a kid,” she admits, a hint of embarrassment tinging her usually proud voice. “I never really knew anything else. Went to good schools, met other kids with similar families.” She shrugs timidly. “It wasn’t until I went away to college that I started to see just how small of a slice of the world I was seeing,” Louise confesses earnestly. “I guess that’s what privilege is though, right? Not even knowing that you just don’t know.” Her voice goes quiet and I think about my own childhood in and out of bloc apartment buildings like concrete jungles in the south of France, my Jiddu’s home in the Mellah.

I was too young to know enough to point out on a map—the dirty drug dens my Baabaa dragged me to and from across the eastern seaboard of the US. I can’t imagine it looked anything like the life of the pampered Penny princess.

I do my best to ignore the flare of resentment that rises in me. Being poor never made my mother bitter, even if it drove my father to the most toxic depths of depravity—chasing paper until it put him in the grave, a penniless criminal.

Obviously, Louise’s life hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows. I feel a stab of guilt as I accept my own role in her most recent trauma and turn my focus back to our imminent crossing.

The paddling is harder than I expect, despite how relatively calm the dark waters appear as we push off from the beach. This section of the rocky shore is virtually uninhabited this time of year—all the seasonal houses in the area shuttered for winter, the locals tucked away inside their warm homes—far from the edge of the sea.

We make landfall on a small strip of sand amidst the rocks and patches of seagrass. The tiny spit of land can’t be called an island—not really. It’s barely one hundred yards across at its widest point—the small stone cottage with its slate roof appearing to sprout from the ground.

The door to the cottage, ironwood with green oxidized bands of metal across the front, boasts two different embedded combination spinner locks.

With an ease that only a lifetime of practice can produce, Loulu spins the tiny clicking wheels this way and that until both locks pop free, and the door opens—a slight musty and close smell emanating from the sea shack.

Before we light the lanterns or un-shroud our headlamps, Louise and Quentin hurry around the small space—affixing a stack of old newspapers we picked up at the diner to the windows with duct tape.

I stand outside the small cabin to confirm that the folded paper blots out the light from within as the others increase the brightness inside—before confirming our stealth and slipping back into the cottage.

In the newly lit space, everything comes into focus.

For a rich family, the vacation home is shockingly humble in its size and furnishings, though its very existence still speaks to a wealth of which I have only ever dreamed.

A beam runs across the center of the ceiling, dripping with ropes, fine plastic nets, buoys and a few moth-eaten life preservers that were once a bright orange, but have been bleached by sun and time; they appear to be for function rather than mere decoration.

The low, exposed ceiling vaulting is stained a dark brown. The same stained wood is built into a maze of shelving on the far wall, with one small window embedded in the center of the shelves; loaded with books, old coffee cans full of colored pencils and markers, a full corningware set, and an oversized brass kettle patinated with age.

On the opposite wall is the old wood stove with its modest hob and small dusty stack of driftwood, and an iron box of matches on the brick safety pad beneath it.

In the space between the wall of shelves and the wood stove is a round wooden table encircled by a set of four wood and canvas folding chairs, and two metal framed daybeds that look out through the large picture window in the ocean-facing wall currently papered over by the Morning Metro Star.

I give the room another once over before the words slip out of my mouth, breaking the silence.

“Where are you supposed to take a piss?”

“Pfft!” Caz can’t contain the laugh that blows a raspberry through his closed lips.

“There’s a composting toilet in a little wooden booth outside,” Louise answers without so much as the hint of a smile, tears already running in silent, salty streams down her face.

A hush falls over the cabin as we set about settling in; Tin-tin helping Loulu to push the day beds together; gathering all the pillows and blankets they can to furnish us with a place to sleep, even if only for the night.

Frank paces back and forth behind Caz, who is doing his best to try to revive the ailing laptop from the storage unit with a large portable battery and a litany of different cables and electronic accessories while I begin to scrape together a dinner for us.

Tin-tin and Loulu finish their task; Q bundling himself in a large quilt at the edge of the bed-nest—Louise poised at the very edge of the metal frame—crouched on her heels, ready to spring forward at any moment.

Frank is about to light up a cigarette when Louise screams at him.

“Not inside! Go outside with that shit!”

She’s so sudden and intense that even Frank freezes, lighter in hand—before seeing himself out.

I turn my back on the hurry-up-and-wait drama of the laptop and do my best to focus on fashioning something edible out of our non-perishable delicacies. So far I have opted to prepare a combination of freeze-dried packets of camping pasta with the little bits dried mushrooms and a few ‘holiday eggnog’ pop-tarts lightly grilled over the open gas flame—accompanied by some freshly mixed lemon-lime sports drink passed around in the new metal water bottle Tin Tin scored earlier.

It’s not going to earn me my Michelin star, but it isn’t bad for a shack out amongst the waves in New England midwinter.

Frank has just slipped back inside the cottage, and I am about to announce that dinner is served when Caz yells. “Oh-oh-oh! We’ve got power! The aging laptop wheezes to life, its screen flickering slightly.

Everyone’s eyes turn to the laptop as its old fan motors whir and cough, the screen—an older but still familiar operating system; presents a login screen—a square photo of a family of three stands out on a plain cornflower blue background. Beneath the square image reads ‘Penny Fam PC,’ a small fillable box for a password with a green check mark button beside it.

The irony is not lost on me. With my wealth of hacking skills and computer security knowledge—I have most likely been made obsolete by Louise’s presence when it comes to penetrating this device and unraveling its secrets.

That’s when I notice Louise is shaking so badly she looks as if she might fall off of her chair.

“Hey, you ok?” I reach up from my place on the floor in front of the wooden trunk that’s been re-fashioned as first a coffee table, and now my temporary desk—placing a hand over one of Louise’s furiously bouncing kneecaps.

“No, I’m really not.” She shakes her head solemnly. “I’m not sure I wanna know what’s on this thing… I’ll never be able to unsee what I’m about to look at,” Louise breathes hoarsely.

I let her make the next move, scooting back from the keyboard to allow her access.

Louise eyes the keyboard warily before cautiously rising from her chair and taking her place, kneeling before the machine. She stops and starts a few times before ultimately deciding on her first password attempt.

She holds her breath. And presses the enter key. All of us wait as the screen turns over. Processing her entered password. You could hear a pin drop, but within another few seconds the screen cycles back to the login, a message in red informing Louise that the password was incorrect.

“Let me try something else,” she says before moving on to another attempt.

As she types, we sit in silence. Louise rounds through several guesses unsuccessfully until she blows an exasperated sigh and sits back on her heels, shaking her head and muttering to herself.

“It wouldn't be something that stupid, would it?” she mumbles under her breath. Hands flying to the keyboard. “It wouldn't have been something that stupid if anything was important on it,” she says aloud to herself as she strikes the enter key. There's only a brief moment to processing before the crunchy, distorted sound of the startup tone crackles through the old speakers.

“That was it! The fucking name of my first gerbil—Sugar, that was it!” she shouts, momentarily delighted by her success. The computer screen loads in, the standard cornflower blue in an abstract geometric pattern background turning over into a photo of Louise and her parents at what I’m guessing was Louise's high school graduation.

We stop and stare silently at the photo that takes up the entire desktop background, Landon and Margot Penny dressed smartly in khaki, seersucker, and pastels—the two of them perched behind a teenage Louise.

She’s smiling, tall, lean but still girlish and green–fresh faced and grinning in a shiny white mortarboard cap and gown—her high school yearbook clutched against her chest along with her diploma.

The family resemblance is striking. Both Landon and Margo share different shades of red hair mirrored by their daughter—open expressions with bright smiles highlighting Landon’s thin, upturned nose, Margo’s full lips, Landon’s constellation of freckles—but it's Margo's beautiful red-brown eyes, nearly perfectly replicated in Louise’s own face that are the most arresting.

“Oh god,” she chokes. “I remember seeing my dad on this computer the last time I came home from grad school.” Louise lets go a captive sob before clapping a hand over her mouth.

I can tell by the tense, loaded way that Frank sits at the edge of his chair that it's taking all of his power not to urge Louise to begin exploring the machine immediately.

Even I have to sit on my hands to keep myself from pouncing on the free keyboard and trackpad mouse—desperate to see what is inside after such a long time searching for the secrets it may hold.

Though Louise is going through an entire range of emotions in this moment, so are we. I’ve been looking for the answers inside this laptop almost as long as I’ve been with the Saints.

When Sébastien and I first met, it hadn't been under the pretenses of working together for the vigilante group known as the Saints. In fact, when he initially offered me an opportunity to collaborate, Seb sold me on the notion that there was somebody that he really wanted me to meet; a man who had inspired him—who had changed the course of Sébastien’s life.

That man just so happened to be Francis Stone.

There was a job Seb had established as a good entry point for me to prove myself to the group—a small one; the retrieval of some records for sigmas and omegas who had gone missing; all of them not-so-coincidentally from a pool of substance users and other marginalized groups who had received care from large, mostly urban clinics. Frank wanted me to help, to follow up on where, if anywhere, these people existed in the system after such a point that they attempted to get treatment or were admitted to various rehab programs post incarceration or overdose.

Without context, this seemed to fall into somewhat of a questionable moral area. I asked Frank why he wanted me to gather this information. What use could it serve him? That’s when he told me about his time as an FBI agent, a ‘boy scout’ and true believer who witnessed corruption at the highest levels of government firsthand.

Corruption of the powers that be, in conjunction with the virus—ultimately destroyed Frank’s professional career, forced him to live a lie after the Feds covered up a fatal accident in the field with his supposed death and hero’s burial—along with the actual death of Frank’s only known fated mate at the time, who Frank now seeks to avenge by exposing the very systems that robbed him of his future, of his happiness.

The tale was as heartbreaking as it was compelling. So of course I found myself suddenly fighting for the cause—for Frank. I began trying my best to help Frank get his revenge, to keep anyone else from suffering as Frank had suffered.

Of course, my findings, as I began to plumb the depths of the Penny’s research and development, only further ensnared me. The more we dug, the more we seemed to uncover instances of foul play. Clear evidence of the government hedging their bets on the future of commercial applications for the fated mate testing, the designation prediction and switching; and, of course, the introduction of the mysterious virus into the omega and sigma population, most likely via illegal drugs.

When I had first begun researching the Penny's work, I never once dreamed that one day I would sit alongside their daughter when the Saints made this very important discovery.

Quentin, as if sensing the tension in the room, speaks—his voice soft and gentle.

“Louise, darling, would you do the honors?”

Louise shakes her head slowly and turns her face to me, her cinnamon eyes pleading—her hands balled into fists, clutched against her chest.

“Caz,” she manages to croak out, her voice dry and thin. “Can you? I don't think that I….” she trails off, her knuckles going white and bloodless as she clenches her fists ever tighter.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Of course.” I shuffle on my hands and knees until I'm in front of the machine once more, Louise watching hesitantly from over my shoulder.

There's not much on the desktop. Only the standard icons for email, recycling bin and two folder icons: one labeled ‘Resources,’ the other labeled ‘For Louise.’

As my mouse hovers over the folder icon ‘For Louise,’ she draws in a sharp breath next to my ear—her chin resting in the place between my neck and my shoulder. I turn my face, my lips nearly touching hers as I drop my gaze to her—raised brows and pursed lips asking for permission.

She takes a steadying breath and nods, urging me on.

I open the folder, several video files laying in wait.

The first video, a thumbnail of Louise's parents, sitting on a couch, simply labeled ‘1’.

I hold my breath and double click.

The screen brightens, the sunlit living room glowing on the screen in the close, dark cottage.

Margot and Landon, softly smiling, fill our vision. Louise pushes away from me, nearly doubled over in front of the screen, both hands cupped over her mouth as tears stream down her face.

“Hey, Louie,” Landon says softly, crows feet creasing the corners of his blue-green eyes.

“Hey Honey.” Margot’s voice hitches slightly as she forces the greeting out sweetly. “It seems so dramatic to say, but if you're listening to this there's a very good chance that we're already gone, dear.” Margot’s voice is at once comforting and mournful.

Louise closes her eyes, allowing the tears to fall, struggling to breathe in through her nose, hands still clamped down hard over her mouth as her parents continue to speak on the recording.

“While it's entirely possible that somebody else may have gotten to this machine before you did, we’re hoping that everyone was so distracted with all the other inevitable fallout—in the event of our…” he trails off for a moment before starting up again. “That this managed to slip by,” Landon’s voice quavers and Margot offers a weak smile into the camera, her fingers interlacing with her husband’s as they cling to one another.

“There's a very good chance that your mother and I have been eliminated due to the nature of our discoveries while working for the government and the Department of Reproduction,” he clarifies before Margot begins to fill the ensuing silence.

“Back when we began our independent research in academia, your father and I had been motivated to not only find and develop a way to discover designation earlier than the point of adult ripening—but to manipulate that designation at any time. Our motivation, of course, was to reduce the scarcity of omegas and sigmas, to open the door on designation for everyone; to allow us to choose," Margot explains wistfully, looking at her husband with pride. In that moment, you can almost feel through the screen—the warm radiance of her love for him, and at the same time her palpable sadness, just beneath the surface.

In the next moment, that sadness begins to blossom, Margot's weak smile fading as her words return to her.

"They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions," Margot sighs before continuing. "So, we laid our way into the inferno—brick by brick." She blinks away a tear. "In the process of our research, we ended up finding out more than we bargained for. Not just about designations—how and when they present, but also we learned about indicators of fated mates—of the likelihood of scent matches."

Margot seems to have to steady herself before she continues, her voice taking on a pleading edge as she continues to explain carefully.

"Your father and I had sought only to use this information to free people—to change the very structure of our society, of the rights afforded to different designations! To bring about the destruction of the designation class system. Yes, I am ashamed to say our altruism and naiveté blinded us to the predatory nature of not just the government—but of pharmaceutical companies, commercial placement and matchmaking centers, the industrial heat and breeding industry—and, of course, all those rich and powerful who stand to benefit from the current system being as it is."

There is a heavy pause as Landon and his wife sit, holding

on desperately to one another. It's Landon, though, who breaks the silence, looking once again directly into the camera.

"You're a smart girl, Louise. I trust that by now you have at least some working knowledge of the cabal known as the Windmill; an ultra powerful group that controls players in government and pharma from the shadows. I'm not sure between the government and the Windmill who Mother and I fear the most. Not just for our safety, but for your own."

Though she's been strong for the entirety of the recording, Louise's mother folds forward, her face twisting as she begins to sob.

"We cannot pretend as if we are completely innocent in all of this," Louise's mother admits, her own pale face a mirror of Louise's, marked with the shimmering trails of tears.

"In the infancy of our research, we had used you, our own daughter, to run tests for advanced indicators of designation in early childhood. Of course, we had to use a larger population than just our daughter. So, in collaboration with the US government and with the cooperation of other intelligence programs from allied countries, we began to expand our testing population," Margot explains.

"Of the potential candidates, ultimately, only a small group went to final trials. Through our copious testing, we had become confident that we could declare designation long before an individual's ripening in adulthood. Not only were we confident in this method of testing, but we had been fairly confident that we could alter the designation presentation before an individual reached the ripening age as long as we had the right chemical intervention." Landon winces at this last part, before Margot adds with a chilling solemnity.

"This was our hubris." Margot bows her head a moment before continuing. "You, Louise—a sickly child, had been indicated as an omega in our testing. We were shocked when another test subject within the group came back with positive indicators of being one of your fated mates."

My blood runs cold at this. Only recently, Sébastien found evidence that Louise is connected to all of us Saints as our fated mate. If this is true—which of us is it? Or someone we've somehow never met? I can feel my pulse in my neck as I wait for the next revelation.

"This was a difficult truth to accept. Even though your mother and I were prepared not only to know your designation, but to potentially change it—we had simply not anticipated this aspect of our work with fated mate indicators, revealing to us the fated mates of our own daughter."

Louise, who has struggled against her own tears until this point, has gone entirely silent—tears dry, a nascent horror hollowing out her cold, pale features.

"You have to believe me Louise when I say that we didn't know, your mother and I—we didn't know what would happen," Landon stammers, he and Margot falling silent for a long moment before Margot finally speaks, slowly and deliberately.

"There were three final groups. One group contained 2 fated mates; you and the boy you matched with—there weren't any other faded mates indicated within the larger testing population, as the other two groups were seven each—one child of each pre-ripened designation. All the poor children in these groups had parents just as foolish as we—who thought they'd try their hand at playing God and changing their children's future." She falls silent as Landon steps in to carry the torch.

"We administered what we thought to be a designation changing serum. What we ended up doing was administering what would later become known as the Zeitnot virus," Landon confirms gravely. "Immediately we knew something was wrong. While none of the gamma, beta, delta or theta children showed any indication of change, the alpha, sigma, and omega children were affected. At first it was difficult to tell that the alpha children had been affected at all since it was the omegas and sigmas falling ill that let us know we had made a terrible mistake," Landon adds shamefully.

"It became apparent almost immediately that the virus was attacking healthy sigma and omega children's biological systems. Alpha children, while not symptomatic, would become carriers—unknowingly holding a deadly secret deep inside themselves, ready to spring out and affect omegas and sigmas they came into contact with at any time," he concludes.

"It was catastrophic, a disaster," Margot sniffles. "We were nearly certain that we would lose you." she hiccups down a sob."But you saved us—you saved everyone!" Margo cuts in, eyes sparkling with tears.

"In desperation we attempted to fashion a treatment, an antidote. While the others continued to worsen, you alone had begun to recover, but as you had begun to recover—a most curious phenomenon had begun to take place. All previous indicators which had shown that you would ripen as an omega had begun to shift, beginning to show that you would ripen as a sigma. None of the others in the test group yielded similar results. As a last ditch attempt, we used your blood—your antibodies to develop a treatment," Margot adds triumphantly.

Louise has lifted to a low crouch now. Hands balanced keenly on her bent knees. Eyes locked like lasers on the computer screen.

"We gave the treatment to the symptomatic omegas and sigmas as well as the asymptomatic alphas—including your fated mate who had become infected as part of the test group for the serum.

The good news? Those who received the treatment immediately began turning the corner—their symptoms becoming more manageable with a full recovery finally in view. However, all subjects who had been treated exhibited changes in their designation indicators—even those alphas who had only been asymptomatic carriers." Another hush falls over Landon and Margo as they allow the information to sink in.

"We don't know how much you remember about the testing. You were so young and so in and out of hospitals for most of your early life that it may not even be something that you recall. Or if you do, the memory is murky." Landon's face pinches in a way that evokes a silent apology as Margot speaks again.

"We gathered as much information as we could to share with you, about not only your own history, but about your future and ongoing connection to the virus."

"Your mother and I had honestly thought that we would have been eliminated right then and there. The implications of what our research could be used for hit us all at once. Not only could there be mass commercialization of our test to find designation or fated mates, but enormous profits could be made off of anything that could allow someone to choose their designation," Landon adds fretfully. "From what we can understand in our limited experience with the virus and the treatment developed from you, Louise—there is no ability to choose designation. The designation of the individual cured of the Zeitnot virus does not have any apparent rhyme, reason, or pattern. Even though we communicated this to our superiors, we were already under pressure to find a way to manipulate the results."

"This is to say nothing of the opportunity to use such a virus for a chemical weapon—the cure available to only those who can pay or those who capitulate to the will of those holding the weapon.

Surprisingly, we were allowed to continue our research as long as we made the appearance of cooperation. For years we have done our best to find another path, another resolution—but our time is running out.

Louise, you must do everything within your power to make sure this virus has a cure," Margot pleads.

"We should have told you ourselves while we were still alive, but we are both so worried about what they might do to you if they knew you knew about the Zietnot virus and your role as the keystone of the cure. I don’t want to think about what kind of action the Windmill or the government would take if anyone knew that you would be willing to go against the odds and stand against them. It’s frightening, yes, but stand against them you must," Landon adds with duty.

"We have very few friends and allies who haven't been compromised by the Feds or the Windmill.

Trust no one. Even people who you think you can trust, like Susan Lowry or Ed Compton. Do not trust them." Margo momentarily loses her composure, dissolving into a river of tears as Landon drapes an arm over her shoulders and does his best to comfort her.

"You will find the contact information for two of our research partners on this machine, along with the other materials and records we were able to provide. If you can, make contact with them. They'll know how to help you safeguard the future against the virus." Margot wipes her eyes with the back of one hand. "I know this is unfair and that you may hate us, but this is all we can offer you. Please understand, Louise, that it was never our intent to create this great evil, to hurt you, or to put you in danger. We know we will pay for our arrogance with our lives. We can only hope that is a high enough price to pay to safeguard your future," she weeps.

"We're counting on you, Sweetheart. Good luck," Landon concludes—and the image freezes Margot and Landon with their bleary faces and watery smiles. Forever held as a still in time.

Louise lets out an anguished animal cry and crumples laying flat, face down on the ground, her body gently shaking with sobs.

Before I can say anything, Quentin is at my elbow, a crazed look in his eyes. He reaches for the track mouse pad and I'm about to ask what he's doing when I watch him deftly navigate to the second video in the folder; a grainy security image obviously much older than the other digital video files that surround it.

Something about the look on his face, like a fox with its leg caught in a trap—makes my stomach clutch with panic.

Louise is still face down on the floor when the next video loads. If the date-time stamp in the bottom left hand corner of the video is to be believed, it was taken in March of 1993.

In the center of the frame sit two children in the middle of a brightly colored rug; a boy and a girl. I know instantly that the little girl with long red hair sitting cross-legged in a robin's egg blue hospital nightgown is Louise as a child. It only takes one incredulous second of examining the boy with cherry brown hair beside her, clutching her hand for dear life is a young, frightened Quentin.

"Oh, my God." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Seb stands up, knocking over his chair as a chain of French curses leave his lips and he staggers backward.

Frank says nothing, his elbows balanced on his knees, his hands knit together in a bridge beneath his nose, obscuring the bottom half of his face. Even so, I can see the tendons and his wrists and arms standing out.

"All right, you two!" The sound of the Doctor's voice makes me jump and draws Louise's eyes from the floor to the screen.

She presses up onto her hands and knees, crawling slowly back toward the laptop, her eyes wide as saucers as she takes in the grainy image of herself and Quentin as children.

The pair of them watch, a lucidity sparkling from behind their eyes.

"How are you feeling today, Quentin?" The doctor asks evenly. Quentin, clearly shy, doesn't answer the doctor directly, but rather leans and whispers into Louise's ear—having her relay his message.

"He says he feels a little better, but his tummy still hurts." Louise's small voice carries over the old recording like a ghost from the past.

"And does your tummy feel better or worse when you get to be with Louise?" The doctor asks Quentin again. Once more, Quentin whispers into Louise's ear.

"He says it feels worse when he doesn't get to stay in the room with me. It feels best when we hold hands," Louise chirps quietly before offering Quentin a warm smile.

"That's good, very good. A few more questions and the two of you can go outside for a bit with the other kids. Nobody's contagious any more and one of the nurses brought some fresh sidewalk chalk."

Louise reaches out one hand, smashing it down to the keyboard frantically until the video pauses.

"That's enough! I've had enough!" she shrieks before slamming the laptop shut.

Louise launches from her place on the floor, flying to the front door and slamming it behind her as she disappears into the night.

My first instinct is to rise from the floor and follow her, but Seb grabs me by the arm and stops me before I can get to the door.

"Uh-uh, not right now." He shakes his head and folds me against him in a tight hug. "I know you know she's hurting—I do too, and it kills me, but right now, the best thing we can do is give her a moment to be alone."

Embarrassed, my attention slides to Quentin, who has also been dealt a serious blow.

"Hey Q?" I call him, my voice small as I reach for his rounded shoulder.

He doesn't move, doesn't give any indication that he's heard.

"Hey, Quentin," I try again. This time my fingers falling soft and warm over his shoulder—muscles thrumming beneath a layer of merino wool.

He doesn't say anything, just gives a loud wet sniffle, tears silently streaming down his face.

"You need some space, buddy?" I don't mean for my voice to sound like I'm speaking to a child, but I can't help myself. He feels so delicate, so vulnerable.

I'm already prepared to start moving away at the nod of his head, assuming that he will want his distance from us in this moment. But instead, Quentin mutters only one word. "No," he says softly before tilting his head down toward where I grip his shoulder, his wet cheek making contact with the back of my hand.

All at once, I kneel on the ground and pull him to me. Sébastien joins us, one arm draped over each of our shoulders, his head laid over the top of ours as Quentin cries softly.

Without warning, Frank leaps up from his chair and grabs it by the spindled backrest, letting out a mighty howl of anguish before smashing it to splinters against the cast iron wood stove; the three of us jump at his sudden outburst.

There's no question that tensions are high after the revelations of the last several minutes, but Frank's reaction seems overblown compared to that of Louise and Quentin, who undoubtedly are questioning their very reality at this moment.

"Easy, Frank," Seb attempts to gentle Frank away from the edge of his hysteria, but Frank will have none of it.

"So that's it then!? All of this—.All of this work, all of our digging. To find out this." He sweeps his hand, lightning fast across the corner of the table, slapping his metal camping cup against the wall with a loud clatter.

"Fucking monsters use their own damn kid to play God—and what? We're supposed to believe that we just magically are also fated mates with Quentin and Louise!?" he barks, completely out of control.

"It's not magic, Frank," Seb interjects coolly, doing his best to de-escalate the situation.

“Once we get in touch with the scientists Louise's parents have mentioned, we'll have them confirm what we already know—not just from the tests, but from the sensation of our growing bonds post-heat. We are fated mates. The proof is definitive."

As a response, Frank bends down and lets out a scream until he has run out of breath, his eyes flat and expressionless. Usually, this kind of thing would have frightened me, but right now he just seems like a child throwing a tantrum. Seb and I stare back at him, bewildered but otherwise unphased by his outburst.

Whether he's unable or unwilling to deal with Frank's temper, Quentin wrestles himself free from Seb and I's arms and disappears out the front door after Louise into the cold winter's night.

Fated mates.

Such an idea seemed only a fairy tale a few weeks ago. But now…

The videos from mom and dad’s laptop were hard to swallow. Even though I watched the videos right alongside everyone else, it was hard not to be transported back into the haze of memory.

I don't remember exactly when I made them stop the videos, but I simply couldn't take it anymore. I burst out of the cottage and out onto the rocky shore.

As if I could go anywhere.

Standing on the beach, looking out over the dark waves, it feels as if the little salty whitecaps are laughing at me. A stupid girl, trapped here on this tiny spit of land with four men who have been both my curse and my deliverance.

Quentin joins me, bringing his own tears, his own pain. Silently. The two of us join hands looking out over the cruel surf together, a starless clouded sky overhead.

“How long have you known?” I ask, unable to look him in the face.

“Seb found the indicators for fated mates when he and Caz went to the university to run tests. As you can imagine, Frank completely dismissed it—and the rest of us were somewhat skeptical, to say the least. Of course, this was before the heat,” he admits softly.

“Why do you think Frank flipped his lid? It's not like he's any different from the rest of us,” I fume.

“Well, that's not entirely true,” Quentin sighs, pulling me against him—his fingers unlacing from mine to drape over my shoulders as he holds me, safe under his wing.

“The whole reason Frank started the Saints is because he lost his fated mate, setting him on a path hellbent for revenge.”

I allow the words to wash over me. If Frank and I, along with the rest of the Saints, are fated mates; then this means that a fated mate of Frank’s was a fated mate of mine of Quentin’s, too.

It’s only now that I see the dull ache in Quentin’s peridot green eyes; already having come to the same realization.

“Frank and his fated mate were working together in the field when it happened. I've never been able to get the entire story out of him, but there was an accident. A bad one.”

“What kind of accident?” I ask, not sure I really want to hear the answer.

“He was working for the DEA at the time. There was some kind of large drug bust planned in conjunction with the ATF. I’m sorry I don’t have any more details. I was working undercover at the time. I didn't even hear the slightest rumblings of what was really going on. All Frank told me was that the operation was bad. The Feds thought they had set up an ideal sting—the kind of bust that would make everybody look good for years to come. The sort of thing that would make careers. Instead, an internal resource tipped the cartels off, and it was an absolute bloodbath. Frank was lucky to get out alive.”

Quentin squeezes my hand tightly, barreling right through the rest of his sad tale.

“Of course it wouldn't have done to have the Feds take responsibility for the loss of so much life and—heaven forbid—the waste of so many tax dollars. As a result, everything was swept under the rug and reframed as a ‘transit accident.’” A plane that went down. Resources that were lost. Even though Frank hadn't been the one to botch it, he had to go down with the ship.

Compton, Lowry, Stoddard, Hell—possibly even Uncle Martin would have known about Frank—quietly struck from the record.

“As you can imagine, Frank had no intention of going quietly.” Quentin lets out a sound between a laugh and a sigh.

I let out a little whistle through the space in my front teeth and shake my head. “Of course! I'm here, aren't I?”

Quentin nods. “Right you are.”

There's a long stretch of silence that expands between us as I find the courage to ask the question.

“Did you know them?”

“Did I know who?” Quentin blinks, his gaze fixed far away on the dark horizon.

“Frank's fated mate. I mean… our fated mate,” I correct myself.

I hear Quentin struggle to swallow down more tears before he answers.

“Not very well. He was quite handsome, a bit more of a rogue than Francis, the Boy Scout; always second guessing authority as soon as he was out of the line of sight of his superiors—ever challenging and pushing Frank to look at the bigger picture, not just to follow orders.”

I don’t know what I expected—what I wanted to hear about this person that we were cosmically bonded to—whom I will never know.

“The two of them doted on that protégé of theirs—it’s so tragic in retrospect how everything turned out. It’s almost comical,” Quentin laughs coldly.

My heart skips a beat.

“You mean Dennis?”

“The strawberry blond meat head?” Quentin arches a brow.

I can't help but snort a laugh.

“Yes, I suppose Dennis could be remembered that way.”

There's an ache deep in my chest when I think of Dennis, of what Tenant said as he lay dying in my arms.

He didn’t believe it—didn’t believe you were dead—said he would have been able to feel it, said you wouldn’t⁠—

Is it because of the bond of a fated mate? That same magical thread that connects me to the rest of the Saints, to Frank’s long-lost lover? No, it couldn’t be. The idea that we’ve lost one of our sacred circle of partnership—too early departed from this life—is already too much for me to hold in this moment.

Thinking that Dennis might be part of that broken ring of destiny might very well send me into a tailspin.

“Quentin,” I murmur, nuzzling my face against his chest, the cold ocean wind whipping through us as we shiver together in the night. “I'm exhausted. Why don't we go to bed?”

I can tell that he'd rather stay out here a little longer, but I really am exhausted and I don't know how much longer my legs will carry me. As if Quentin senses this, he makes a sound of affirmation deep in his chest, purring as he presses a kiss down into the part of my hair.

“Alright, Louie. Let's go to bed,” he agrees, steering us both back inside the cottage.

When I wake in the early morning, my body pressed between Quentin and Caz—Seb’s hand still twined in my hair on the pillow above Caz’s buzzed blond head; there's a sense of cognitive dissonance.

I never expected to see this place again. Much less to be here with the Saints; my fated mates.

Frank looks like a black rain cloud encroaching on the pale pink morning sky as he sleeps in one of the wooden chairs—his chin against his chest, his neck raked at a painful angle.

No doubt he'll be sore when he wakes.

I crawl from my place in the blankets and make my way over to Sébastien's abandoned leather jacket, slipping myself inside of it and allowing my hand to dip into one of the satin lined pockets, a half-empty pack of cigarettes and plastic lighter inside.

The heavy wooden door makes little sound as I ease it closed behind me and I step into the gray morning light.

I find my favorite rock, the one I sat on for hours and hours with a fishing pole or a book or a notepad and pen writing to my friends back home pretending that we were pen pals across not just oceans—but time and space rather than a mere group of kids on summer vacation.

Touching the rough stone, I allow myself a few moments to fall apart. I allow myself to be weak—to stop pretending that I'm so damn strong all the time.

I tuck my knees up inside of Seb’s jacket and look out at the mainland in the distance. The beach is empty, just like you'd expect it to be this time of winter—only a tiny aluminum fishing boat braves the frigid morning water; a marine sportsman in a dark hat and coat cutting across the calm waters.

It's only one man in a tiny boat, but still, I start to feel the pressure of eyes on me. So, I pick up and round the back of the house. Nothing but the open ocean and the whistle of the wind through the wooden slats around the composting toilet.

With one of Seb’ cigarettes trembling between my lips, I close my eyes and let the tears fall.

I don't know where to go from here.

My parents obviously wanted me to become the hero that they couldn’t be, find their surviving research partners and make sure that a treatment for the Zeitnot virus is developed. Seems obvious, but how am I supposed to beat the odds when I too have been struck from the narrative, just as Frank has? Legally dead and thus a plaything for the Feds and the Windmill, should they decide to use or dispose of me.

Even if I were able to fulfil their wishes, what would become of me then? Me and my cursed fated mates—the men who stole me from my life—the men who held me captive.

I crouch down low to the ground to keep myself from falling over, the heels of my hands pressed into my eyes as I sob.

Just as I feel the darkness closing in, that I might go under—consumed by my sorrow and the impossibility of this situation, I hear a voice, clear and true against the shushing of the waves breaking on the shore.

“Louise,” Dennis chokes out, his fingers touching my hair—my face still buried in my hands.

At first I think I must be hallucinating—there's just no way that he could be here right now. But sure enough, I look up and he's standing there—salt white skin, cheeks bright-pink and chafed from the cold and wind, a black ball cap pulled over his strawberry blond hair and a black rain slicker with the collar turned up against the gale.

“Dennis!” I gasp, barely above a whisper—launching from the ground into his arms.

For a few blissful moments we hold each other in silence, his bracing thyme, hyssop, and sea salt scent mixing with the ocean air around us.

“I just knew it! I knew you weren't dead,” he murmurs reverently into my ear, like a prayer.

“How did you get here? How did you even know to come?” I struggle against my tears, using my ebbing anger to buoy me.

“When Compton told us you were dead, I didn't know what to think. Everybody thought I was crazy when I told them it must have been some mistake—that if you were dead, I would just… well, because we’re—because we were partners, I would know,” he stammers, a blush creeping in.

“Then when the breach at the second safe house went bad, I knew something was up. You had to be there. There was no way those fucking amateurs made it out of that rat hole without your marksmanship. No way in hell.”

Both of us laugh as he wipes the tears away from my face.

I want to kiss him. More than anything, but everything is confusing enough as it is—and Dennis knows nothing of fated mates or broken histories—it wouldn’t be fair to him.

At this thought, it's as if some of my sense returns to me.

“What are you doing here? It's too dangerous. Either someone's following you or even if they're not, if anyone finds you with me… I'm supposedly dead or a ‘dirty bomb’ by Tenant’s account—whichever way it means you'll be in a whole lot of trouble,” I warn.

Dennis shakes his head.

“Nobody's following me. Nobody knows that I'm here, or that I suspect anything. After my initial outbursts where I told—no, insisted to Compton and the others that you weren't dead, I've been on the straight and narrow. I even stood side by side with Susan Lowry to give your eulogy.”

White hot rage tears through me, my disgust bubbling up like black ichor.

“She knew I was alive. She knew the Saints had me.”

Dennis blinks, incredulous.

“What do you mean ‘Lowry knew?’”

I'm about to explain that Francis Stone proved it to me with a video recording of Lowry's confession when I remember, as far as Dennis knows, Frank is still dead.

My anger momentarily ebbs, replaced by icy fear. I grab Dennis by the shoulders, pressing him against the back wall of the house, poking my head out around the corner to look at shore. Still empty, not a soul on the beach. However, the aluminum boat Dennis used to get here practically glows in the strengthening daylight on the sandy beach of the small island.

Not good.

“Lowry was crooked. Compton's bad, too. Nobody is safe, Dennis. Trust no one.” I caution him.

“I know, I know. I don't understand why they're lying to me, but they are. I just knew you were alive.” He chokes down tears, wrapping me tightly in his arms.

“I came to warn you. I'm not stupid, Lou. I know that you could have broken apart from these guys if you’d wanted to by now, but for some reason you haven't. I'd tell you to leave with me right now, to run away, but the truth is—I don't think I can protect you. I don't think I can even protect myself for very much longer, but I'll do everything I can to help get you out safely. I came here because the manhunt they’ve organized for the Saints will be unlike anything you or I have ever seen. Everyone has rallied behind your supposed death, and I am to be used as their righteous spearhead.”

Steadying myself, I do my best to absorb his words. Not only have they proclaimed me dead, but they've made me a martyr for their cause, and now they want to use Dennis as their flaming sword to go forth and scorch the earth in the name of my memory—though I am very much alive and very much in danger.

“Right now, I'm supposed to be on mandatory bereavement leave.” Dennis shakes his head. “I haven't been tailed. I made sure of it.”

“We were going to try making our way to you,” I begin, but Dennis cuts me off.

“No, absolutely not. Nowhere near Quantico, nowhere near DC.”

“There's always the island.” I gesture around us. “I don't think the Saints had planned to go through so many safehouses so quickly, but this should hold us for a while as long as we don't get nicked getting supplies.”

“No. It's only a matter of time before they figure out you made your way back here. I'm not saying that Uncle Martin would sell you out intentionally, but all it takes is one mention of his little brother’s crazy cottage by the sea to the wrong person.” Dennis grabs me by the arms, squeezing so tightly that I have to tell him to let go because he's hurting me.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles under his breath.

“So you just came out here on a feeling?” I scoff, incredulous.

“It was more than just a feeling, Lou, it was instinct. I knew you were out here. I knew I had to come to warn you—just as surely as I know I need to breathe, that the sun will rise and the stars will shine.”

And then, before I can argue, before I can say anything else, Dennis pulls off his baseball cap and leans down, pressing his lips against mine.

I let my body soften against his, my arms coiling around his neck, holding him tightly against me.

When he finally breaks the kiss, I refuse to let him go—our foreheads pressed together as tears stream down my face.

“I don’t know how we're going to get out of this one,” he admits, his own voice cracking. “I can't stay long. Even though I'm accounted for on bereavement leave, I'll be expected back in the offices in less than 12 hours. If I wanna make it back in time, I gotta get on the road soon.”

“So what, you're going to go back? Become their tool? Be their dog? For what!? So that you can pretend to chase me and the rest of the Saints until they force you to kill us all? Dennis, there are things at play here that you don't understand—that even I am still trying to untangle.”

“I have to go back. If I don't, they'll put somebody else in my place. At least this way I can buy you some time. I will never allow them to truly turn me against you. I'll die before that happens.” Dennis cups my cheek with one of his hands.

“You can leave now. You can run with us,” I urge him.

At the word ‘us,’ Dennis seems to wake from a trance, pushing back from me.

“No, I can't. I may love you, Louise Penny—our partnership was written in the stars long before we could finally admit it; but I can't just turn my back on my old life. Even if I were really ready to believe that I've been had, that I've been playing for the bad guys this whole time without knowing it—if I believed that there's not a single person on my side who isn’t corrupt, there's still my family to think about. My parents. My sisters and their husbands; my nieces and nephews. What happens to them If I step out of line?”

He has a point there, one I cannot argue with.

“What about a compromise?” I beg, desperate. “If things start to look bad, if it looks like they're going to make an example of you or to force your hand to harm me or the Saints. Would you run then?”

Dennis gives me a sad smile and presses another kiss to my forehead.

“I don't want to lie to you, but I don't want to hurt you, either.” He pulls something from his pocket: a small square of white cotton; his initials, DM, embroidered neatly in one corner.

“I understand,” I weep softly, dabbing at my eyes and nose with the soft cloth before pushing away from him.

“How long do we have?” I sniffle, wiping my eyes with my sleeves.

“I'd leave as soon as you can.” He deflates, resigned to our fate.

“You better get going too, then. Somebody's bound to see your boat soon, and if you've got to be in the office tomorrow, you wanna leave as soon as possible, especially with the traffic.”

We fling ourselves into one another's arms once more. Our mouths crushing together in one last kiss before Dennis turns and makes his way to the boat without so much as a backward glance.

The rest of us Saints are only beginning to rouse from our sleep when Louise blows through the front door like a hysterical wind—her voice high and sharp.

“We need to get off the island now!” she shrills—already flying around the small cottage, pulling her things together.

I find myself in motion at her words, even though I don't quite know what's going on.

“Why? Is somebody here? Are we about to have company?”

Sébastien and Caz sit up in bed, watching Louise, bleary-eyed.

“Dennis was here,” Louise snaps, holding out a square of white fabric with carefully embroidered initials in one corner.

I blink the sleep out of my eyes and swipe my pinky around my right ear, making sure I haven't misheard.

“Dennis McBride!?” Frank snarls, suddenly on his feet and moving toward the door.

“He's gone now—on his way back to shore. Our Red Bishop came to us. To warn us. There’re cross departmental plans to begin a full scale manhunt for the Saints with Dennis leading the team.”

This seems to take Frank aback.

“How the fuck did he get here? I thought you said nobody else knew about this place!” Frank growls, getting up into Louise's face.

“I never said he didn't know where it was.” She crosses her arms over her chest defiantly, but I can see that it costs her—the expansion of his alpha aura threatening to make her crumble in on herself.

“Well, that's that then, our location is compromised. We gotta get the fuck out of here,” Frank snarls, spinning away from Louise to begin packing his own things.

“Wait, wait. I thought we'd run out of places to go?” Caz flounders nervously. “I thought that's why we're here.”

“Yeah, well, turns out this place isn't as well protected as Louise led us to believe…” Frank sniffs.

“Stop playing so high and mighty, Frank. You're the one who kidnapped me to get revenge for our lost, fated mate. Sorry that I ended up being more that you bargained for—that all of us ended up being more than you bargained for,” Louise challenges.

Frank presses his eyes closed and clamps his hands hard over his ears like he does sometimes when he's about to totally lose control.

All of us wait for an explosion, but instead his posture softens and his eyes ease open. His features, once more, placid, calculating.

“Our next move was to rendezvous with the Red Bishop, anyway. Fine, he came to us. One less stop to make. After that, our next move was always going to be to pursue the cure for the virus. So, we make our way to the scientists.”

It's obvious that there's not much more room for conversation and all of us are too exhausted and too burnt out to argue.

Silently, we collect our things. Once we've got cell signal again, it'll be my job to line up our next safe house.

I’ve already arranged for passage by boat as far as the Caribbean, as part of our plan to meet up with Dennis and make a break for it.

Even though he won’t be joining us—we’ll continue as planned. From there, we'll have to make our way across the pond to the United Kingdom: the last known location of one of the Penny's collaborators.

Time starts to lose meaning around hour thirteen of our drive from the Penny’s seaside cottage down the east coast to portage in Miami, where I have called in a favor to get us onto a contact’s yacht.

On the small vessel we will travel from the coast of Florida to a cruise line and resort owned island in the Caribbean, where another of my contacts will help us board a large commercial cruise ship, almost the size of a floating city, posing as staff.

Provided that we can make our way through the last leg of the cruise without being detected, we will be able to make contact with one of my passport guys in Jamaica and make meaningful progress toward being able to rendezvous with the Penny’s contacts in the UK.

If all goes well, we'll be on a private flight from Kingston to London in a little under two weeks.

Not optimal, but considering the circumstances, it's the best I can do.

We're stopped at a 24-hour service station. Sébastien and Caz roam the mini mart, loading up with snacks, energy drinks and cigarettes for the road while Louise sleeps fitfully in the back seat of our newly stolen Hybrid SUV. Her head lolls to one side without Frank and Sébastien to keep her propped upright.

I stand, stretching my legs at the back of the car as Frank pumps gas—a twenty-something attendant watching Frank nervously through the storefront window—an unlit cigarette dangling from Frank's lips.

Out of nowhere, Frank speaks.

“Q, It's got to be you who convinces her.”

I search his face, entirely lost.

“Me? Convince her of what?” I can tell that he's talking about Louise, but I have no idea what it is I'm meant to convince her to do. Though this entire situation is madness, she's done nothing but cooperate since the hunting lodge. I don't know what more he expects from her.

“Well…You know—after the heat and everything, now that we know—now that we have proof it just makes sense, I guess, that we should do it,” Frank bristles, refusing to come out with it.

“No, I don't know. What makes sense? Spit it out, Frank.”

“We should bond. You know, bite in. Pack up,” he snaps out haltingly.

I feel like I've had the wind knocked out of me. Only a few hours ago, Frank was smashing furniture, insisting that it wasn't possible for us to be fated mates, that it was some sort of mistake—that we weren't actually fated.

It was some manipulation, some trick; even back at the hunting lodge when the question had been more academic, before we'd seen the recordings on the Penny's computer.

Frank was having none of it.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” I bite out, my own irritation flaring.

“The landscape is changing, Q. I thought I understood what was going on, but now? Now I'm not so sure.”

The two of us stand, hands in our pockets—the dull hum of the lights overhead the only sound.

“If you're serious, it's not a decision that we can make for her. I can talk to her, but I don't know if she'll ever accept any of us truly… Not after what we've done.”

The truth hangs in the air between us, uncomfortable.

“She has to,” Frank growls under his breath. “It's the only way that we can keep her safe.”

“Frank, I'm not sure anything that we do for her now would keep her safe.”

I let loose a joyless sound—not a laugh, not quite a sob.

Frank whirls on me, that murderous look in his eyes, that man who is still so many times a stranger to me.

“I'm telling you, Q, it's the only way. You've got to make her see reason—if we have the bond, if it's open.” He waves his hands through the air. “Then that's a line of communication that⁠—”

I cut my hand through the space between us.

“I hear what you're saying, Francis. I understand, but at the end of the day it's Louise who must decide whether or not biting in is something that she wants. You know as well as I that the bond won't take if it's not what we choose.”

“But you promise you'll ask her? You'll be the one to show her that it's the only choice, right?” he pleads.

“I'll certainly do my best,” I sigh, unable to give him what he really wants.

He turns away from me, and I know the conversation is over.

Iwake in yet another unfamiliar place.

It takes me a moment to realize where we are, the sound of water lapping against the hull of the boat, entirely different from the sound of water breaking on the rocky shore around the cottage.

Tomorrow, we leave for the island and assimilate into the crew of a large cruise ship bound for Jamaica and the Eastern Caribbean.

While all of us have an incredibly varied skill set, none of us can actually captain a yacht or navigate the open seas to get us where we need to go.

Luckily, Quentin was able to get a hold of the crew the yacht owner typically employs. For enough money, they have agreed to transport us safely, no questions asked.

Tonight will be our last chance to gather supplies and make our preparations.

I emerge from the cabin to the observation deck, where Seb, Caz, and Quentin sit with their heads together, speaking in hushed voices.

Caz is the first to catch sight of me, his icy blue eyes sliding away from mine as he sits upright—the others falling silent.

“Tell me you're talking about me without saying outright that you're talking about me.” I smile, but my stomach lurches with fear.

Caz looks to the others, their expressions impassive, then turns to face me.

“Louise, there’s something we should talk about…”

I look at the table, noticing Dennis’ handkerchief laid out between them.

“Alright then, start talking,” I hedge; my eyes unable to leave the snowy white square of cloth.

“Sébastien hasn’t run the tests yet, Louie, but we’re almost certain of what we’ll find,” Quentin begins, his tone too soft—too placating.

They want something, that much is obvious, but what?

“It almost goes without saying, yeah, Dennis is another of my—our fated mates.” I lift my chin, looking appraisingly at the trio of Saints, still seated, down my nose.

I know what Quentin’s angling at, though I don’t know why.

“While I understand it might require some suspension of disbelief after a lifetime of not knowing fated mates are real—there are some serious considerations to make now that we know the truth,” Quentin continues.

Now, this I did not see coming.

“You can't possibly be suggesting…” I laugh, unable to continue the preposterous thought.

“Yes, Loulu. We are most absolutely suggesting that we bite—we bond,” Sébastien interjects impatiently.

“What!?” I begin indignantly, but Quentin rushes in before I can finish my objection.

“We've started to experience just a glimpse of the connection that we could have once properly bonded. Not to mention, a mating bond provides a sacred and secret method of communication available only to those bonded by bite, blood, and soul,” Quentin reasons.

“There have already been more than a few dangerous situations where this connection would have been useful,” Sébastien backs him up.

Caz sits silently, his eyes fixed on his ragged cuticles as he tears them apart in his anxiety.

“Moreover, as we begin to dig deeper—to find our path toward creating a lasting cure for the Zeitnot virus—we will be making our way through some of the slimiest parts of the criminal underworld. As much as my pride hates for me to admit it, there's no question that things will be safer for you and I, Louise.” Quentin’s words sting with their truthful ring. “Omegas and sigmas already bonded into packs have far less to worry about in the places where we're going.”

Sébastien is in the process of echoing Quentin's sentiments, but I don't really hear his words. I've stopped listening. My attention is focused on Caz; his legs shaking nervously—his thumb beginning to bleed where he gnaws at a hangnail.

“And what do you think, Cazzy?” I lay a hand gently over his pinched fingers, guiding them away from his mouth.

He turns his face up to me, the morning light catching the close cropped golden buzz of his hair, his pale blue eyes brimming with tears.

“I think we've got no right to ask you anything,” he simpers, his lower lip trembling as he pulls his hands out from beneath mine before closing his palms back together over my hands protectively, as if in prayer.

“If you ask me what I want? I want us to be a pack.”

Quentin and Sébastien shift, regarding him with a tenderness that they hadn't before.

“I don't want us to be pack because we've threatened you, or because you think it's the only way you can survive, or because it was cosmically preassigned—I want to be pack because we've chosen to. Maybe that isn't possible—maybe we've never had the choice, but that's what I want.” Caz falls silent again as I raise my eyes to Quentin and Sébastien.

“And what about you two?”

Sébastien leans back in his seat, his arms reaching out over the cushioned backrest of the built-in sofa, turning his gaze to the rising sun.

“Someday, if it's possible, I'd like to be happy with you Cazimer, Quentin—and yes, even that bastard Frank.” He scrubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw.

“I've been in the life so long, I’ve never known a real ‘home’ that wasn’t made on the run. So I'm not entirely sure what happiness would look like, but…” Sébastien shrugs, but I can see the wetness of affection in his chocolate brown eyes. “I think it's something that I would want—to settle down somewhere away from it all, with a good kitchen and space for a garden, put down roots. Let Quentin feather his nest.” His eyes drift closed as he imagines it. “Yes, a quiet, good life.” Sébastien nods to himself before his eyes flutter open and meet Quentin’s, giving him the floor.

“I suspect that part of me has known for longer than I'd care to admit,” Quentin begins coolly.

“Certainly, there were times in the past where I had glimpses of the Saints becoming something more—becoming family, but something had always felt as if it was missing.” He looks pointedly at me, those golden-green eyes brightly lit in the morning sun, twinkling beneath a toss of his copper brown hair.

“I've never experienced a more perfect harmony than our bodies in that snowy cabin by the lake. I've never felt more desire.”

I can almost feel the heat rolling off of Quentin in waves as his words increase in emotional intensity. I find myself reaching for him as his voice falls quiet, my body obeying his law of gravity.

The two of us are leaning across the table, our faces nearly touching, when I sense Frank in the doorway behind us—watching, breathing heavily.

“And what about you, Frank?” I ask, my hand suspended midair—my fingertips just grazing the point of Quentin's perfect marble chin—my lips a breath away from his.

He says nothing, only watches with those cold steel-blue eyes.

As the golden sun warms us, I am wrapped in our scents—and my sense of reason begins to slip through my fingers.

My eyes drift closed and I feel my lips press against Quentin’s—Caz's fingers caressing the outside of my arm, Seb’s hands finding their way to the tumble of hair at my shoulder.

From Quentin, my lips find Seb—allowing him to slowly guide me to my feet, passing me off to Caz, who begins to ferry me toward the bedroom.

In a haze of lips and limbs, our clothes seem to melt away—the mid-afternoon light illuminating everything, putting all out in the open.

The Saints lay me down on the expansive bed. Seb crawls up toward the padded headboard, built curving away from the wall beneath the sheer curtained windows—the light diffusing beautifully over our bare bodies. Seb and Quentin bracket me—their fingers in my hair, their lips at my neck, my breasts.

Caz strokes his hard cock—silver and gold against the livid rose of his flesh.

As Caz lowers himself onto all fours to stalk toward me, I can see Frank standing just at the edge of the bed, circling as he watches us; his cock hard and thick in his grip—his knot swollen beneath his fist. I watch him eyeing us, like a big cat stalking a gazelle at a watering hole, waiting for his moment to pounce.

Just like that first day in the bath, he crawls between my knees—using his own thighs to part my legs wide; giving him access to my slick pussy.

“Are you ready?” I ask Caz sweetly as he lowers his face to mine—our lips just barely touching.

“Always ready for you,” he purrs back, sliding his cock against my slickness—each gentle stroke of his Jacob’s ladder strumming my buzzing clit as he runs himself up and down my wet slit.

I give an approving whine, and then he’s inside me.

Q and Seb pull back their hands—cradling my head, caressing Caz’s shoulders as he sinks an inch or two deeper.

Caz kisses his way along my jaw to my neck, and once again Frank fills my vision—he’s drawn closer, almost side by side—at the edge of the mattress, his knees bent ever so slightly as he leans against the bed fucking his fist.

I let out a low moan as Caz sinks into me up to the hilt—that golden ring kissing my cervix in the most delicious of ways.

Seeing my reaction, Seb encourages Caz to make another deep set of strokes, his hand gripping Caz’s muscular ass—practically pushing him to new depths.

All of this is proving to be too much for Caz—who’s growing increasingly short of breath—little desperate whines escaping him as he brings his face back to mine; the two of us joining in a deep kiss, our tongues twining.

Caz’s hands cup my face as he increases his speed—bottoming out each time at a record pace.

His face pulls back from mine as my legs begin to shake—his thumbs just barely touched together on my bottom lip.

Looking into Caz’s ice-blue eyes, I see his plea.

I dip my chin—taking his right thumb between my lips—I suck gently, allowing my teeth to sit ever so gently against the tender flesh below the first joint of his thumb.

Cazimer gives me the slightest of nods before he shudders forward—breaking over me like a wave.

I bite down, my teeth piercing the delicate skin—his blood spreading sharp and coppery in my mouth—the scent of poppies at the back of my palate.

Tenderly, I lick the wound as he pulls his thumb from my mouth.

The effects of the bonding are immediate. Every sensation is suddenly echoed—the lingering pleasure of our coupling resonating along the bond.

But before either of us can get a grip on what’s going on, bodies are in motion. Quentin is helping Caz out of the way and Seb is getting himself comfortable—his back against the padded headboard, his cock standing upright in his lap over his enormous purple knot, his legs crossed as if he might take a moment of meditation just as easily as bond.

I waste no time clamoring onto him, my slick and Caz’s pearly cum flowing between my legs—starting on my knees to sink down onto his cock.

Steadying myself on his strong shoulders, I pull his body against mine—my breasts pressing against his muscular chest, his soft belly. His cock fills me as I seat myself as much as I can on his rod—his knot pressed against my slick petals. I shift off of my knees—wrapping my legs around him and doing my best to mirror his crossed leg pose with his heat inside me.

Seb cups my ass, using his considerable strength to lift me slightly before letting me back down—using more of his strength to grind me against him as I slide back down his cock to where his knot strains at my entrance.

I dig into his lower back with my heels, using my legs to pull me closer to him—grinding myself against him, trying to force his knot inside.

We gyrate against each other, and I can see Frank watching from the far end of the headboard as he leans back—one hand jerking his cock frantically while the other toys one of his hard nipples. His eyes dart between Seb and I, and Caz, face down in Q’s lap. Quentin watches us—his hand clamped over the blond fuzz of Caz’s skull as Quentin brains him.

My face turns back to Sébastien, my hand running down the side of his face as we writhe desperately against one another. He catches my wrist in his hand and gives me a look that could almost be mistaken for worry.

He’s about to cum—this is it.

The look of surprise, almost at the edge of pain, that twists his features as his knot is slurped loudly inside me, sends me; my body threatening to rattle apart as I quake with my orgasm.

Seb brings my hand to his mouth and takes the heel of my right hand and sinks his teeth into the meaty flesh between my thumb and wrist. I let out a small moan of pleasure tinged with pain as I sink my own teeth into Sébastien’s right ear—between the soft lobe, where the cartilage meets.

We sit—knit together, gently tending one another’s wounds with gentle sweeps of the tongue.

It seems like forever before I’m able to roll off of Sébastien—a mix of slick and cum dripping from between my thighs as I roll to an open space of bed.

I’ve barely been able to get my bearings—when I’m suddenly pulled to the edge of the bed by my ankles by Quentin.

“This time I will lead the dance,” he pants, lifting me from the bed—my arms wrapped around his neck. His strong arms guide me so that my legs wrap around his waist—his cock already pressing against the seam of my pussy lips.

We crash into something solid, my back making contact with cool plastic paneling; Q’s cock disappearing inside me as he fucks me against the wall—one fist in my hair—between my skull and the hard surface, another gripping one of my ass cheeks, keeping me suspended in the air as he pounds me without mercy.

I’m screaming, each thrust hard and deep—Quentin’s cock a perfect key to my lock; a door opening again and again on a new ecstasy.

Just over Quentin’s shoulder—I can make out Frank up on his knees—fucking Caz from behind, slow and hard; Caz’s gold Prince Albert flashing in the afternoon sun as his cock bounces downwards—the silver bars of his Jacob’s ladder glittering in the light as his cock springs back up with the force of Frank fucking him.

My eyes roll back into my head as Quentin’s cock hammers into my G-spot—his hand abandoning my hair to brace us both against the wall. The two of us make loud breathy sounds as I lock him and he cums inside me; it’s when Quentin buckles slightly against the wall that I sink my teeth into the bulging muscle of his bicep—as if it were a juicy, ripe, fruit.

Seb springs from the bed to help negotiate us back to the mattress—Quentin’s legs and arms wobbly—but our bodies still joined together until my lock releases him.

Almost as quickly as we’re laid down in the sheets again—Seb scrambles to close his mouth over Caz’s cock, narrowly avoiding Caz blowing his load all over us as Frank fucks the cum out of him—each stroke of Caz’s prostate sending another thick rope of cum fountaining from Caz’s cock into Seb’s waiting mouth.

Caz drops forward off of his hands and knees—exhausted as Frank sits back on his heels—his cock still hard, knot still pulsing.

Without realizing I’m able to move yet—I’m on my hands and knees crawling toward him.

Frank backs off the edge of the bed, motioning for me to join him at the mattress’ edge.

As soon as I’m within reach—he grabs me and flips me onto my back—taking my ankles in his hands before he bends me back. The balls of my feet touch the bed as he spreads me, sheathing his cock up to the knot inside me in a single fluid jerk of his hips.

He begins without preamble—jack hammering my pussy—the three cream pies I received earlier gushing up and out of me as Frank’s massive cock churns my insides.

I’m practically screaming for his knot when suddenly he slows—unfurling me—sliding me toward the center of the mattress. His arms hook beneath my arms as he puts the entire weight of his body on me—the air squeezing slightly from my lungs.

Our faces are so close our noses touch—his fists close in my hair where they cradle the crown of my head—and I know in a breath, his knot will be inside me.

But he is not here—Frank is somewhere far away.The look of lucid want is replaced by a void that knows only hunger, only mindless need.

I can’t do it. I can’t bite him.

Even as my orgasm racks me and his knot stretches me, and our bodies are joined in such extreme pleasure—his soul is a million miles away.

Our bodies fall still—and I can feel the waves of shock traveling along the bond from the others—the cold fear, but also the nascent understanding of my reasoning; their access to my mind, my soul, my sensations—flung open wide.

Though Frank and I are still physically joined where his knot binds me to him—already the distance between us grows.

This is a hell of my own making.

That's all I can think as I walk down the gangway—leaving the yacht and the sleeping Lucifer and her Saints in my wake.

The thought crosses my mind, and not for the first time, that perhaps they'd all be better off without me.

Perhaps it is I who am cursed. Maybe I am the one who should have been lost—forever out of their reach.

That isn't how things have turned out, is it? Wishing for things to be the other way around won't help—only doing something, taking action.

Acts of men are better than acts of god. Or should I say, ‘acts of Saints?’

Where am I? Last thing I knew I was on the docks, but now I'm walking down the sidewalk toward the convenience store, the liquor store—the hole in the wall where you can buy girly mags directly next door to the gun shop; but then I lose time again; returning to myself sitting on a metal bench overlooking the quay—all the expensive boats bobbing in the water, the night lights reflecting off of their shining paint jobs and fiberglass hulls, the sound of water gulping and lapping around them.

There are two brown paper bags of supplies, including a carton of cigarettes, two flats of cheap whiskey, jars of peanut butter and jelly, a loaf of white bread, and several boxes of ammunition.

A fifth of vodka rests in my palm, the metal cap long gone—its contents already half enjoyed.

I don't need to look up to know that he's sitting on the other bench—the one less than two feet away from this one. I can tell he's there.

“Well, this is a hell of a mess, isn't it Frankie?” Mike yawns.

“Yeah, what do you care?” I grumble, taking a drag on my cigarette.

When did I light it? I don't remember.

“Why the long face, Francis? We've gotten out of worse scraps than this one.” He laughs, lifting himself off the bench and scuffing his polished loafers over the broken pavement as he approaches me.

“Easy for you to say. You've got no horse in this race,” I fume, unwilling to even look at him.

“I mean, you're a big boy, Frank, but I'd still say that horse is an awfully optimistic view of your…” He stops to clear his throat, looking pointedly between my legs. “Endowment.”

“It's not fucking funny, Mike,” I grit out, flicking my lit cigarette directly at his face. He leans to the side, the glowing cherry flying out into the dark night.

“Alright, alright, since when did you become the serious one, Francis Stone?”

I don't know what makes me do it. His words aren't even particularly bad. Mike has said plenty of worse things to me before, but this just pushes me over the edge.

“When did I become the serious one!?” I shout, stumbling to my feet.

I couldn't feel how strongly the liquor had been affecting me while I was sitting down, but now it's a struggle to stand as the world spins around me.

“Because I'm the only one left! Because you fucking had to go and die on me, you asshole!” I scream into the night.

The smile leaves Michael's face.

“That's right, motherfucker. Who's laughing now?” I shout, my throat tightening with tears I refuse to shed.

Except that I know the answer to that question. It's me laughing hysterically to myself as I crumple into a heap on the bench.

My ears begin to ring, and my head throbs with splitting pain.

How many times have I had this revelation, this realization that Michael is actually dead? How many times have I confronted Michael Duboze now that he's gone beyond my reach? How many times have I split my memories into halls of mirrors and secret passages to hide the truth from myself?

Something tells me this isn’t the first time.

Isit behind the wheel of the stolen panel van, my finger gently tracing the ring of punctured half moons that circle the first joint of my right thumb.

A gentle shimmering heat rises just behind my eyes; Louise, on the other side of our bond, touching back in, letting me know that she's all right back at her place on the yacht, still docked in the marina as we prepare to get underway at dawn tomorrow.

Drowsily, my fingers move to the space where my collar bones meet as I watch the strip mall, my focus lingering on the laundromat and Service Sally’s Uniform Emporium just next door.

I wait patiently for Frank and Quentin to emerge, my fingers lingering over the significantly larger bite mark just beneath my left clavicle.

Just like before, I feel Sébastien call back along the bond even though he’s across town picking up groceries—like a warm crackle of static at the beginning of a record.

Beneath the two of them, Sébastien and Louise, I can feel a humming resonance, a steady rhythm that I know belongs to Quentin.

How did we manage before this? How could we stand to be so far apart—to have every door and window closed to us? Hidden and kept away in the dark. It seems impossible now with the bonds opened wide between the four of us: our own world within a world.

I feel a slice of guilt when I think of Frank. If he hadn't been so rotten, if he hadn't been so cruel—I would have begged on bended knee for Louise not to refuse him the one thing that might save him.

Even Louise herself said it isn't too late. There's a chance to change, to be accepted into the pack fully like the others, but she was right to deny him last night whether or not our love is written in the stars.

It's almost as if I can hear Quentin's thoughts along the bond saying, We have a few days at sea—we may see him bonded with the rest of us before we get on that bloody cruise ship.”

Frank only has himself to blame. Even so, I can't help but feel bad.

To live behind the closed bond would be impossible for me now—so I push the thought away.

We've got another stop at a drugstore for some hair dye and cosmetics. Even though I'll hate to see it go, we all agreed that it would be much safer for us traveling if Louise were to get rid of her signature red hair.

So, the first order of business once we get back to the yacht is turning her into a peroxide blond like myself, along with giving her sizable trim.

Quentin and Frank emerge from the uniform emporium, each holding two large brown paper handle bags filled with things that we'll need to pass as crew members on a massive Monarch of the Seas.

I turn my key in the ignition as the two of them slide open the van doors and toss their wares into the back.

The mood is decidedly strained. Quentin, with his fresh bonding mark from Seb, peeking from the edge of his hairline at the nape of his neck, the red ring just visible between his collar and his copper brown tresses. Louise’s bite showing in flashes out of the bottom of his short sleeves as he reaches for the window crank—a deep bruised red-purple chain of teeth marks the inside of Q's bicep.

Frank has dark circles smudged beneath his eyes and a more vacant look than usual, and neither of them speaks until we’re pulling out of the parking lot.

“It's going to be better if I stop to get the money myself,” Quentin finally cuts in.

Frank's obviously preoccupied, doesn't even bother with a single syllable answer, only a grunt and a distracted nod of his head.

“You and Caz can drop me off; it's only a few blocks from here. I'll pick up the cash. The two of you go get Sébastien. Either I'll be able to get a ride from my contact from the cash drop point, or I'll take a cab back to the shopping center, then we can all head back to the marina together.” Quentin instructs cooly.

“Sure, whatever you say.” Frank shrugs, sinking down into the back seat like a sulking child.

Quentin only rolls his eyes as we pull away in silence.

There's nothing but the rush of wind through the open windows as we drive the few blocks to Quentin's drop point.

“Here is fine.” He taps the door, and I pull to a stop, letting him out onto the sidewalk.

I feel him glance against the bond—the sweet rose petal, the malted Scotch—and I reach for his hand without thinking, bringing his knuckles to my lips in a gentle kiss.

“Be safe. See you soon,” I murmur under my breath. Quentin nods, and then he's on his way.

“Tch,” Frank clicks his tongue before climbing into the front passenger seat from the back bench of the van.

“All of you are so cozy now. How lovely,” he sneers in a snide saccharin voice.

As an alpha, his jealousy must be tearing him apart right now, but he's made this bed, now he must lie in it.

I keep my eyes on the road, refusing to rise to his challenge.

Neither of us speaks again until we pull into the lot of the supermarket, eyes roving the overhang by the entrance for a sign of Sébastien.

Frank scans the radio. His hand patting the car door through the open window nervously.

Even though I already know the answer, I can't help but ask. “What's the matter, Frank?”

I'm waiting for him to tear into me, for him to go completely off the rails, to yell and scream about the bonding—about being shut out, the new hierarchy within the Saints now that we've bonded.

Even though we weren't packed up before, it was difficult to dispute that Frank was our alpha. Now… I'm not sure exactly what he is.

A soothing sensation—like cool water, the song of wind chimes in the breeze, or the heavy blanket of sleep falling over you as you drift to dreaming—eases my frayed nerves; my mates reaching out to me across our bond.

I don’t notice I’ve actually started quietly humming to myself, little waves of contentment breaking over me as our fledgling connection grows—strengthening its resonance little by little.

Frank, radiating irritation, searches desperately for something in the shopping plaza to give him some relief. I notice his eyes catch on a liquor store at the end of the line of shops. I don't bother to reprimand him or to tell him to wait until Seb gets back, instead I let him pull his sunglasses from his breast pocket and unfold them, placing them over his red-rimmed eyes as if there's any question of his destination.

“You reek like a schoolboy getting ready for prom,” he growls unkindly, swinging the passenger side door open and hopping down onto the pavement, slamming the door behind him. “I'll be back, just grabbing some smokes,” Frank shouts as he stomps away from the van.

Fine, let him have his tantrum. Get it out of his system before we go back to the yacht.

If he's gonna punish everyone like this, our timeline for getting him bonded might be longer than I initially thought.

I watch Frank disappear inside the liquor store, kicking back in my seat as I wait for Sébastien, relieved to have a moment to myself.

The white puffy clouds passing in the blue sky overhead distract me for a few minutes as the wind drives the cottony bunches of water vapor high overhead. I'm not sure how long I've been watching them when the loud hollow knock of Sébastien's knuckle on the van's trunk nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

It's as if all three of my bonded mates lay their hands over my racing heart as I catch my breath. It's only Sébastien, after all.

I walk around the back of the van and unlock the trunk with the fob, helping Seb to unload the nondescript brown paper bags of groceries into the back.

“Where's Papa?” he asks.

“Probably filling his pockets with shitty nips and picking up a carton.” I nod to the liquor store, hefting a gallon of milk into the trunk.

“Is he any less surly than this morning?” Sébastien purses his full lips provocatively.

“No, if anything, I'd say he's actually brooding even more than usual.”

“Great, this is going to be a very long boat ride,” Sébastien grumbles, unloading the last of the bags from the cart.

I'm about to offer to take it from him so that he might return the cart—but Sébastien's eyes flutter before rolling back into his head—the bag falling from his hands onto the pavement below; a cardboard package of eggs cracking loudly, a navel orange rolling away beneath one of the parked cars beside us.

I'm about to reach for him, when something curls its fingers around my heart and squeezes so hard my body threatens to simply pass out to save me from the sudden blinding pain as I’m forced to my knees.

Behind my eyelids—I see as if looking through Louise’s eyes; she’s emerged from her shower to find two unlikely visitors seated in the luxurious salon; Susan Lowry and Ed Compton sit across from one another on the white leather couch—glasses of chilled champagne pinched delicately in their fingers.

Focus sharpens my senses out of the haze of sleep, as I become aware of the strange sensation of Sébastien tenderly lapping at the crescent moon of teeth marks that wreaths the outside of my left wrist, the ring of raw flesh left by so many hours spent in handcuffs—angry, red, and flaking where the scabs have dried and begun to pull away from the healthy skin.

Even though the bite stings slightly, the tender sweeps of Seb’s tongue help to ease the pain.

I can feel the buzzing of approval along the mating bond that connects us even though Caz is still asleep.

I feel him, warm and resonant just beneath the surface—a glimmer of Quentin shining through like rays of sunlight.

Even though I've taken Frank's knot, we did not exchange bites. For this, he may never forgive me.

What I could not say, what I would not say is that I wish I had bitten him—but I will not disrespect myself or any of the rest of my pack members by giving or taking his bite when his mind is on our lost mate—not the Saints, not me.

Even though Frank and I do not yet share the connection that I have made with the other Saints—the closeness and the intensity of the moment with him buried inside me—I could feel just how far away he was.

I won't do that to my pack. I won't let him do it to himself.

In time once we've all had a little while to make more sense of things and I'm a bit more secure in the bond that I have made with the others—if Frank comes around to understand that this is what he really wants, then we can revisit the subject and not a moment sooner.

Right now, our priority is survival, and I am prepared to do anything to protect my pack.… even if that means protecting it from another of our fated mates.

The very idea sends a pang of longing through me. If one could be homesick for a person—I would be homesick for both Dennis and Frank; both so close and yet so far.

I look out of the large plate-glass windows at the bow of the ship where Frank leans against a rail, looking at the gulls and the rays of sun on the surface of the water; his elbows propped on the railing—hands dangling from his relaxed wrists—the wind in his coal black hair.

The duality of it is so strange; at once being so compelled to go to him—to bring him inside the circle and yet at the same time to keep him at an arm’s distance—to protect the others from him.

To protect myself.

Beside me, Quentin rolls over, his yellow-green eyes slitted lazily in the morning light like a cat. He follows my gaze out the window, then reaches up to touch my arm.

“He'll be alright.” Quentin assures me. I nod and turn away from Frank.

“Yeah, he'll survive.” I wriggle back beneath the covers, Sébastien and Caz still indulging in their nap after our exertions.

“We should get going soon, make the run for supplies,” Quentin yawns, giving his long limbs a good stretch before turning on to his side and pulling me toward him, making me the small spoon as he curves around my back like the moon.

“What if I don't want to go? What if I just want to stay here? Like this?” I pout like a spoiled child.

“Well, isn't it good that you can stay? That you should stay, actually. Until we do something about this.” Quentin pinches a lock of my bright red hair between his fingers, pulling it back from my face and tucking it behind my ear. He places a kiss on the angle of my jaw before dropping his head back on his own pillow.

“After that wig I wore in our escape from Liberty City, are you thinking that you like me better as a brunette?” I tease.

But Quentin doesn't laugh.

“I love your hair just the way it is. Like a sunset or the changing of the leaves or fire—with your brown eyes and alabaster skin, it makes you look like a painting.”

I feel the tip of his nose brush against my ear; hear the little pained sigh he releases as he thinks of it going away.

“Where we're going, you'll draw the least attention as a blonde,” he laughs unkindly. “Lucky for you, Sébastien's actually a whiz with the pair of barber’s shears, and I've never seen Caz without a perfect bleach job.

This sets us both into a fit of giggles that rouse Seb and Caz from their slumber.

“Fuck, what time is it?” Caz hisses as he sits bolt upright in bed, Seb hurrying after him.

“It's alright, we've got time.” Quentin assures them lazily, lifting himself from bed while I refuse, only coiling myself tighter and tighter in sheets and blankets.

Even though I'd only been making fun about staying back at the yacht, I'm surprised by how quickly I fall asleep. One moment I'm listening to the boys discuss logistics about going to the market, picking up our uniforms, making the cash drop—and the next, I'm in dead asleep.

My dreams are fraught with curious images; Caz and Sébastien dressed in robes of grey and white, bathe my bleeding feet In the bowl of water hewn of pure hammered gold.

I try to speak to them but my words do not reach their ears. Once I understand that they cannot hear me, I cover my eyes.

The tears I cry fall like tiny red gemstones. Like blood, no—like the seeds of a pomegranate into the damp black earth.

Quentin bursts forth like a plant stretching its limbs forth toward the sun; a tree, cracked bark and shining green leaves shooting skyward—fingers grasping.

I reach for him, for his outstretched hands, but the unfurling boughs of the tree, growing ever taller, only seem to extend further from my reach.

The fruit, shining and red; its blossom end like the pointed spires of a crown, finds itself in the palm of my hand.

Knowing I shouldn't, I press my thumbs into the skin and tear my harvest in two. The flesh, like clusters of red gems, twinkle back at me as I hold one ragged half of the fruit out to Dennis; his lips already shadowed with the stain of their juice.

Crushing, creeping—I feel the coil of muscle and sinew as it winds tighter and tighter around me; black and the silver scales like the night sky drawn with stars push sweet air from my lungs.

A snake, A spiral, A glimpse of true danger—of evil.

Yet at the same time, I also catch a rare view into a twisted kindred soul. Like ink diffusing into water or darkness falling over the land as the sun sets; Frank descends upon me, threatening to consume me whole.

I jolt awake in a cold sweat just as the sun is about to begin its golden arc down behind the horizon into the lilac of twilight and blue of night.

I'm still alone. The rest of the Saints have not yet returned to the yacht.

I peel my tank top away from my clammy skin and step out of my soaking underwear. I haven't had a real shower in days, and right now, little else could sound much better.

Under the hot water, I wash my hair and shave my legs. No doubt our temporary cover will require a fair amount of shorts and bathing suits.

I emerge from the tiny capsule shower and use my towel to clear a circle of mirror through the stream. Running my fingers through my wet hair, I take a moment to mourn it. I've never been a blond, but they say blonds ‘have more fun.’

An unexpected laugh bubbles up from me, and I feel a warm fizzling joy reflected and multiplied by my mates at the end of the bond.

A loud burbling noise from my stomach lets me know that I need at least a glass of water before the boys come home.

In our initial rummaging, I didn't find much. A couple boxes of stale crackers, some emergency rations, and of course, a miniature refrigerator completely filled with champagne.

Champagne. An ice-cold glass doesn't sound bad right about now.

I step into a pair of yoga pants and pull on a plain black sports bra from the assortment of garments that have made their way with us from Liberty City to the yacht.

I toss a towel over my head and do my best to dry my hair. I scrub the plush white cloth over my mass of tangled hair as I walk barefoot into the salon. When I remove the towel from my head, I nearly scream at the unexpected sight of two figures on the white leather couch.

The scream dies on my lips when I see it’s Susan Lowry and Ed Compton—perched there with smug smiles on their faces, flutes of the ice-cold champagne I'd had designs on earlier held aloft as if it were simply cocktail hour.

Blood rushes in my ears, and I'm worried I'm about to pass out when Susan reaches out a hand to me—the large diamond center stone of her wedding ring winking in the light.

Like a trained dog, I reach for her.

For so many years, this was the hand that I held—that I looked for when I needed help.

As soon as our fingers touch, I recoil.

“What are you doing here?” I struggle to breathe, my lungs starving for oxygen as if I can't seem to catch a breath.

“Louise, darling, I should think that's obvious.” Susan croons condescendingly.

Compton rolls his eyes and tosses back a deep slug of his champagne.

“Come on, kid. You've got a lot of fight in you, but you're not stupid,” he scoffs, slouching down on the white leather couch.

“It's true we had hoped that you would cooperate where your parents had not,” Lowry sighs regretfully. “Of course, whether or not your parents decided to cooperate with us wouldn't have saved them from elimination. As soon as they discovered those indicators, the very moment they developed the serum—we no longer needed them.”

“You, on the other hand, Louise, we do need. You are the key to everything.”

My head begins to swim with panic and I desperately pray that this is just another dream, another nightmare.

“It would have been easy to kill you, to eliminate you like your parents. But, you see—it's rather difficult for a shadowy cabal to profit off of the Zeitnot virus without a cure. Of course, once we've figured out how to develop such a cure, we won't have a need for you any longer, but—Compton has more confidence in our R&D than I do. I have a feeling you'll be around long enough to be very, very uncomfortable If you don't cooperate.”

I let out a single manic laugh. The irony of the first time that I am left on my own since my capture should be now, the moment when I need the Saints the most.

“You've had a good run, Louise. I have to admit that I thought that we would have had you back in our hands much sooner. But the five of you were a scrappy little group, I'll give you that,” Compton concedes.

There isn't much time. I'm not sure how, but they've architected this exact moment to separate me from the others. There will not be a chance for my rescue.

Then it dawns on me. There's still something left for me to do. I still have a way out.

“Well, if I'm to cooperate, aren't you at least going to offer me a glass of that champagne?” I deadpan, flopping into a nearby chair. All I can hope is that they haven't noticed the bonding bites. That they don't know that right now my mates are hearing my plea for help down the bond and are on their way. I can tell by the frantic urgency on the other end of our connection.

“Of course.” Lowry smiles. “I told Ed you weren't unreasonable. You're a smart girl. I'm not going to pretend like this is going to be a walk in the park, Louise—but if you cooperate, you could have a future. Not the one that I had planned for you—but one still worth having.” She blinks away tears of pride, as if she might really be my mother.

Ed looks relieved, setting his crystal flute of champagne down on a sleek end table as he lifts out of his seat to get me a glass.

“If I go with you, what happens to the Saints?” I float the question, doing my best to make my interest sound academic.

“Neither Susan nor I—nor the rest of the Windmill cares what happens to those pissants. As long as we’re out of here before they return, and they stay away from our plans with the virus—they’d be a waste of resources to pursue.” He laughs.

“The Windmill, the Zietnot virus, the White Knight, the Red Bishop—what’s with all the chess names? Is the man in charge a failed grandmaster or something?” I do my best to change gears to keep them talking without showing my hand. On the other side of the bond, I can hear Sébastien, Quentin, and Caz frantically urging me to back down—to wait until they can get to the yacht and give me some backup.

Compton cuts me a cruel grin as he pours me a glass of champagne.

“Your father was the one who named the virus, actually.”

It stings, but my adrenaline is so high right now that I can barely hold on to reality.

Zietnot—or time trouble. In timed chess matches, the word is used to describe the phenomenon of a player having too little time to complete their required moves. This time pressure increases the likelihood of making blunders.

This kernel of truth after seeing the recordings in the cottage brings new meaning to the name of the virus.

“Dear old dad, never could resist a good theme.” I smile tightly, doing my best to navigate this cocktail hour from hell.

“You should know better than anyone, Louise.” Lowry eyes me with intensity. “The more… traditional channels are so difficult for us to advance beyond—.” She turns her hand over, making a gesture that is meant to stand for the glass ceiling all women in leadership face.

“I don’t know Susan, section chief is nothing to be ashamed of.” I shrug—taking my flute of champagne from Ed from the other side of the small stone countertop. “What can the Windmill offer? Did they make you, ‘The White Queen’ or something?” I hold my glass lazily in the air before bringing it to my lips, watching carefully over the lip of the glass as Compton rounds the counter—coming within an arm’s reach.

Before Lowry can respond—I lunge forward, smashing the top of the flute against the edge of the marble countertop, sending champagne and bits of crystal spraying everywhere. I pivot on my heel and yank Ed Compton—a soft, desk jockey of a middle-aged man, toward me—pressing one long stiletto point of the broken crystal against his neck.

“Now if you don’t mind,” I huff, trying to catch my breath—my iron grip on Compton’s collar supported by the razor-sharp glass at his neck. “I’m just going to take Eddy here—and the two of us are going to make an exit while you sit here and wait for your little supervillain cronies to come pick you up—so you can go on being a ghoulish monster in the shadows or offering children Turkish delight, or whatever it is that evil queens do in their spare time,” I hiss, maneuvering Eddy towards the stairs that would take us to the outside observation deck.

Lowry pulls her gun, standing slowly from her place on the couch—her sights set on me.

“Louise, put Ed down. You really think we don’t have this boat surrounded?” I can tell she’s using that even-keeled tone she used to employ in negotiations.

I’m not having it.

“Surrounded by what, Suz? Creepers with guns?” I press the bottle hard enough against Compton’s sagging neck to draw a small stream of blood. “You just told me you need me to make a cure. That means you need me alive.” There’s a blossom of satisfaction deep in my chest as I see Lowry’s jaw set. “If I take Compton outside like this and slit his throat—I’ll be able to commit suicide by cop where you can’t intervene in public. If you put me down, you have the same problem—hell, I could drop Compton right now—just put this bad boy through the side of my neck and you’re fucked.”

I can see in her face that neither she nor Compton were prepared for me to care so little for my own survival.

My mates tear at the other side of our bond, desperate for me to find another way, but I am resolute.

I am prepared to resume my attempted escape, when something lights in Lowry’s cold gray eyes.

“Very well Louise,” she sighs. “Have it your way.”

It’s at that moment that something heavy and unyielding cracks against the back of my skull—and everything goes dark.

Icouldn’t stand another minute with the others, happily bonded and reeking of blissful connection.

Originally, I had meant only to grab some cigarettes, some booze—take a lap around the parking lot for ‘fresh air’—before sequestering myself in the back seat of the van.

Fuck that. They may be packed up now, but I’m still a goddamn alpha. I don’t need this shit.

Shuffling down the sidewalk, I shoot Quentin a text telling him I’m walking the few blocks back to the yacht. I text Q and not Seb or Caz because they’d just pull the damn van around and insist I get in. Q can’t do shit—so I can tell him without causing a panic by just being a no show. I don’t wanna blow things when we’re so close to the goal.

On my way back to the marina, I pass several bait and tackle shops, a handful of mom-and-pop seafood restaurants, a shop that sells skimpy swimsuits, and a whopping seven boat rental agencies; cracking open the tops of several nips of flavored vodka—slurping them down between drags of my cigarette; depositing each empty in a new, passing trash can.

By the time I get to the metal benches overlooking the harbor, I’ve got more than a respectable buzz on.

I flop down on the bench, my vision wobbling slightly—my legs just ever so unsteady, as if I’m already on the boat.

Even though I’ve been doing my damnedest to not think about it, all my brain seems to want to do is to serve me the memory of Louise’s rejection the other night on repeat.

My body flares with heat as I remember being inside her; that proximal elation of the bonding happening around me. How badly I wanted to just dive under the wave of our connection and disappear deep into that ocean of passion, desire, safety—harmony.

So why didn’t I? Why did I keep myself locked away again?

There’s a shrill ringing in my ears and my chest tightens.

I hold my head in my hands and press my forehead to my knees, doing my best to stave off the spiral—the complete loss of control, my budding scream.

For a few interminable moments that seem to stretch on for an eternity, I am certain I will fly apart; bits and pieces of me—my mind, flung to the farthest reaches of the cosmos.

Then everything stops. No pressure. No pain. No screaming noise, no struggle for breath—stillness, quiet.

I lift my head from between my knees—my eyes drawn to the docks, to the men wearing conspicuously average clothing suddenly surrounding the yacht like an army of ants encircling a new source of food.

Fuck me.

My phone is already ringing when I move to pull it from the pocket of my jeans.

“Frank!?” Quentin snaps on the other end of the line.

“Q,” I answer, but before I can respond further—he is word-vomiting at me.

“Where the fuck are you!? Louise is in danger. We have to get back to the boat right now!” he yells frantically.

“Q, I’m going to need you to listen to me—and listen to me very fucking carefully,” I growl low, my hand moving up slowly to cup over my mouth and the receiver. “I am already at the marina. They’ve got the boat surrounded. I’m willing to wager they’ve already got her inside and are working on the extraction.”

I hear muffled shouting, then the sound of Sébastien’s voice—having wrestled the phone away from Quentin.

“It’s that witch from the recording—Lowry, and her lackey—Compton! Louise is in danger—we need to get to her this instant, Frank—start the breach. We’re coming around the corner to give you back up any moment!”

“You aren’t listening,” I seethe into the phone. “There isn’t going to be a breach—we can’t handle this smoke, we need to retreat and regroup and figure out how we’re going to—” the line goes dead, and behind me I hear the squeal of tires.

Caz nearly puts the van up on two wheels as he screams into the parking lot—the van parked at a lazy angle as all three of the Saints explode from the vehicle.

I put my hands up—my palms meeting Caz’s chest as he bounds toward me.

“Alright—how are we going in? Who is taking point?” Caz blurts out.

I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt as I snap my gun from my holster and strike Caz in the back of the head with its heavy metal butt.

Just as I’d hoped, Sébastien lunges to grab Caz before he hits the ground. It’s broad daylight and I don’t want to draw too much attention—lest the army of ants down on the docks take notice.

“You see that down there?” I hiss, doing my best to keep my voice down despite the urgency of the situation. “We can’t fuck with that. That’s way above our paygrade and Louise’s too.”

“Putain—you fucking piece of shit charcuter—” Sébastien fires off a string of curses I don’t understand, but he doesn’t argue.

“The only way we can fix this situation is to retreat, regroup—get more resources and a plan to get Louise back.” I try to make Quentin see reason.

“What do you mean—‘get her back?’ She’s still right there in that boat, Frank. We haven’t lost her yet. We won’t lose her if you can stop being such a fucking coward,” he snarls.

“We won’t make it, Q—none of us,” I plead with him.

“I’ll be damned if I won’t try.” He brushes me off—striding confidently toward the docks as Seb looks on in abject horror—the unconscious Caz requiring all of his efforts to keep upright.

“You won’t,” I say flatly—aiming my gun directly between his eyes.

Quentin freezes—uncharacteristic surprise flashing in his chartreuse eyes.

“You and the boys are going to disperse in order to improve your chances of escape.” I continue calmly and deliberately. “Seb will have to handle getting Caz out of Miami as he is currently indisposed.” I nod at the pair just outside my peripheral vision. “Once we all get out of dodge, we reconvene at the place where we all first met.”

“And what if I refuse?” Quentin puffs out his chest and lifts his chin, looking majestic as ever.

“Then I fucking kill you myself right here. It’s better than what the Windmill would do to you if they got you alive.” I whisper, pulling back the hammer.

Quentin blinks, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

“You’ve got Seb and Caz to think about. What happens if you’re taken too…” I trail off, knowing that Quentin’s own horrible imagination will do the rest.

“As soon as I can—I will find all of you. We’ll get her back,” I promise.

The look we share speaks volumes. I know, just from the crackle of mania in those eyes—Quentin will hold me to my words. I will live or die by my word as bond.

In an instant our connection is broken, and Quentin’s eyes dart away from mine.

“Get him back to the van,” Quentin orders Sébastien coldly and makes an about face–shouldering his way past Sébastien and away from me.

Now it is my turn to run.

Even though I hadn’t hot-wired a car since I was in my early twenties, it’s kind of like riding a bike—you never really lose the skill.

Well, provided you’re not trying to get yourself into one of those electric cars that’s more computer than vehicle—but you get the idea.

It was a shame to leave so many of my things on the yacht when we made a break for it, but Caz and I were able to get ourselves out of Miami completely unscathed.

The first thing I did as soon as I found us a place to sleep for the night was try to contact Frank and Q through some of our emergency backup channels.

I didn’t get anything from Frank, but almost as soon as I messaged Quentin via the direct mail function on the Vinyl Sleuth web app—I got a coded message back from him confirming his safety; and proposing a rendezvous point between our current locations and the meeting place Frank set out for us.

When Caz finally woke, head throbbing and rage boiling—I recounted the rest of the confrontation to him. Frank’s palpable fear, impossibility of approach, Quentin in the face of Frank’s gun—and, of course, me; cowering in fear—glad to have Caz as an excuse to run far away from the men with guns encircling the boat as we watched helplessly from shore.

Caz slams his fists on the dashboard and lets out an anguished cry.

We stop at the next rest stop—24-hour-mart—and I buy as much candy and energy drinks for him as my arms can hold.

When I get back to the car, Caz is sitting in the driver’s seat.

“You didn’t have to get me all that stuff. I’m not mad at you. It’s normal to be terrified of a bunch of clandestine thugs armed to the teeth.” He thumbs at his chin, nodding somewhere in the night.

“Well, that’s nice to hear, but what if I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable?” I flash him a grin, even if I’m struggling to feel convincing with the pain in my heart.

Caz gives me a look. I shrug and drop into the passenger seat—arranging the candy on the dash and fitting two of the energy drinks into the center console.

“Why don’t you hop up, eh? Let me drive—you got hit pretty hard,” I soothe, reaching out to run my thumb over the bite mark at his clavicle, the raised flesh still a little hot to the touch even through the thin layer of cotton.

“You haven’t felt anything from her yet, have you?” He doesn’t answer me, just grips the steering wheel, gnawing nervously on his bottom lip.

“No, nothing other than that low buzz like when she’s sleeping,” I say carefully, not wanting to give false hope or more cause for alarm.

Caz nods slowly, then reaches for one of the tall aluminum cans of energy drinks, popping the tab open.

“Let me drive, it’s fine—you can take a rest.” He slugs down some of the fizzy energy drink and offers me his open palm for the keys expectantly.

“Cazzy, I’m not so sure⁠—”

“Seb,” he interrupts me. “I need to drive right now—otherwise, I’m going to go fucking crazy. I know that you did what you could, but right now the only way I’m gonna be able to forgive myself for losing Louise to those monsters—is to cut away the miles between us and Q, and meet up with Frank,” Caz explains with urgency, drumming both of his hands on the steering wheel for emphasis.

“Ok, ok—but the moment you start to have any problems.” I gesture to my own eyes and head. “You tag me in.”

He nods solemnly, extending his hands for the keys once more.

We meet Quentin at a cheap motel just outside of Enid, Oklahoma.

The town feels like a postcard out of time—the ‘small town America’ I learned from old television shows.

When the three of us finally get into the same room, we collapse against one another—our foreheads pressed together—our arms linked over one another’s shoulders in a ring of tears.

Once the three of us are all cried out, we sit—puffy eyed and resolute, a plan for recon and rescue at the front of all our minds.

“You haven’t heard from Frank yet, either?” Caz presses Quentin, amassing the small arsenal of tech he’s managed to scrape together since our surprise retreat from the yacht.

“No, I can’t get a hold of him at all. I don’t like it.” Quentin lays out his lock picks and examines them for what must be the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

I oil my knives and hold my tongue.

The two must feel me, smouldering, fuming with rage along the bond—because they both turn to me as I reach for my paper motel cup of mint tea, straining the loose leaves through my teeth as I sip the scalding liquid down.

“What is it, Seb?” Caz prods.

“I’m fucking pissed off that Frank hasn’t checked back in yet. What the fuck is taking him so long?”

Neither has an answer.

“I’m going to get some ice,” I grunt, breaking the silence—not quite storming out of the motel room with the shitty little plastic insulated ice bucket and down the hall to the ancient ice machine—the high whine of its motor the only sound in the dingy, amber lit hallway.

When I get back into the room, Caz and Q are making instant noodles and amassing a list of people who owe the Saints a favor.

“That’s good, that’s very good.” Caz nods, jotting down a few more names on the list.

I pull up a chair and give the list a once over. A few local politicians, a handful of drug dealers, a couple of D-List celebs, and at least two arms dealers…

Quentin and Caz are obviously distracting themselves by becoming immersed in the plan to rescue Louise.

Me? I am looking for a different kind of escape.

“What time are we hitting the road tomorrow?” I ask, shrugging out of my overcoat and tossing it over the back of my empty chair.

“Checkout is at 10. We should probably be on the road as soon as possible, though. Let’s say, 8:30?” Quentin doesn’t look up from his phone, where he busily types away—whether reaching out to contacts or simply doing research—I don’t know. I don’t have enough bandwidth right now to care.

“Fine with me. I’m going to try to unwind and get some rest.” I kick off my shoes, flopping down on one of the queen beds in the modest motor lodge.

Caz eyes me as I pull a small plastic case sealed with a rubber gasket from my pocket.

“Hey…” he calls noncommittally from his seat at the table as I flick the plastic container open—carefully lifting a slimline pair of tweezers from the lid of the container—using their tiny pincer grip to extract a single centimeter by centimeter square of a perforated sheet of rice paper tabs embed with a super-concentrate of Caz’s own psychotropic secretions.

Delicately, I lift the tab to my outstretched tongue.

“Hey!” Caz interjects more forcefully this time—so I give him the courtesy of waiting to dose myself so that I might hear him out.

“Do you really think that’s the best idea right now? Getting fucking high as shit while we’re trying to figure out our next moves,” Caz bristles.

“Mon coeur, you and Quentin are already doing as much as can be done right now. Frank is out there somewhere—and inevitably, our plans will change once we’ve got him back in the mix.”

Neither Tin-tin nor Caz object to this—but they don’t look pleased about it either.

“I need something to take the edge off,” I admit, shrugging their concern off. “I’d get it from the source—but you’re too uptight to do anything other than smell off and sour right now—and none of us are in the mood right now after today…” I trail off.

“Fine—but only one tab, ok?” Caz warns. “I don’t want to have to chase you down because you’re running around convinced you’re the king of the fairies again,” he scolds.

“Only the one—I promise!” I assure him before dropping the tiny square of paper onto my tongue.

I lay back into the lumpy pillows and the drop is nearly immediate.

Lush colors explode around me as the kaleidoscopic effect of Caz’s perfume magnified nearly ten times, saturates my vision with rainbows of color and shimmering lights.

There’s a warm, comforting resonance, like a Mandela of sun and star-shine that pulse above me. I reach for it—feeling the connection to Caz, to Quentin as I run my hands along the golden skeins.

Without thinking—I reach for Louise along our bond; expecting to find the static silence we’ve all been getting for the last few hours.

I feel something—like cold wet rope; the fingers of my questing consciousness closing around it.

“Stop!” I find myself screaming before I even understand what is happening.

It is as if I have momentarily conducted myself down the bond like a jolt of electricity; for a moment of horrifying clarity, I experience the waking horror of Louise in an unknown room; no windows—only a single sickly overhead light; the entire room lined wall to wall in white tile—every inch of surface nearly identical—save for a single plate metal door in the far wall, and a metal drain at the center of the tiled floor.

“Sébastien! Sebby! You’re right here—you’re just freaking out!” Caz calls to me from where my body lies in the motel bed.

“No! It’s Louise—I can see through the bond; she’s being held somewhere—tortured!” I wail—not sure if Caz can hear.

Louise’s panic is my panic as she hears a set of keys jangling in the metal door.

“Is it Lowry?” Quentin’s voice is accompanied by the vague sensation of hands on shoulders. Are they my shoulders? It’s hard to tell when my body seems so far away; Louise’s sights and sensations—so much more immediate in this moment.

“She needs help!” I repeat pathetically—unable to will myself to move, to look away.

I can tell from the rush of adrenaline—the pounding of her heart so intense it’s painful; that whatever is about to pass through that doorway—Louise is terrified. She knows it will bring her great physical pain—and will drive her to mental ruin.

“Seb, what is it!?” Caz’s face fills my vision for a moment—and I wish I could hold on to those blue eyes, that gaunt face—but I am yanked back to the torture room as the horrifying figure walks through the door.

When I see the figure through Louise’s eyes—I am undone. I scream my horror and pass out.

“You know, I feel like I could start one of those travel blogs about dungeons and captivity spaces,” I groan through my bloody nose and split lip before spraying a mess of blood and snot onto the white tile before me as Susan Lowry and Ed Compton stand back in disgust.

Neither of them is versed at this kind of work anymore—but you can tell that they took my little escapades on the Yacht personally; they wanted to get a few punches in before they bring the big dogs in.

Fine, let them bruise their knuckles on me. I’m not going to talk to them or the dogs.

“I could be the Tony Bourdain of torture chambers,” I laugh to myself, my right eye already half swollen shut.

“We didn’t want to do this, Louise, but you left us no choice,” Lowry tuts regretfully as she uses a small white cloth to wipe the blood off her hands.

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, Suz.” I give Susan a bloody grin and a gallows laugh.

She shakes her head, as if she just can’t understand why I wouldn’t roll over for a couple of fucked up fascist’s like her and Compton.

That’s when her eye finally catches on my hand—my wrists bound in my lap—my arms bound to my sides and around the back of the chair.

I see Lowry’s eyes widen as she finally takes in the bonding bite wound.

“That’s right Susan,” I laugh slowly, the gleeful malice rising in me like an old friend. “You and Eddy really fucked up this time. I’ve got four of the most batshit crazy vigilantes out there searching for me—architecting all sorts of ways to make you pay—to deliver you the most sublime pain that they can manage.”

Emboldened by the pause this gives her—I press on.

“Right now they’re working on locating me through the mating bond—they’re pooling all their resources to put together a rescue mission. They will stop at nothing until we are no longer parted.” I don’t waver—because none of it is bluster. I know that my bonded Saints will come for me—that they will rain retribution down upon Lowry and Compton in equal measure.

Even though I didn’t give him my bite, nor did I accept his—I know that Frank will answer my call. Frank—who lost his first love, one of our fated mates, to an accident in the field as an FBI agent—who has been given his second chance at a fated partnership with our pack; will not let the Saints down. He won’t let me down.

“You better be prepared for the full force of the Saints and Francis Stone to come to bear.” I lift my chin high, holding fast to my pride—even though I can see a good amount of my blood draining into the metal grate at the center of the room. I don’t want to think how much more I’ll see circle down that drain before my time here is through…

“I bet you they are, right at this very minute, planning your personal itinerary to hell—Frank is one hell of a travel agent,” I threaten—using up the last of my courage in this show of bravado.

“Is that so?” Susan’s lips curl, and something in my stomach goes cold.

“You’re the one eye fucking my bonding bite, Susan,” I snipe back.

“Is it from Frank?” She dangles the question in front of me like a cat playing with its prey.

“What do you think?” I sit back, blood dribbling from my nose down the front of my shirt; intentionally avoiding an answer to her question.

“I think not,” she grins. The loud squealing of the metal hinges on the single door in and out of the room echo behind me.

My blood runs cold as I hear the slow and deliberate footfall circle from behind me, around to my side—my bindings prohibiting me from turning to see.

“Well, if it isn’t little Lucifer,” a familiar voice purrs as a clean shaven man, with well coiffed black hair, in a pair of suit pants and a white button-down shirt, the cuffs rolled up to expose his toned forearms—approaches.

Though I’ve never seen the square angle of his jaw without a thicket of dark beard, and I’ve never seen his hair combed—much less styled carefully without a single coal-black hair out of place; there is no doubt about it. The clean-cut man before me is none other than Francis Stone.

“Welcome to the Windmill!” he beams as he leans down and takes my chin tenderly between his thumb and forefinger—his voice silky smooth and sweet as pie as he makes his vow.

“Nobody is coming to save you, Sweetheart.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN LUCIFER AND THE SAINTS, BOOK 2: ALL SAINTS DAY