She stared at him in sympathy, stepped forward, offering the tray to him. “Byron’s passed out drunk. Cyrus made the others go on an errand. I think they’re supposed to bring back her brother.” She glanced at the woman. “You can rest.”
He took the food, slipping the fork under the slice of bread, and smiled. “Sleep would be nice. And food.” He held up the slice of turkey and bread he’d swiped. “Thanks.”
“I don’t like how they treat you, not that they care what I think.” She smiled at him, biting her lower lip. “You should know, not all of us are threatened by your pack, you know? That killing your pack is the answer. Cyrus keeps saying he’ll have answers soon, now that he has someone on the inside.” She shrugged. “Some of us hope there’s a chance for peace. There’s room for us to coexist. Maybe even become allies.”
Mal paused then. Someone on the inside? With Finn and the pack? He had to stay calm, had to think. Peace? Was she kidding? As long as Cyrus lived, that would be impossible. And killing off a pack’s Alpha hardly fostered pack unity. It was more likely to lead to outright war. Since all he cared about was ripping them to shreds, a war sounded fine to him. Not that he was going to argue with her. She’d helped him, even if she didn’t know it. He nodded, keeping his opinion to himself.
She smiled again and hurried up the stairs, flipping off the lights and closing the door.
Mal counted to five and got to work. The fork bent and twisted, but the keyhole on the collar was too small. He cussed, focusing on the chain then, sculpting the metal fork until it jimmied the locking mechanism. Slow. Silent—closing his eyes until he nudged the spring pen up and open. Once he’d pulled the bolt from his collar, he rolled his shoulders. He was wearing a silver collar and had a four-inch silver blade in his shoulder, but he wasn’t going to let that slow him down. There was no time to get the blade out now. He had to move.
The cage door lock was old. It didn’t take much effort to get it open.
He stood staring at the stairs, unable to move because of his wolf. It wasn’t leaving without the woman. He growled, wishing there was a way to muzzle the damn thing. Now was not the time for the wolf to get territorial. She was just a woman, for fuck’s sake, nothing more. He had enough slowing him down without taking her with him.
He wasn’t going to do it. But his wolf wouldn’t go. Flashes of his own pack leaving him were all the reminder he needed. He yanked open her door, his fury giving him the strength he needed.
He stooped, growling, “Wake up.”
She shook her head.
“Now, dammit.”
She frowned, her eyes heavy-lidded and swollen. When she saw him, she slammed her eyes shut.
“We’re leaving,” he said. “Can you walk?”
Her eyes went round, then. “What?”
“Walk?” he repeated, glanci
ng at the door.
She pushed up, taking the hand he offered and letting him pull her to her feet. She swayed, tried to take a step, and crumpled. He caught her.
“Right,” he snapped, swinging her over his bad shoulder. “Fuck, shit, dammit.” He shifted her to his other side.
“I can walk,” she argued, wriggling and twisting on his shoulder.
“No, you can’t.” He stared around the room, looking for something he could use as a weapon. Anything. “Keep still and be quiet.” There was nothing. He scaled the steps, remembering that the fifteenth stair squeaked and avoiding it. The door wasn’t locked, making him hesitate. Was the girl setting him up? This woman? It wouldn’t be the first time they’d done this. He almost shrugged the woman off his shoulder and left her behind. But his wolf didn’t budge, and time was ticking away. There wasn’t much he could do about it now. He’d gotten this far, he wasn’t about to turn back now.
The door opened on silent hinges. They were in a hallway, and the scent of pizza, beer, and dish soap flooded his nostrils. He glanced both ways, relieved the woman over his shoulder had gone limp. Maybe he was lucky and she’d passed out. At one end of the hall was what looked like a kitchen; the other was the front door. The front door was too obvious, so he headed toward the kitchen. Byron probably wasn’t sleeping it off in the kitchen.
He walked as softly as he could, aware that the woman was moving. He squeezed her thigh and she went still.
A quick inspection revealed a dated and tiny kitchen—and a back door. Escape with no hint of trouble? It was too fucking good to be true. His senses sharpened, reaching out, looking for threats.
The girl was humming, washing dishes at the sink. She had the radio playing, softly. As nice as she’d been to him, she wouldn’t let him leave—they all feared Cyrus too much. He didn’t hesitate. He approached quickly, picking up a coffee cup and bringing it down on the back of the head. She crumpled, but he caught her, laying her on the ground without a sound. He straightened slowly, the silver slowing him down.
He did a quick search of the kitchen. Duct tape, kitchen towels, and a bottle of whiskey went into a mesh shopping bag. He grabbed cash from a purse hanging on a peg on the wall and a small tool box sitting on the floor by the back door. Damn, but his shoulder was on fire, his body racked with shaking. Time was up. With a quick glance down the hall, he slipped out the back door and into the cold, black night.
Trees.
Miles and miles of trees.
No hint of civilization—no scent of concrete or asphalt, no distant engines on a highway or signs of a nearby homestead. Nothing smelled familiar… Just clean, fresh, cold air and nature. He hurried into the tree line, farther into the woods. He didn’t know how much longer they’d have before their escape was discovered, but he wanted as many miles between them as possible.
After a few hours of running, he scented pursuit. They were being trailed. Not by werewolves—but wolves, moving quickly. The local wolves might not be as welcoming as the ones on his pack’s reserve. They’d find out soon enough. He needed to rest before that happened.