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The knife I had thrown in the toilet was not covered at all. In fact, the wad of paper I’d thought had covered it hadn’t even landed in the water, but gotten caught on the side. The blade shone, blood on the rope handle, pink-tinged water making the metal glint in the flickering fluorescent light. I pulled it out, wiped it clean, and carried it back to my bed, stuffing it back into the mattress.
Why hadn’t Luke said anything? As Enforcer, it was his job—no, his pack duty—to turn me in for breaking his precious rules.
It wasn’t like I’d get the chance to ask. But for the first time in a long while, I wondered if the pack leadership wasn’t entirely rotten.
3
Little Spill, Big Consequences
FLOR
The thought that Luke might not be the Boy Scout I’d figured he was stayed with me the next day as I worked. I didn’t mind work. I even liked parts of my job in the kitchen, though I wasn’t much more than a maid and waitress.
Mopping the pack dining hall in the evenings was about the best my life got. I was alone with my thoughts and dreams of leaving the Southern pack for good. If I worked fast and made sure the dining hall doors were locked up tight, I could sometimes get some bo staff practice in, using my mop handle as my weapon.
But cleaning up in the mornings, while the ranked shifters got to sit and eat what I served them? Acting like I respected them, taking their shit? That sucked harder than a starving mosquito, and after only two hours of sleep, this breakfast shift was worse than ever. At least the other packs would start to arrive later today. Even if it meant more work in the short term, there was some light at the end of the damned tunnel.
“Flor, can you come take care of this? A little… spill here.” Grant, one of the unmated males who was planning to fight in the Enforcer Games and talked about it constantly, pointed at the floor beneath him. Grant was strong, but shorter than the other Enforcers, with a weak chin and habit of picking his stubby nose when he thought no one was watching. He liked to show off, and had a mean streak a mile wide.
I stepped closer, holding the mop in front of me just in case any of his friends decided to pay attention to me instead of their food. “Where?” I asked, peering at the floor until I realized he was pointing at something else.
His crotch. Of course.
“Nice, Grant. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“Whoa there, Flor. I said there was a little spill.” He thrust his pelvis forward, then licked his narrow lips. “Clean it good.”
His friends looked up, their conversations stopping. Shit. It was almost the end of breakfast, and the shifters were less hungry for food than they were for drama. This wasn’t going to end well.
I shot a glance at the window to the kitchen where the pack cook and my only friend at Southern, Del, shook his gray head at me. “Don’t do it, girlie.” He spoke softly, but I heard him. One of the curses of shifters—we heard everything. Which meant I was busted every time I muttered something sassy at one of my “betters.”
“Florida!” Grant stood, the bulge in his sweatpants tenting out the fabric a little. But just a little. I bit my lip and prayed I could hold back the comments that ran through my brain. “I said I need you to take care of this. Why aren’t you rubbing it clean? It’s your job, ain’t it?”
“Well, Grant,” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You said you had a little spill. I can’t see any ‘spill’ at all. Must be pretty small. I bet you can take care of it on your own.” I tore off a tiny piece of the paper towel roll that I had on my mop bucket and gestured at his groin. “This much oughta do it.”
The room erupted in laughter, howls, growls, and curses. In the kitchen, Del shouted, “Damnit, Flor!”
I knew better than to mouth off. But the thing with Trevor had sort of wrecked me, and I was so done with this whole place. Before I could duck, Grant’s plate of food sailed across the table and glanced off my cheek, cutting the skin by the side of my eyebrow. I wiped my eyes clear as fast as I could; I had to be able to see who was coming next.
And they would come. His friends, the other Enforcers, they would all want to take their pound of flesh.
But someone unexpected was coming, someone worse, right behind Grant. My heart fell, my stomach churning. I needed to look busy, and fast. My gaze was plastered to the floor as I moved my mop around to start cleaning the food splattered across the white tiles.
“You bitch,” Grant roared, red-faced as he vaulted over the table, ignoring the wave of harsh power that was forcing all the other diners to bow their heads. “Who do you think you ar?—”
His rant was cut off as one huge hand closed around his arm, another on his neck, threatening to crush his windpipe. The hand on his throat was attached to an arm that was tanned and burly. An arm that led to a barrel chest that had to be muscle underneath the denim shirt—male wolves usually didn’t store fat, even ones in their mid-fifties like this one—and a six-foot-four frame that cast a long shadow across the table.
“What?” Grant croaked, confusion whirling in his dull eyes. Our Alpha never ate in the dining hall with the rest of the Enforcers. He had his own private dining room, not that I’d ever seen it. Well, not officially.
“What have you done here, Grant?” The Alpha’s words fell like dangerous grenades into the suddenly silent dining hall. Del had stopped the dishwasher so there wasn’t even the sound of water running, only Grant’s wheezing breath as the Alpha lifted him by the neck until he was standing on tiptoe.
“Sir?” The stench of fear filled the area, and for once, it wasn’t just mine. Grant’s bulging eyes darted to his friends. None of them offered any help.
Alpha Callaway shook him by the neck, like a dog killing a rabbit. “What did you call me, boy?”
Grant’s reply was quick and apologetic. “Alpha. Sorry, Alpha.”
I felt his eyes on me. “Should have known it was you.”
