Page 31 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

Alas's fingers curl around my wrist. His thumb presses into the thin skin over the bone. "Logan doesn't run this property. The Vanguard gave the order to hold the line. We hold the line."

We.

The word hits me like a round to the sternum. Not you. Not I. We.

For twenty-four months, my existence has been a solitary war of attrition. Wake up before dawn. Smoke the hives. Extract the honey. Fight the bank. Fight the winter. Fight the men in dark SUVs who keep showing up on the south trail. I’ve been drowning in slow motion, too stubborn to ask for a life raft. Now, this biker has simply reached into the water and hauled me out by the throat, declaring the ocean off-limits.

I smear antibacterial ointment across his cleaned knuckles, wrapping them tightly in white gauze. My movements are practiced, steady. I used to bandage my grandfather's hands when he slipped with the hive tool. Taking care of someone else feels familiar, grounding.

"Keep them dry," I command, tying off the bandage. "The bees hate the smell of blood. They'll swarm you if you go near the line smelling like an open wound."

Alas inspects his wrapped hands, flexing his fingers slowly. "They don't sting me."

"They will if you give them a reason." I stand up, taking the ruined washcloths to the sink. The water runs pink as I rinse them out. "We need to go into town. I have a supply run, and I need to check the post office. My mail-order queen bees are over a week late. If I don't get them installed by Friday, the colonies will start building supersedure cells and the whole apiary will swarm."

"I drive." Alas is already standing. He doesn't ask. He states a fact.

"It's my truck."

"I drive."

Arguing with a brick wall would yield better results. I grab my keys from the hook by the door and toss them to him. He catches them out of the air with his left hand, the movement blindingly fast. A dark, satisfied smirk flashes across his scarred mouth. He likes the submission. He likes that I didn't fight him on something so small.

We step back outside. The pile of destroyed Syndicate markers sits there like a bloody trophy.

"Leave it," Alas orders when I move to pick up a splintered stake. "A warning."

He opens the passenger side door of my battered Ford F-150. I slide onto the bench seat, ignoring the dominance radiating off him. He shuts the door with a solid thud, rounding the hood and climbing into the driver's seat. He treats the civilian truck like a piece of military hardware, adjusting the mirrors with sharp, precise movements.

The engine turns over with a sputter. Alas shifts into gear, navigating the rutted dirt driveway with a smooth, controlled violence. He doesn't take his eyes off the tree line. His head swivels, checking the blind spots, scanning the dense pine corridor for threats. He’s hunting.

We merge onto the main two-lane road leading into Pine Valley. The tension inside the cab is dense enough to cut with a hive tool. Alas rests his right hand on the steering wheel. His knuckles are white beneath the fresh bandages. He tracks every single vehicle we pass, cataloging license plates, makes, and models.

"You can relax," I tell him, staring out the window. "We're in civilian territory now."

"Never relax."

We hit Main Street. The town is fully awake. Plumes of white exhaust rise from parked cars. The familiar, comforting smell of roasted coffee beans and dark cinnamon drifts through the cracked window as we pass the Cozy Cup. A few locals wave at my truck, their expressions morphing into utter shock when they see the biker behind the wheel instead of me.

"Pull in there." I point to the small brick building at the end of the block. The Pine Valley Post Office.

Alas parks the truck perfectly parallel to the curb, taking up one space. He cuts the engine but leaves the keys in the ignition. He steps out, rounding the hood to flank my door before I even have the handle pulled.

The bell chimes overhead as I push through the glass door. The post office smells like old paper, dust, and lemon floor cleaner. Behind the counter, Mrs. Gable looks up from a stack of sorted envelopes. Her gray hair is swept up in a neat bun, and her reading glasses hang from a beaded chain around her neck. At her feet, Barnaby, the Saint Bernard, thumps his tail against the linoleum.

"Susan, dear," Mrs. Gable greets, offering a warm smile that falters the second Alas steps through the door behind me.

Alas fills the small lobby. He doesn't say a word, just moves to stand behind my right shoulder. A lethal shadow. Barnaby stops wagging his tail, letting out a low, questioning boof. Alas stares the hundred-and-fifty-pound dog down until Barnaby drops his head onto his paws and sighs in submission.

"Morning, Mrs. Gable," I say, forcing a cheerful tone to counteract the rolling wave of intimidation radiating from my escort. "I'm just checking on the shipment. The tracking numbers for the three Russian hybrid queens haven't updated in ten days. They were supposed to be delivered last Tuesday."

Mrs. Gable's face falls. She adjusts her glasses, pulling a clipboard from beneath the counter. "I was just about to call the farm, honey. I've been tracking them through the regional system."

My stomach drops. The tone of her voice is wrong. "Did they die in transit? The heat packs should have lasted..."

"They didn't die in transit, Susan." Mrs. Gable taps a manicured fingernail against the clipboard. "They were intercepted. Rerouted at the county-line sorting station."

I grip the edge of the wooden counter. "Intercepted? By who? You have to show identification to pick up live agricultural shipments."