Page 4 of Bonds and Beasts

"Does this feel really off to you?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Bello and I agree in unison.

A crack of thunder cleaves the air as though the weather itself agrees with us, before the sound of sharp rain begins splashing against the windows and roof. I remember poor Larry and Tom and hope they're staying dry. Their company takes security very seriously so they won’t stay in the manor. They’ll probably rotate keeping watch and sleeping in the car. "It's better than the alternative," I admit.

We go back down, gather our bags, and haul them up. I choose the first door in the hallway with the prepared bedrooms.

"Really? You're going to choose the creepiest hallway?" Dean asks.

"It's where we were told to stay," I remind him.

"And we're all going to stay in this hall," Bello says, choosing the door on the other side of mine.

"What, why?" Dean growls.

"Because this is weird. I trust Lumi's judgment—she's gotten us into more interesting accommodations than this—but this is a lot of space and I don't need anything happening before this film wraps up. We don't want delays."

The words echo off the hall walls. Tension coils tight in my gut. I can see it in the hard line of Dean's shoulders too.

"Fine," Dean growls and picks the room next to Bello. I turn back to my door and grip the knob. Before I enter my new room, my eyes slide sideways to the red door at the end of the hall. That scent hits me again. Like roses, both sweet and earthy, but muted. It's going to be hard to sleep in a place like this.

Adison

Footsteps and squeaky floorboards and muffled voices and shutting doors. They're the sounds of life beyond the west wing, and they are terrifying.

I lie very still in my big, four-poster bed. It's plush and comfortable and lined with the very best linens, but it's no nest. There's no need for me to have a nest really, but in moments like this, the instinct to crawl into one and hide is primal. Instead, I burrow further into the covers, gripping the comforter as though it's my last tenuous connection to gravity and without it, I might float away. Honestly, I feel like I might.

Three alphas. That's what Mr. Clocks told me. Three alphas are staying in this house, beyond my locked doors. And I am frightened.

My scent swirls around me. It's high, rich, and pervasive. I just took the pills my doctor prescribed—huge horse-pill-looking things that I can barely swallow down. They hardly feel like they do anything.

The alphas in the main manor can't scent me. It's the only thought that keeps me even relatively calm. There are neutralizers built into the walls of the west wing. Nothing can get in or out. That's what I was promised and it's always held true. Granted, no one has ever stayed the night in the manor before, but that shouldn't change anything.

My perfume rises. There's nothing in here to even respond to. I wish I could make it stop. Please, please make it stop. I shut my eyes tight and hope that the alphas’ stay here passes quickly and uneventfully.

Bello

In my dream, my alpha prowls. He's a great black wolf and he stands in the hallway outside my room, staring at the forbidden red door at the end of the corridor. The door isn't closed. It's cracked open, and thorny black vines covered in near-dead roses have started growing out the sides. In my dream, someone cries.

I wake with a start, hard and drenched in sweat. Dreams have always plagued me, but this one, the detail of it, feels more like an out of body experience. I should get moving, get ready to be on set. Instead I lie on the bed, sheets still tangled around my legs.

When I finally sit up, I take in the room I was too tired to give a damn about last night. It's luxurious, certainly. A hardwood four-poster bed takes up most of the space. Dark linens give the place a slightly malicious air. The air feels moist in the cool autumn morning. I wonder if the manor has central heating or if I'm meant to light the cold fireplace at the end of my bed.

A painting hangs over the mantle. It's a family portrait. A woman sits, her long hair done up in a bun, her dress distinctly early two-thousands in style despite the vintage framing and composition of the painting itself. Her hair is black and perfectly styled, her green eyes piercing through the paint straight to me. The husband in the portrait is tall, clearly an alpha, with slicked-back red hair and pale features, almost sickly compared to his formidable wife. Between them is a little girl. Theirs, I imagine. I have no gift for guessing children's ages but I suppose she might be ten or eleven. Her hair is a mix of her parents', a dark burgundy. Bright green eyes look out of the painting. Happy eyes. Those of a child who is loved and knows she's safe.

It's an odd portrait for a guest room.

I meet the others downstairs once I'm fully dressed. The cook left my food neatly wrapped in cellophane in the refrigerator and I eat at the overlong dining table.

"What was that sound last night?" Dean sits across from me and Easton, hair disheveled, looking like he didn't sleep at all.

I raise one eyebrow. "What sound?"

Dean's blue eyes meet mine, then Easton's, eyebrows hitting his hairline. "You're joking, right? I couldn't sleep through that racket. I hope the makeup team is ready for me today."

"You're still not saying what you heard," Easton points out.

"Man, I don't really know. It was like this high pitched noise. Like the squeal of a hinge over and over again. It was driving my alpha feral."