Page 105
“Keep my pancakes warm,” I say.
With a last look at my mate, I open the door, step into the hallway, and close the door behind me.
I never make it to the compound gates.
Two miles out, a black SUV rolls across the intersection ahead of me, forcing me to slam on my brakes to avoid driving straight into it. The large vehicle stops at an angle, with no clear route around it, the front bumper angled toward the curb, and the rear swung out to block the lane.
A textbook lane block.
I raise my hands from the steering wheel so they can see I’m unarmed.
The front driver and passenger doors open in unison, and two men step out, their faces blank behind mirrored sunglasses despite the winter-gray sky.
Through the windshield, I size up the one on the driver’s side, a tall, lean man with close-cropped hair and a square jaw. The other one is shorter, broader across the shoulders, with a scar that bisects his left eyebrow.
Neither is family, but they’re both Alphas I’ve seen on a dozen duty rosters.
The tall one reaches the car and opens my driver’s side door from the outside. “Your phone.”
“It’s in the right pocket of my jacket,” I say, not lowering my hands.
He reaches past me and shuts off my car, putting it into park before he fishes out my phone. He powers it down and tucks it into his jacket pocket.
“Step out of the vehicle.”
I comply, motions slow so as not to spook them.
The second man steps forward. “Arms out, sir.”
Sir. Discomfort crawls across my skin at the formality of it.
“No weapons,” he reports as he moves to secure my wrists with a zip tie, and I let him.
Fighting here accomplishes nothing except confirming whatever suspicions prompted this intercept in the first place.
“Get in the vehicle,” the tall one says, opening the rear passenger door of the SUV.
I duck my head and climb in. The leather seat is cold through the thin fabric of my jeans, and the interior carries the scent of the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror that can’t mask the faint chemical tang of cleanup fluid from a recent job.
The doors lock with a soft click as soon as I’m settled, and I gaze outside. The windows are tinted dark enough to turn the street into a gray blur, details lost to shadow.
I sit upright, wrists in my lap. This wasn’t how I pictured my homecoming, and once again, I’m glad I convinced Orien to stay back at his apartment. My deadly mate would not have reacted kindly to this reception.
The thought amuses me, and I catch the driver frowning at me in the rearview mirror. Probably not used to prisoners finding anything funny.
The driver does a three-point turn and pulls back onto the road, heading in the same direction I had been before they stopped me. No conversation from the front seat, no radio to fill the silence. Only the soft hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the dispatcher through the speaker mounted on the dash.
I breathe through the first surge of distress, forcing myself to think clearly despite the fear crawling up my throat. My primary concern is what happens if—when—the three hours Orien gave me runs out with no word from me.
I had hoped to send him a message when I arrived, to at least tell him I hadn’t been in any accidents along the way. Followed by more texts if Alexei decided to leave me sitting in a waiting room for an hour before we spoke.
But now, with my phone confiscated, all those plans have turned to smoke.
The streets blur past, familiar landmarks rendered alien by speed and tinted glass. We’re taking the long way, avoiding the roads where cameras monitor the comings and goings of everyone, and my unease grows.
Does Alexei not want the rest of the family to know of my arrival?
The compound appears ahead of us, the high walls and wrought-iron gates rising from the landscape like a fortress. The guard at the entrance checks the driver’s credentials, and he avoids looking at me as he waves us through.
