He closes the distance between us in a blink, snarling as he grabs my shirt. “You not hug her!”
It takes all my self-control not to throw him off me, the memories of our last fight filling me with anger. Truthfully, I hadn’t thought that far ahead about how to share his scent with Red. Moving slowly, I gently pressure his hands, enough to protect my throat if he loses control.
“I just want Red to know you’re safe,” I say gently. “I’ll leave the shirt with her.”
Zack glares at me, seething with alpha dominance. The longer we stand, locked on the brink of punches, the more I feel myalpha aggression fading. This man’s had nothing in his life, so it’s no wonder his pack means everything to him.
I smile. “Okay, Zack. I’ll try not to hug her.”
His grip relaxes slightly, and then Zack ducks in and presses his face to my shirt. I carefully wrap my arms around his solid shoulders, letting his scent transfer. The wild alpha straightens, but when I go to step away, he catches my shirtfront again and presses our cheeks together, sliding his jaw along mine.
Shock paralyzes me. Never in my life have I let another alpha mark me. I feel like punching his lights out. Instead, I turn into him, seeking more, all control over my body lost. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Zack steps back, the faintest of smirks dragging on his lips. “That was for Ri-ckon.” He strides away and hammers on the wall, and the door opens.
The feral looks over his shoulder. “Cal-ee. Protect my pack.”
The guards lead him away, leaving me collapsing speechless against the table.
I go to drag a hand over my short beard but then halt, remembering it’s now a carry-bag for Zack’s scent. Holy shit. A tingle runs through my core. That felt so much like a pack alpha giving an order to a pack mate.
I pant out a quick breath and blink away my paralysis. I’m imagining things. Zack won’t ever accept me, but I’ll free him anyway. And now I have everything I need to get his case heard.
Dragging my wits together, I pack up the recorder and leave the room, finding an escort guard waiting for me. As we walk down the corridor, another prisoner talks into a phone on the wall, voice low. A surly guard watches him from nearby, tapping with annoyance. The prisoner stares at me as I approach, his shrewd gaze calculating. He looks like a person you’d stereotypically expect to find in prison: tats, big muscles, headshaved bald. His alpha presence presses against me without him even trying as I pass.
Suddenly he coughs and jerks in my direction, and something rough slides across my fingers. I swivel away, fearing an attack, but he simply apologizes, hangs up the phone without a goodbye, and walks on, leaving a folded piece of paper wedged between my bag handle and my palm.
An icy premonition sweeps through me as I unfold the paper in my car, away from potential cameras.
Hi stranger. I think you’ll find someone’s out to get your feral alpha, and if you want him to survive, you’re going to need my help. Make an appointment to see me, ‘Cal-ee.’
Your future client, Keith Alhedy.
If the contents weren’t so foreboding, I’d tear the paper into pieces for his arrogance. But the message Rickon sent earlier from Red’s phone confirms there’s more to this situation than meets the eye. Plus the imprisonment without due process waves a bunch of red flags.
My hand closes around the paper, crumpling it as I gaze up at the imposing prison walls rimming the parking lot. Even if it takes only a couple of weeks to get Zack released, he might not have that long.
Chapter eight
Red
I function with a filter between me and the world. Ghost Red walks and talks in my place, trapping me inside with only my grief to keep me company. Rickon lives an arm’s length away, but touching him reminds me of Zack’s absence even more keenly. The bond feels faint, as if it could snap at any moment. In some twisted way, I feel as trapped and hopeless as I did back at the trafficking hub.
But even though I’m a soulless lump of meat, I’m still acting. Can’t tell if it’s a gift or a curse.
Director Yun talks with his hands. “I need a tighter angle here, Ashana.” His two fingers stab my way before pointing back at his own face. “Rage in your eyes. These bastard jockeys took it too far. Your beloved horse could have been injured. Burn for me.” He snaps his fingers. “Take nine.”
Ashana rages, but she borrows my self-hatred to do it—a helpless anger against Ray, my weakness, against a pack of jockeys tormenting this character, and all those who takeadvantage of us omegas because we don’t have power. Maybe that’s why I’m here acting despite a broken heart. I want power, the kind nobody in the world can take away.
“Ashana? Red?”
I jerk out of my daze as someone touches my shoulder.
The director’s assistant peers at me. “Did you forget your lines?”
I blink and shake my head slowly. More like I forgot to exist.
“Let’s start over,” she declares.
