And then she’s gone and something cracks against the back of my knee. As I go down, bodies pile on top of me, cementing me to the floor.
Chapter forty-four
PIERCE
Ipacethescuffedlinoleum like a cartoon alpha, five steps one way, five steps back. The security office walls are closing in. My knuckles throb. I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually break any faces. My punches were all sloppy. Mickey would laugh his ass off.
I put a hand to my chest and try to take a deep breath. But I can’t smell her anymore, and it just feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.
My fucking scent match.
The gut punch is that she isn’t happy about it.
I could have taken the news better myself. Fuck.
She was already thrown off. Probably too many bonehead alphas in one room. My scent. Beckett on the ice.
Fuck. She’s in love with Beckett, isn’t she?
How fucked up is her headspace right now? She was having a panic attack, and they dragged me away from her. They dragged me away from my omega when she needed me most.
Fuck. I fucked this up.
I rake my hands through my hair and pause by the door, pressing my ear against the cold metal. Nothing. Just the distant rumble of the crowd. How long have they kept me locked in here? Fifteen minutes? An hour?
I gotta get out of here. Find her. Make it right.
I touch my nose gingerly. The prick alpha never connected with my nose, thank fuck. The day is still fucking young, and I could still fucking break it again. I can finally smell, and now this? The universe has a sick fucking sense of humor. I spent weeks missing out on Ash’s scent, and now that I know what she is to me, now that I know why I’ve been losing my goddamn mind around her, they’ve locked me away from her.
The fluorescent lights above flicker and buzz like its zapping bugs on the porch in the middle of a Florida summer night. That with roars from the arena sets my teeth on edge.
“Hey!” I shout. “Anyone out there?” I kick the door once for good measure.
Her face keeps flashing through my mind. The panic in her eyes. The way she reached for me as they pulled her away. That’s going to haunt my nightmares.
I’ll just add it to the catalog of images that replay in my mind and pop me out of bed at 3 a.m.
Liam crashing his bike and knocking himself out when he was twelve.
Beckett’s first concussion when he got hit so hard he broke his collarbone and cracked his skull. They had to pull him off the ice on a backboard.
And Reed. His lips going white right before my eyes as blood spilled out of him. And my hands covered in his blood.
Now Ash. Scared and alone.
My fist connects with the wall before I realize I’ve thrown a punch. Pain shoots up my arm. I shake it off. The metal foldingchair in the corner catches my eye. I grab it, testing its weight. It’s flimsy, cheap arena bullshit, but it might be enough to break the lock if I swing hard enough. I position myself, calculating the angle, the force needed. The metal is cool in my sweating palms.
I’m about to swing when the door flies open.
Beckett fills the frame, still in his sweat-soaked hockey uniform. His hair is damp, his face flushed, breath coming hard and fast like he ran here straight from the ice. His eyes lock on the chair in my hands, then narrow.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands.
I drop the chair with a clatter, relief and dread washing over me in equal measure. “Where is she? Is she okay?”
His jaw tightens. He steps inside, letting the door fall shut behind him with a heavy thud.
“That’s what you’re asking me? After what you just pulled?”
